by Andrei Smith

 

            “It seems the alarm went off at precisely 2:48 pm, and then the lights got cut off five minutes after. The backups switched on soon after at 2:55, which means the inmate had exactly two minutes to escape…” said Jeff Trans, a militaristic director of prison security, to the Prison Owner, Trilliby Jones.

            “Two minutes isn’t long enough to take a piss, let alone escape from prison, Jeff, so what the fuck was the kid doing? And who is this kid?” said Trilliby, his head rolling back and forth, eyes on the ceiling. His eyes dilated easily, bags hanging under them like wrinkled purses from the arm of a grandmother. The security at Berkeley Prison was unmatched, and never had a slip as severe as this one ever occurred. A total blackout put the Prison Security at risk, and gave the inmates a rare chance to try and escape. The section of the Prison where the lights went out is underground, and as such, a power failure drove everyone inside into complete darkness.

            As usual, after the blackout the entire Jail was put in lockdown, even the parts not affected. Hawk eyed guards stood armed with automatic weapons on all the towers and around the perimeter of the prison, waiting for the clever prisoner to try and escape. By 5 pm the next day, the lockdown was called off, with no results, and rumors that it was all a plot by the city to try and make evidence to try and shut down the prison. Ever since the Daily Planet published leaked photos of the torture mishap at the prison there had been protestors dressed in orange yelling, waving signs, and spitting on officers every day. The idea that a hippy had cut some power lines had been passed around in a lighter moment of the wall-to-wall meetings at the Prison, and it was agreed that although annoying, the prank probably took the hippy with it. Fried Hippies were the only pleasant thoughts in Duane’s mind as he cracked his knuckles, listening to Trilliby’s explanation of the situation.

            “So, as you can tell by Jeff’s update, we are pretty lost as to what happened here Duane, and that’s why I’m hiring you, under the table, to investigate the situation.” Said Trilliby, and as he gathered some paperwork to hand over, Duane had his first chance to look at Trilliby’s face. Trilliby looked worn out, ridges forming on his forehead.

            The case seemed pointless to Duane, but he didn’t complain when the employer paid as much as he did. Being a private investigator was a natural job evolution for Duane, it paid more than the Mob could in the US, and working like a cop was always better than working against them. The only complication that could occur with this case would be if he met one of his old bosses in the cells, and so Duane kept his interviews of the inmates to a minimum.

            The first thing that seemed natural to check for Duane was the security house, just outside of the compound. There he met three men, but it was a daily switch shift, and the security that was working on the night of the accident was off. That left Duane to sift through the tapes on his own.

            After 15 minutes of fast forwarding through monotonous black and white tapes on the 12-inch television mounted on the wall, Duane was almost relieved when the television and the lights clicked off with a sound the sound of passing racecar. Knowing how clumsy he is in broad daylight, Duane instead opted stay seated. Time crept by, and eventually the ticking of the analog clock became aggravatingly loud. Just as Duane stood up to remove it’s batteries, the lights sputtered back to life, and the TV stung Duane’s dilated eyes with its blue screen. Brighter still, his phone began to shake and dance in his pocket, and it took him a moment to fetch it from his pocket. Trilliby, it read.

“Duano… im gonna need you up here pronto. Looks like Jeff Trans has been stabbed to death, and I don’t want to mop up the crime scene before you check it out. Remember, I can’t have this on the 6 ‘oclock news, so get here asap.”

            The call ended with a click, leaving Duane holding the silent phone up to his ear for a few moments. Once he gathered himself together, he turned off the TV and locked up the security office.

            The blood was gut wrenching, as the attacker must have stabbed Jeff with a pen, leaving him on the ground like a native’s painted sculpture, eye sockets as empty as the killer’s morals. Left in the hallway to die, no bloodied footsteps fled the crime, and Duane knew Trilliby wouldn’t let a CSI team on the scene. Mop in his hand, Trilliby walked over.

            “A crying shame really, I fought with Jeff against the Commies in Nam. He was a virtuous son of a gun…” Trilliby said, mop moving the blood, “And I’ll be damned if whoever did this gets away with it. Go talk to the guard around the corner in the office on the left to get your interview list. Catch this fucker Duane.”

            Duane knelt done next to Jeff’s body, eyeing the weapon, a pen, laying next to his ear. Duane wiped the blood off on to Jeff’s jacket, and pocketed it before heading to the guard around the corner.

           

“Looks like the only people in this part of the building during both blackouts would be Mr. Trilliby and a prisoner by the name of Robert Zietfield. Trilliby was inspecting the power boxes, and Zietfield was waiting for a visitor outside the phone room. Jeff Trans must have just been doing the rounds during the second blackout.” Said the long winded Kinko Smith, a matter of factly paper pusher.

            Duane got Zietfield’s cell number, thanked Kinko, and made a call to his old mob buddy, Nico, from Brooklyn. Their conversation was short but fruitful, and Duane walked into Zietfield’s cell with a smile on his face.

            “Well Hello Robert,” Duane said, purposefully looking down to his notepad to check the name, “seems like you and I have some business to attend to my friend.”

The man across from Duane frowned.

“Cut the shit moron, I don’t have time for this. I’m meeting with my lawyer in half and hour. Is there something you want to say to me?” replied the man.

Duane lent in closer, bending his back so that his nose was inches away from the other mans.

“I know who you are, Jefferson,” Duane whispered, his hand making contact with the other man’s shoulder “and I remember exactly what you got away with. What I’m trying to figure out is how in the world you ended up here of all places, in Berkeley city Prison. You were blessed with a mistrial, and only your son-of-a-bitch brother gets tanked up, and yet, now I find you here, with your brother no where to be seen…”

Duane paused to check the weight his words held against Jefferson’s conscious. Jefferson’s forehead seemed to be covered in reflective sweat, and his Adams apple had been bobbing during Duane’s revelation.

“Well you figured it out. You caught me. I snuck my way into prison.” Jefferson said, his tone slowly getting more pointed, “but I have one question for you. Do you want to know what it is?”

Having solved the case, Duane decided to play Jefferson’s game.

“Shoot. What is it? One question huh?”

“What are you going to do about it?” Jefferson spurted out, and it took Duane a second to realize this was the question.

“What kind of bullshit question is that?” Duane replied, slowly piecing together the puzzle.

“I’m already in Jail Duane, what are you going to do to me? Take me to trial again, and risk a retrial?

“I, uh, well…” Duane stammered. He was no judge, but he found the conundrum giving him a headache.

Duane searched for answers. Something wasn’t right, and he was sure he could find it. The case seemed to fit together so nicely. He reflected on the case, lots of money for the easiest one of his career, a chance to meet an old friend, what could be better he asked himself.

“Do you get it yet Duane? Do you see what’s missing?”

“Motive is clear, suspect is guilty and caught, no one else had to get hurt…” But Duane knew something was missing.

He took a chance.

“How did you switch places with your brother?”

“Easy, the lights were out.”

“Huh…” Duane’s brow curled up.

“I can’t believe you missed it. The genius. The new Sherlock Holmes. The greatest detective of this century misses the biggest clue.”
            “I GIVE UP! WHATS THE DAMN CLUE?!”
            All Duane saw in the last second was the glowing eyes of Mr. Trilliby behind the armored glass. Then, with a click and a smile on Trilliby’s face, the lights again clicked off.

“You missed it, You missed it, You missed it.” Jefferson said.

Duane was almost to concentrated to let out a yelp as the fork pierced his skin and traveled into his lung.

Now Trilliby and Jefferson were standing over him.

Trilliby got down on his knee’s, and pressed his wet, sweaty nose against Duane’s ear. He opened his mouth, and whispered the clue.

“There is no Berkeley Prison…”