Jason Pinter - The Stolen

He raised the window and turned on the engine. He found a good jazz station with John Coltrane's quartet playing "Pursuance." He sat and listened to the entire song, felt the rhythm swim through his head. He reached into the glove compartment, closed his hand around the gun, and felt like everything would even out.

This time had been a mistake. It was unfortunate for

Caroline Twomey. The next time, though, they would make things right.

I left the apartment with Amanda. We said our goodbyes outside. She hailed a taxi. I watched it pull away, for a second hoping that her window might lower, her head drifting out like in an old movie, where the cab would pull over and all sorts of romance would ensue. 'Course, that didn't happen. The cab pulled up to the light, then turned out of sight when it became green.

I trudged to the subway, feeling like the whole story had begun anew. We'd found the Reeds once, and that was almost out of blind luck. The next time, neither I, nor they, would be so lucky.

The Harrisburg police believed every word I said, and were more than happy to step up their patrol and look for this man Benjamin. It was maddening that we were facing such resistance in Meriden and Hobbs County, the cities that preferred to keep their heads stuck in the sand.

I got onto the subway, flipping through the Gazette to pass the time. As much as I was reading the paper for the articles, I also felt somewhat obligated to advertise our paper, make sure fellow straphangers were well aware of the newspaper of choice. Given the fact that I'd probably slept a total of five hours in the past two days and my eyes were totally bloodshot, they might have assumed the

Gazette was a paper for strung-out junkies. Not exactly the target market for our reporting skills.

I got to the office at a quarter past nine. When I stepped off the elevator, I was greeted by a sight that cheered me up immediately.

Sitting at his usual desk was Jack O'Donnell. And he looked no worse for wear.

Hardly able to contain my excitement, I half walked, half sprinted through the newsroom and perched myself by Jack's desk. He was wearing one of his patented suit jackets with patched elbows, and pants that looked like they'd survived a horrific gardening accident. He smelled like Old Spice, and his beard was neatly trimmed. He looked exactly like what you'd expect a seasoned reporter would look like. The old newsman turned to me, a weary smile spreading across his lips.

"Hey there, if it isn't the boy who saved an old man's life."

"Come on," I said, "stop it." I felt like a schoolgirl complimented by the starting quarterback.

"Seriously, Henry, I owe you a great deal of gratitude.

I've been on this earth for a long time-maybe I've outstayed my welcome considering some of the things I've done-but if not for you there's a good chance I wouldn't be here right now. So thank you."

"You don't need to thank me, Jack," I said. "You'd have done the same for me."

"Saved your life?" he said. "An old bag of bones like me can barely muster up the strength to get dressed in the morning, let alone go around saving lives. I appreciate the gesture, but you're the hero here."

"If you remember," I said, "you saved my life a few years ago. You know, that whole thing where they thought I'd killed John Fredrickson? After Amanda, you were the only one that helped me. So get off this modesty kick, it doesn't suit you."

Jack smiled smugly. "Okay, I'll take it. But I promise, that's the last time you'll have to go picking me up off a floor. Unless I'm break-dancing, but then all bets are off.

Speaking of bets, Wallace tells me you're in the middle of a pretty tense story. What's the deal?"

I recounted everything that had happened since I first interviewed Daniel Linwood. I told him about the discovery of Michelle Oliveira's disappearance, our attempt to follow Dmitri Petrovsky and the doctor's murder. About the Reeds and how I believed they'd kidnapped a girl named Caroline Twomey for reasons I still didn't know.

And about Raymond Benjamin, the career thug who was somehow mixed up in all this.

Jack sat there, resting his head on his hands, his eyes betraying a sense of worry. When I was finished he stayed seated for another moment, took a breath, closed his eyes, and said, "It's not supposed to be this difficult, Henry. You can't put your life in danger on every story."

"That's not fair, Jack. I didn't choose for this to happen.

I was assigned to the Linwood story, and then-"

"And then what? That should have been the end of it.

Your piece on the Linwood boy was terrific. Case closed.

So what happened?"

"Life happened," I said, feeling my blood pressure rise. "I can't speak for you, Jack, but I can't just let things go. As soon as I knew there was more to the

Linwood story, as soon as I realized there were people who didn't want me digging, it's like…it's like someone turned on a switch inside me. And I can't stop until I know everything."

Jason Pinter

"You know what they call someone who needs to know everything?" Jack asked.

"A good reporter?" I replied.

"Dead," Jack said. "Every trail leads somewhere. Very few stories simply end. And if you keep playing Indiana

Jones, at some point your luck's going to run out, and some very bad people are going to shut you up."

"Thanks for the pep talk," I said. "I'll take it under advisement." I stood up.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"This story isn't finished," I said. "I have to go make some bad people upset at me."

I walked back to my desk, happy that Jack seemed healthy and vibrant, but annoyed that he was still questioning me. He had to know I couldn't just give this up. I needed to know why Raymond Benjamin got involved with the Reeds. And if, somehow, through all this he was connected to Daniel Linwood.

Rule number one in journalism: always start with the money.

Specifically, where did Raymond Benjamin get it?

I logged in to our LexisNexis terminal and ran a search for Raymond Benjamin. More than a thousand hits came up. I narrowed it down by adding search terms like

"criminal," "jail" and several others. A few hits came up relating to the 1971 riots at Attica. Raymond Benjamin was named in several newspapers as one of the inmates involved, though none of them named him as having taken part in violence or murders. I scrolled down through several entries, and found one that piqued my interest.

It was printed in the Buffalo News out of Buffalo, New

York. It was an in-depth article, four pages long, and incredibly detailed. It went on record about the horrific abuses suffered by the prisoners in Attica, and how the shoddy treatment was the catalyst for the riots.

One of the most damning pieces of evidence, the article stated, was the discovery by Dr. Michael Baden that all twenty-nine of the prisoners and all ten of their prisonguard hostages were killed by Attica guards themselves.

This was a huge blow to the penal system, which for years had been spreading stories that the hostages had been killed by the prisoners, who had slit their throats. That the guards resorted to lethal measures so quickly and brutally was yet another blow to the system.

According to the article, a prisoner by the name of

Raymond Benjamin was treated for facial lacerations, as well as severe dehydration and malnutrition. When asked about his conditions inside the prison, Benjamin stated he'd eaten only one meal a day the week before the riot, hadn't showered more than three times a month the prior year, and had repeatedly been subjected to other forms of torture and brutality. Strangely, though, Benjamin refused to blame the prisoners or the guards for his wounds. Benjamin was quoted as saying, "I got nobody to look at besides myself, where I come from. Sometimes you make your own choices, sometimes where you come from makes 'em for you. Me, my fate was set long before I had any say in it."