Peter Pan Must Die by John Verdon Read Free Book Online Page A

was smiling broadly, his fingers tapping out a Latin rhythm on the steering wheel.
    Gurney was quiet for long while, trying to absorb what he was being told as objectively as possible. The goal was to take it all in and at the same time to keep it at arm’s length, much as one might absorb crime scene details that could have different interpretations.
    He pondered the odd shape the case was beginning to take in his mind, including the ironic parallel between the conviction-at-any-cost pursued by Klemper and the reversal-at-any-cost pursued by Hardwick. Both efforts seemed to provide further evidence that man is not primarily a rational species, and that all our so-called logic is never more than a bright facade for murkier motives.
    Thus occupied, Gurney was only half aware of the landscape of hills and valleys they were passing through—rolling fields of overgrownweeds and starved saplings, expanses of drought-faded greens and yellows, the sun coming and going through an intermittent pale haze, the unprofitable farms with their barns and silos unpainted for decades, the sadly weathered villages, old orange tractors, rusted plows and hay rakes, the quaint and quiet rural emptiness that was Delaware County’s pride and curse.

Chapter 8
Coldhearted Bitch
    Far from the gritty-beautiful, economically battered, depopulated counties of central New York State, northern Westchester County had the casual charm of country money. In the midst of this postcard landscape, however, the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility seemed as out of place as a porcupine in a petting zoo.
    Gurney was reminded once again that the actual security paraphernalia of a maximum-security prison covers a broad spectrum of sophistication and visibility. At one end are state-of-the-art sensors and control systems. At the other end are guard towers, twelve-foot chain-link fences, and razor wire.
    Surely technology would one day make razor wire obsolete. But for now it was the thing that made the clearest demarcation between inside and outside. Its message was simple, violent, and visceral. Its presence would easily overwhelm any effort to create an atmosphere of normalcy—not that any serious efforts in that direction were made at correctional facilities. In fact, Gurney suspected, razor wire might very well outlive its practical containment function, purely on the basis of its message value.
    Inside, Bedford Hills was fundamentally similar to most places of incarceration he’d visited over the years. It looked as bleakly institutional as its purpose. And despite the thousands and thousands of pages written on the subject of modern penology, that purpose—that essence—came down to one thing.
    It was a cage.
    It was a cage with many locks, security checkpoints, and proceduresaimed at ensuring that no one entered or departed without proper evidence of their right to do so. Lex Bincher’s office had seen to it that Gurney and Hardwick were on Kay Spalter’s approved-visitors list, and they were admitted without difficulty.
    The long, windowless visiting room that they were led to for their meeting resembled rooms like it throughout the system. Its primary structural feature was a long counterlike divider separating the room into two sections—the inmate side and the visitor side, with chairs on both sides and a chest-high barrier in the center. Guards stood at either end with a clear view down the length of the barrier, aimed at preventing any unauthorized exchanges. The room was painted, not recently, an institutional noncolor.
    Gurney was relieved to see that there were only a few visitors present, allowing for more than adequate space and the possibility of some privacy.
    The woman who was brought into the room by a stocky black guard was short and slim with dark hair in a pixie style. She had a fine nose, prominent cheekbones, and full lips. Her eyes were a startling green, and beneath one of them there was a small bluish bruise. There was a hard