Evan, Rask, and McCoy shake their heads.
“Did you ever hear him refer to someone as Sammy or Sam, maybe? Connie?”
“No,” Evan sighs, looking defeated. “Renato didn’t talk much before I killed him. He laughed, mostly. But Renato was nothing. As soon as he was dead, we found more just like him. More and more kids, the further we went.”
“And those others that we put down, none of them had ID on them,” McCoy added. “I think word spread that we were coming, and they tried to hide.”
“Renato was Lawson’s contact, though,” Cara says. “This much we know. Once you killed him, he made sure Ingram kept you guys in Cuba.”
“Yeah,” Rask says. “I don’t think we were meant to find the Chesley girl at all.”
“No, we weren’t,” Evan adds.
Cara stands with them, staring at the wall. “I’m sure he’s involved, and I’m going to figure out how. His photo didn’t end up in the box by accident.”
“Nothing in this mess is an accident,” McCoy says. “Someone’s behind it, and I fear the deeper we dig, the bigger the target is on our backs.”
CHAPTER 8
CARA
The one part of my job that I hate the most is traveling to prisons. It’s not fun. It’s nerve-wracking and uncomfortable. I also don’t trust the prisoners, and I definitely don’t trust the guards. You never know who is on the take, and believe me, there are some shady-ass people out there who will do anything for money in my line of work. I made the decision to fly to Colorado to talk to Lawson. This wasn’t an easy choice to make. The guy gives me the creeps. I don’t care that he’s in the Alcatraz of the Rockies; if he’s given an iota of a chance to hurt someone involved in his case or a chance to cry wolf, he’ll take it. Surprisingly, his father, Jonah Ingram, still hasn’t had his trial yet. I’m unsure of what the holdup is, especially since his son pled guilty. More so, it makes me wonder what Ingram knows and if the Department of Justice is covering it up or cleaning it up.
The drive from the airport to Florence is about two miserable hours. Not only do I not feel the best, but the anxiety of going into the supermax prison is unsettling. I could’ve sent a team member to conduct this interview, but they’re not as up to date on the case as I am. However, thinking back to this decision—one I didn’t share with Nate before I left—I wish I had at least brought Turner or Granger. Having a male presence is never a bad thing when dealing with a pedophile like Ted Lawson.
Florence, Colorado, is a cute little town and one I’d probably love to visit if it weren’t for the prison. I commend the people who live here, and while most work for the prison system, it takes a lot of courage to live in a town where the country’s most notorious criminals are housed. I’m not sure I could do it, but then again, it’s probably safer than any other place in the United States.
On the outskirts of town, when the land turns to dirt, the supermax prison sits ominously with the Rockies in the background. The view would be astonishing if it weren’t for the residents behind the concrete walls. I hand over my credentials at the first checkpoint while a guard searches my rental car. I drive forward and wait for the gate to open, unwilling to look at the guards who are on the roof with their guns in their hands. They’re definitely working with the shoot first and ask questions later mentality. I park, shut off my car and rest my head against the steering wheel. I don’t know why I have so much anxiety about this visit, but I do. I’m hoping to learn things from Lawson, but I suspect he will not be forthcoming unless I give him something in return, and I don’t have anything to offer him.
As I walk toward the building, I fall in line behind others. While this may be a high-security prison, the inmates receive visitors, and not just from their lawyers. Family members can visit, which in a way seems odd to me. For some reason, I can’t imagine the Unabomber’s brother coming to visit him. Something tells me they’re not on speaking terms.
People stare at me and each other, likely wondering who we are visiting. I’m thankful my visit will be behind closed doors. I’m here on official FBI business, which affords me privacy and seclusion. When it’s my turn, I follow a guard through a series of doors, each one locking behind us, until we come to an empty room.
“Lawson will be here in a second.”
Great, I can’t wait.
The room is yellow, not dingy white or gray like I suspected. I wonder if yellow makes the inmate feel more comfortable and gets them talking more, or if the government got the color on a discount and wanted to save as much money as possible.