Джойс Оутс - Prison Noir

The next day, I got my answer. I was working my way from the fourth tier down after the block had been let out for lunch, and I saw Tracer duck into Spivey’s cell. That in itself was nothing to be suspicious about since guards always do random cell shakedowns looking for contraband. But then I heard Spivey’s voice: “Hurry up and take it off!” I peered around the cell bars and saw Tracer pull his pants down, and then Spivey got on his knees and started sucking Tracer’s dick while the pages of the catalog fluttered open on the concrete floor. Now I knew how Tracer was getting paid for the pictures. I could not allow that to continue.

Even as I’m telling you this, I can see Spivey’s oily black hair bobbing up and down, his acne-blotched face turning red with excitement while peering at his catalog. I can still smell his bad breath as it fogged up his chomo glasses (state eyeglasses). I blame myself for not getting rid of Spivey before it got to that point. I didn’t take lightly the killing of Tracer; he probably had a family who, like most, was living beyond their means in this debt-ridden country. Again, it’s the system that’s to blame.

I tossed and turned for days trying to find another solution. I thought about just killing Spivey, but what if Tracer did the same thing with another prisoner? What if I killed Tracer and let Spivey slide? But of course I couldn’t do that — I couldn’t depend on another prisoner to kill Spivey. So the only option left was to take both of them out at the same time. I would watch them and get a schedule of their frolicking, and then, when I sorted out the timing, I would off them both.

I wasn’t sure how to do it, though I knew it had to be instantaneous. The only thing that made sense was fire, and I would need an accelerant to speed up the process. I soon determined that their rendezvous took place at least three times a week, and always when the block was called to chow.

So I got to work: I siphoned gasoline from the maintenance generator and added a little paint thinner. I placed the concoction in a latex glove and tied it in a knot. Now I simply had to wait for them to get together again.

I remember it was one thirty p.m. when 3 block was called for lunch one afternoon, and I hung back long enough to see Tracer climb to the fourth gallery. It must have been a long weekend at home because he practically ran up the stairs, which is surprising because guards never run unless a PPD (personal protection device) goes off. I climbed up the stairs with very little trepidation. Before approaching the cell, I turned the lever off that controlled the fire sprinklers. When I approached Spivey’s cell, I cautiously looked around the corner, and there was Tracer, sitting on the bunk with his eyes closed in ecstasy as Spivey swallowed his member. I ripped a hole in the glove and threw the flammable liquid on both of them. The expressions on their faces were priceless. The shock at seeing me, and then the slow realization of what was happening, spurred them into action.

Tracer jumped up with his cock dangling and slapping against Spivey’s cheek. He began to protest in vain. The feeble excuses came fumbling out as I lit a match and threw it between them. They went up in an amazing blaze, one that would make any arsonist proud. I wasn’t expecting the stench, and I have to be honest, my stomach churned as the flesh and hair fell from their bodies like rubber from a burning car. I wasn’t prepared for the sound either, as their screams echoed up and down the block. It wouldn’t be long before the guards from the other side of 3 block came to investigate. I took one last look before scurrying down the stairs. I managed to escape the block before I heard the guards’ walkie-talkies starting to chirp like crazy.

In my defense, I have to state the obvious: if Spivey had died on the scene like Tracer, you still wouldn’t have found out about me. But Spivey hung around just long enough to whisper my name to an investigator. Even then you didn’t believe it. It wasn’t until state police checked out the security camera footage and saw me enter the maintenance shop, then saw me climbing the stairs before the sprinkler system was activated (but didn’t work). Then there were my fingerprints on the sprinkler valve itself. Even so, the evidence is circumstantial at best. It’s my job to check the sprinklers’ functionability, and I always walk up and down the blocks. The truth is, you have nothing on me, except what I freely admit here. I am past the point of caring if I’m caught. I’m ready to tell everyone about how much money I have saved them: almost $660,000 so far. I, Bo Carr, have been saving the citizens of Michigan from being victimized by these repeat offenders. Where’s my medal, my praise? You look at me with disgust, but let it be your family who is affected, and you’ll be ready to tear down these prison walls to get to the perpetrator.

Would I do it again? Have you not been listening to me? At what point do we stop coddling these monsters and paying for their mistakes? When will you people learn? You can’t change these cretins! They fill you with their sob stories, their woes of a terrible life, and you want to fix them. I understand that. I, too, used to be that way, until I saw them in a different light. A saner light. I know not everyone is amenable to such a shocking change of protocol, but before we had these bleeding-heart liberals, we killed by electrocution, hanging, beheading, and even caning. These punishments had a profound effect on criminals. They dreaded those severe punishments, and they were deterred. Not completely, but enough. Today you want to put them to sleep like we’re living inside some fairy tale. What I did got the job done! You can’t cure crime, and your system is so corrupt from the bottom up, any other solution would fail miserably. You can let me back out there and we can work as a team, or you can continue to suffer the injustice of the “justice system” you rely on so much. You think you’re putting away a bad man today, but tomorrow or next month, when the prisoners keep coming back, you’ll think of me again and again.

“Thank you, Mr. Carr, for your cooperation and for enlightening us on your criminal philosophy,” said the older of the two men across the table from me. “The director of corrections, as well as various government officials, will be privy to your statements and ideas. Is there anything else you would like to add before we’re done?”

What was the point? They would never get it, or if they did understand, they were too cowardly to step up and fight the system. I shook my head as he turned off the tape recorder, then watched them walk out of the room oblivious to my greatness.

The door to the interrogation room slammed shut and the FBI special agent in charge of the field office for the region looked at Detective Jose Rivers and said, “Do you really believe this guard has been a serial killer all these years?”

Without answering, the detective flashed his state police badge at the gate to be let out. The buzzer sounded, and he walked down the steps of the Jackson County Courthouse as flashbulbs and questions from reporters came at him from all sides. He had no idea how Michigan was going to restore confidence in its criminal justice system, not after this. Maybe they should have continued turning a blind eye to what Carr was doing. It had to be better than facing these vultures.

“Detective Rivers, how is the state responding to the class-action lawsuits filed on behalf of the murdered prisoners’ families?” a female reporter called out.

“Detective, will the director of the MDOC be stepping down?” another reporter asked, causing the rest of the press corps to erupt in a flurry of additional questions.