The Long Pause - Franklin's Bennies Episode 11

Chapter 31: Things Will Take Care Of Themselves

I pulled out the agent’s card and examined it again. I’d pretty much convinced myself that if I just did nothing about my Franklin predicament it would go away. 

Now this new wrinkle, Agent Gil Cummings. 

Cummings and Franklin both had that droopy, puppy dog air. I took my coffee and book and left. A new wrinkle which seemed to require a decision from me. Both men said they needed my help, which for a guy like me was a way into my heart. 

I had the morning free until I picked up Nora at the pantry.  

I parked across from cousin Pat’s apartment and punched in the security code and headed up to see if he was home. After two knocks he answered. His roommates Pig and Laddie meowed and wagged. 

“To what do I owe the honor? Guess I should feel good, two visits in a month. What was it, the day after our Hoffenhaus dinner?” He was dressed in a black v-neck sweater with the Guinness harp logo, blue jeans and hiking boots. A winter coat with a hoodie was draped over his recliner. A High Sierra travel bag, apparently packed, sat next to it. He pointed for me to sit at the dining room table, doubling as a desk.  

“You’re stressed, young cousin of mine. I am still working on the Tomasso matter. But did get more info. than what I gave you. He pointed to papers on the dining room table.” 

I pulled out Gil Cummings ‘card and handed it to him. He sat in the wicker rocker. “FBI! More federal agents. Not really good company. When did you run into this fellow?” he asked about Cummings. 

I told him about the minutes-ago encounter at Three Glories, and about the admonition by Cummings to look for something left in my house by the other feds who’d visited. 

He kept examining the card as if he was looking for more information. “Did this uh, Cummings, come alone or did he bring another suit with him like the other federal boys?”

“He was alone. And he didn’t seem the typical fed. I mean, it was like he was on a personal mission. Kind of a…”

“Loner.”

“Exactly, seemed to be.” 

Pat got up and shook out some dry cat food for Pig and threw out a dog cookie for Laddie. He moved a High Sierra travel bag over some toward the door, checking himself in the wall mirror, then straightening out his sweater. “Actually I am glad you dropped by. Colleen and I are going skiing in Winter Park. For a long weekend. I asked my neighbor to take out Laddie for a walk and feed these two, but do you mind checking on them, too?” 

“Sure, no problem. Glad you’re not absconding from the state.”

Chuckles about his history as a person-of-interest in crimes.

Pat opened up a drawer from the divan and took out a key to the apartment. “Check with Mara next door to see when she last took him out. She’s pretty good about doing so, whenever I leave… So, now you have some loner fed asking for your help and he is on the trail of… what’s you inmate’s name again?”

“Lennox Franklin.” 

“Great name.” Pat went into the kitchen and hollered back. “But two things are bothering you. Do you tell Nora? And, what do you do about some bug planted in your house? That’s what this guy said to look out for, right?”

“He said look for round little gizmos.”

Pat returned with two Blue Moons. We clanged our bottles. 

“Slainte.” 

“Slainte.” 

I couldn’t expect him to hold my hand or take care of the matter with Franklin. He’d had his own messes to contend with over the past several years. But he’d come out of them well. Possibly I was hoping for some resolve which would make all this go away. 

“Young cousin of mine, first things first. If it’s a gizmo your FBI guy said to look for, what I’d do is look under your lamp shades and furniture where those two feds were in your house.

“And?”

“And if you find something, hold on to it. Then, I guess I’d call that Cummings fellow. If you got a good vibe from him. I had two feds on my tail with that whole missing person mess of last year. And they were fucking assholes. Condescending and accusatory. But that doesn’t mean all feds are that way. What we all hear is that the FBI is trying to reshape its image.”

Pat checked his luggage again. 

“You guys have a reservation at Winter Park?” I asked 

“Actually, Colleen owns a condo there. So, in a way, yes.”

“Wow.” There was a knock at the door. 

“Speaking of my travel mate.” A light kiss from Colleen at the door and a smile for me. 

“You can hold the tickets,” she said to Pat.

I hadn’t seen Colleen since Nora and I had rendezvoused weeks earlier at the local pub, the Hoffenhaus. Today she was dressed to the nines, short cover girl hair do, tapered jeans, trendy boots.  

“Peter, how's Nora?”

“She is good. She really liked meeting you.”

Laddie and Pig made their way over. “Too bad we can’t take them,” she said.  “I guess if we drove we could. Oh well. Next time. You and Nora should think about coming sometime. Did Pat tell you I have a condo in Winter Park?”

“He did. Sounds nice.”

Pat slung the bag over his shoulder and patted Pig and Laddie. “I will leave it with you, cous. I’ll do some thinking and text you back if I come up with anything. Lock up. Later.” He glanced back. “Things will take of themselves,” he said. 

Chapter 32: Passion Of Life Is In The Search

I hung out at Pat’s petting Pig and Laddie, and had another Blue Moon, excusing myself that it was the holiday season. On the table were copies of the findings Pat’s work mate, Leon, had compiled on the landlord of Tomasso, a man named Weiner, landlord of his pizza’s place. Weintraub and Weiner. A crime duo possibly. 

Leon obviously had been hacking into confidential information on the landlord. Two arrests back east for fraud. No jail time. Appears from the man’s addresses, he’d not lived long in central Missouri. But, first–things-first. My immediate concern was related to what to do about Agent Gil Cummings. 

I’d just met him, but dialed up his number. He answered on the second ring. I needed movement toward closure of this Franklin thing, realizing I was likely digging myself deeper. I wasn’t of the mindset to blow off the FBI, despite good thinking otherwise.

“Mr. Cleary?”

My name showing up on his contact list wasn’t comforting, but then again he knew more about me than I cared for him to know.

“Yes. Uh… I was  uh…  wondering about talking about your suggestion and meeting. Can we meet up?”

“Sure. Surprised you called me back so soon. Listen, I am still in town for today. I am with the Kansas City office. But how are you doing for a meet up, now.” 

“Uh, that’s good. Oh, wait, I have to pick up my wife at noon. But after that I am free.”

Silence… “Tell you what Mr. Cleary, give a call after you are free, alone, this afternoon and we can talk more. That OK with you?”

“Sounds good.” 

I petted Pig and Laddie, locked up cousin’s Pat’s place, knowing I also needed to read the info. on Tomasso’s predicament, and took off to pick up Nora. On the stairway down I met Pat’s neighbor Mara and traded a quick exchange about Laddie and Pig. “I’m just next door. Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of them,” she said.   

On the drive over to pick up Nora, I was reminded of a quote, something to the effect of the passion of life is in a search. Perhaps that’s why I was so intrigued with Franklin’s request.

When I arrived at the Pantry, where Nora volunteered, two disheveled types who were trying to engage Nora in chat the last time I picked her up were at it again. Each had a cigarette dangling out of his mouth. They watched, I thought, with fiendish eyes, as she got in the Escape.

She gave me her customary peck. Both men turned, doused their cigarettes in a trash bin and went inside. “They are harmless, Peter. And I don’t stray from the front door.”

“They aren’t a problem till they are a problem.” 

“You have been drinking.”

“I went by cousin Pat’s. He was on his way out to go skiing in Colorado, with his friend Colleen.” 

“Oh how nice. You haven’t had too many?”

“I am good.” I let Nora talk about her morning volunteering, second-guessing myself whether it was best to keep the Agent Cummings conversations to myself. “What would you like to do this afternoon?”

“I need to get groceries. And the house is a mess.” 

At home Nora grabbed her shopping list and set it on the dining room table while she went to the bathroom. On the list was something called Clear Blue Digital Pregnancy Kit. In past weeks we hadn’t delved into matters of expanding our little family. I was  letting the matter take care of itself, whatever that meant.  

“I will be an hour or so. I have my phone,” she said, picking up the list and car keys.

I watched her back out of the driveway, gunning the old Ford. In my study I did a slow check of any place that the two federal agents could have sat or stood when visiting several weeks earlier, where they could have placed a listening device. Nothing on the frame of my degrees or pictures, which I remembered one of the men staring at. I looked inside the lampshade for something that appeared to be out of place, like a bug. The chairs they sat in or near were clean of any protrusions.  

I turned off the lights, but for some reason did a U turn and ran my finger up to the top of the door casing. There, no bigger than a pen cap, stuck somehow to the casing, was a dark device with what appeared to be copper wiring wrapped around it was what Cummings had warned me about.

Two federal agents plant a bug in my house, then another comes my way and alerts me to as much. Coincidence? In just as a passing comment, Cummings had shared this thought.   

Had I made any incriminating statements about myself as it related to Franklin to the Treasury agents? 

I pulled off the device, which seemed stuck to the casing with some sticky adhesive. I dialed up Cummings. He answered on the first ring.

“Mr. Cleary. Get the wife picked up?“ 

“She’s shopping. How’s now for a meet?”

“I can drop by.” 

I peeked out the window to double check Nora hadn’t already returned home, knowing sometimes she returned after forgetting something. “How about this, you pick me up and we can. I am without a car.”

“I am driving down your street now.”

“So, I am guessing I don’t need to give you my address.” 

Cummings rattled off my three house numbers. I grabbed my coat, putting the small device in my coat pocket. Was this fed stalking me? His showing up, another coincidence. What were the odds he’d be in my neighborhood, just driving around? Outside a new model black Grand Cherokee Limited pulled up. The car lights flashed, all very clandestine. 

Across the street neighbor Marge peeked out her kitchen window. I eased into the jeep's front seat. We shook. Nice ride. Didn’t know, what do we call you, G-Men drove such nice vehicles.

“Courtesy of DEA,” Cummings said. “Once a transport gets confiscated in a bust we use them from time-to-time,” he said, patting the steering wheel, “until the property is later auctioned off.” 

Cummings moved the vehicle down the hillside. My strategy was to let him do the talking and also give him the bug. He took out a piece of gum from his khaki-colored coat and offered me a stick. 

“I am good,” I said. “So, you said call. And I did.”

Cummings reached over and opened up the glove compartment. He pulled out a folded brown envelope which was under a pistol securely strapped in a holster. He handed me the envelope.“ Open.” 

I took out a creased 5 by 8 black and white mugshot picture of bearded Franklin.

“That your boy?”

“That’s him. Clean shaving now.” 

“I found this,” I said, giving him the small bugging device. 

Cummings took hold of the bug, keeping one hand on the wheel, eyeballed the item, then smiled to himself. “A little Pepsico.” 

“Pepsico?”

“The manufacturer. Looks like the boys who visited you did some illegal tapping. I am guessing anyway. Wow! And we have the bad reputation.” 

Cummings made his way out of my neighborhood. “I wouldn’t worry about this too much Mr. Cleary. To pick up much they’d have to be pretty close to your house. You haven’t seen any suspicious cars parked in front of your home lately, have you?” 

“Before they visited me they did drive up and down the street, I think. But I don’t think they have been by since they were in my house. But then again I don’t stand at the window peering out, either.” 

“I’ll take care of this for you.” 

Chapter 33: Weintraub's Lemon Color Rolls

Cummings deposited the bugging device in his coat, chewed on his stick of gum, stopping at the intersection of Stewart and Westfield Drive. He let two joggers pass by, huffing out big exhausts of CO2. “This is a nice neighborhood. How long you and the wife been here?” 

“Not long. Several years.”  

He turned the jeep toward downtown and campus.  “Alright if we talk while I just drive around a bit?” 

“Sounds good.”

“So, I am glad you called, Mr. Cleary, Peter, right?”

“Right.” 

“Let me be straight about it all from the get-go. As I said at the coffee shop, I don’t give a fuck about your boy there, Franklin. He is locked away and with a fat sentence and is forgotten about. I am after his shyster lawyer, Weintraub. But given the way he sets up his operation, he’s hard to touch. He’s layered. The lawyer way, I suppose.” Chuckle.

“I don’t know how much you know about this douchebag, but my guess is one reason your boy there got all the time he did, is because Weintraub knew he’d cause less trouble nicely tucked away in the state prison.

“Franklin has done time before, so it wasn’t a stretch to see that he got a mandatory minimum. My belief is that Weintraub set the whole thing up and got your boy nailed. Prosecutor, uh, forget his name, now Attorney General was overzealous too. How much do you know about the down and dirty of Franklin’s arrest?” …Cummings pulled the car over, edging into a bicycle path.

“Sorry, I guess I am getting a little ahead of the game with you, Peter, you haven’t even claimed Franklin is, was, your client at your prison, much less know this lawyer…Was Franklin your client?”

“He was on my caseload, before he was transported down south. And I know some information about the lawyer. As we talked about earlier, the two Treasury agents told me they were investigating him for money laundering.”  

“Fucking douce bags.” He checked his side mirror and proceeded toward town. 

At a drive-though Cummings pulled in and ordered up two coffees and two bagels without asking me my preference for either. 

“Hope you don’t mind,” he said. “You drink coffee and like bagels I hope. I just got plain cream cheese.” 

“All good.” I got the feeling Cummings had little else going on in his life, no family, no home and lawn to keep up, nothing but a long career with the FBI and an apparent obsession with a lawyer turned bad. 

He paid the young clerk at the window, and handed me my treat in a sack. Across the street in a vacant church lot, he pulled over, leaving the jeep running. “Glad that fucking virus is a thing of our past. Guess some kind of scare will be with us from now. It even seemed to slow down our work. Don’t know what the stats say about crime rates. Fucking cities were a mess with that Antifa or Black Lives Matters  protest bull shit.”  

We sorted out the cream cheese and napkins and sipped our coffee. “So, now that we got your relationship with this Mr. Lenox Franklin, AKA this and that, the man is in prison because Weintraub wants him there. And this piece of shit wants him locked away because he knows your boy knows something. That something is what Weintraub wants. Loot. My guess anyway.”    

I chewed my bagel, keeping my code of silence the best I could, hoping Cummings would get to the specifics of what it was he wanted from me.

A late model Buick pulled in the lot and parked next to us. The  driver, a white haired woman, hung out a disabled sticker on her rear view mirror, got out and slowly ambled toward the church door. Cummings watched her in a hopeless way. “I am on my last hooray so to speak. Did I say that already to you Peter?”

“Uh..” 

“Won’t be long until I am hobbling around like her,” he said.

“Looks like you have some years left before that.”

Chuckle. “But, before my retirement kicks in I want to get this Weintraub. He is a smart guy. And has skated our grab for some time now. His little game has always been on the edge. If you frequent state or federal court, on 12th or 9th, in downtown KC, you’ll see Weintraub’s lemon colored Rolls parked, usually right up front near the court building. Rumor has it he was paid for his services by one of drug pushers with the Rolls. Cocksucker has no shame. But if that was all, the son-of-a-bitch was just another fuck ass scum, but he runs his own money laundering operation on the side. You are getting this from me, a lawyer, too, Peter. And that is one reason why I want the mother fucker, I guess, too.” 

Cummings swallowed the last of his bagel and sipped his coffee, letting his venting sink in. He smelled the package. “Sometimes those little girls at the bagel shop mix in the garlic with the cream cheese,” he said. After we had finished eating he drove the jeep out of the lot, offering me a stick of Red Man gum.“

“I am good.” 

A slight flurry of snow started. He ran the wipers on low. “You from around here, Peter?”

“I grew up close by. Went to school in St. Louis. How about you?”  

“Toledo. Went to law school at night, during my first duty with that office. Those were hard days. But I had energy”

“Married?”

“Divorced.”

He waved two coeds through at a crosswalk. “She was a good woman. I was a bad husband. But we had a daughter together. And we still have contact with each other through her. 

“So Peter, guess you want to know why you are getting all the attention from the Treasury pricks and, from what I understand, the warden and others at your job.” 

“I am guessing it’s all about Franklin.” 

“Like I said at coffee earlier today, I am not out to burn you. I have a solitary mission and that’s to nab this Weintraub. But, first I need you to be straight with me. What do you know about your boy?”

Cummings flicked the wipers on and off, moving the jeep around a beer truck parked on Tenth Street. “Fuck stick,” he said, tooting his horn slightly at the driver who slid out of the truck cab and walked to the back of the vehicle. 

“College town,” I said. “Need to keep the taps flowing.” 

“So, the low-down on your man Lenox Franklin.” He gave me a half-pleading glance. 

I told him that Franklin had believed he was being spied on by, as he said, the cops in the prison. 

Cummings divulged it was a common thing to have a snitch in a cell with another inmate, the intent being to get information on an inmate. I wanted to ask whether he set the whole thing up. Coincidences.  

I left out the biggest part of Franklin’s story, that being the matter as to “the loot.” Although Cummings had alluded to as much. But I did say that Franklin felt shafted by his lawyer and that when he went to trial always felt the odds were stacked against him, given he was convicted by an all white jury in a rural part of the state, for something as benign as drug contraband. But the three-strike rule applied, so off he went. I also related that Franklin feared for his life now, being imprisoned in what was commonly referred to as the Nazi camp.  

Leaving out my knowledge about the matter of the money seemed prudent until the timing was right. Cummings exited off the loop drive and pulled the jeep over into the grocery store parking lot where I was certain Nora had gone to shop. Another coincidence?

“There might be a way to get Franklin out of the camp down south,” he said, studying the lot. “And even do an intra-state compact with another state for better housing, even a trade with a federal prison. That is if you are telling me the whole story, Peter. Fuck, who knows with all this early out, he might get out anyway.” 

Chapter 34: You Know Where The Money Is

It was afternoon and the grocery store lot was full. Cummings left the motor on so the wipers could do their job. I did a search for Nora and our Escape. He moved his seat back and rested one arm on the window edge, half scooting his leg up to face me.

I sipped my coffee, fixed on the parking lot. “This is your grocery store, isn’t it, Peter?”

I smiled confidently to myself, looking at Cummings. “As I said before, Agent Cummings, you know a lot about me. I suppose you know my wife is shopping here this afternoon.”

“… I see how it looks… I told you I had a daughter. She works here. Daddy is checking on her. That’s her Prius parked over there in the staff lot. 

“But, uh, yes, I knew this store was by your house, though. I confess, if I have an ulterior motive for working on the Weintraub case, other than I have been after the piece of shit for sometime, it’s to be near her. I transferred to KC when she got into journalism school here, only an hour and half down the road. Much to her disapproval. 

“When you have kids, Peter, especially a daughter, you’ll find yourself doing things to settle your mind, like spying on your kid. But then again, I am a suspicious fuck.” 

“What’s your daughter’s name?”

“Jennifer. Last week, she saw me parked outside her apartment. She just happened to be coming home from a date. She called me and read me the riot act. Then called my ex, who called me, reminding me our daughter is 22 and graduating from college and that my behavior will drive her away from me. But here I am doing the same thing again. What do you think that means, Dr. Cleary?”  

I chuckled. “Means?… Well… don’t eat yourself up Agent Cummings. A wise old person told me once, the more we want to change, the more we cling to the familiar.” 

“A psychologist?”

“My grandmother.” 

“Ah. I had one of those too. God bless her. Lessons told, we quickly forget.” He slowly moved the jeep out of the lot, I guessed knowing his daughter was where she was supposed to be. I took a last gander for Nora and the Escape. 

The store was minutes from my house. Cummings had unloaded personal information to me. 

He pulled his jeep behind a large Norwegian spruce one house up and out of sight from my home window. Sticking out at the tail end of my driveway was the Escape, its back hatch open. I hadn’t texted Nora about my ride-around with Cummings. 

“So, Peter, I hope you now have a better idea of my situation. It’s your choice how much you want to share. That’s if you have something to share.”

Cummings had gotten human with me about his daughter, which could be a strategy to get me talking. 

I needed to ease this burden about Franklin. I gulped, sighed and said,“So, Agent Cummings, to my knowledge, Lenox Franklin, does have, what did you call it,‘loot’?”  

He glowed a smile. “Ah. Now that's what I was looking for, Peter.” He motioned a go-ahead, waving me on. “I am all ears. Just between you and me. You can be quick. I know you have to get to the little lady.” 

I hit the high points, betraying Franklin’s confidence, but then again the guy had disclosed illegal information to me. And under HIIPA, the federal act, moral compass of the mental field, I could justify telling someone. 

I told Cummings how Franklin had left me instructions about money he had hidden in an aunt’s garage, money taken for compensation for the death of his young cousin. The bullet was meant as a pay back from young gangsters who were miffed at Franklin for not turning over drug territory to them. 

Cummings nodded to himself again as if my story made complete sense. I mentioned I heard of Weintraub. He held up his palm to gesture for me to stop.

“Peter, as I said, I am after Weintraub. More power to your man for ripping off some young punks. But the money is the bait I need to nail this mother fucker. And, as I guessed, Weintraub set up Franklin so he could get access to the money. And you said that Franklin said Weintraub knew how to clean the money. Wonder if the poor soul has pieced together that his own attorney was the one who got him clipped?”

My neighbor, Sam, stepped out onto his front porch and took a look at the jeep parked across the street. He checked the degree of the snowfall, then stepped back inside.  

“So, here it is, Patrick.” 

“Peter,” I reminded him. 

“Sorry. I didn’t sit down with you this morning at the coffee shop just because I was looking for conversation. I need you to work with me to take down this son-of-bitch. And if you know where the money is, I need you to be wired to bait Weintraub.”

Nora appeared at the back hatch of our car, loading herself up with grocery bags and was headed down the sidewalk. She glimpsed at the jeep. 

“That the little lady?” Cummings said. “Better get you back.” Cummings let the jeep slowly coast down to my house. “Probably best to let the little lady in on who I am. Keeping too many matters from the wife can backfire, or so I found out. And you don’t want to lose that,” he said. “To be continued.”  

I scooted out. “Later.” Gil saluted, did a U turn and motored back up the street.

“Let me help you with that, mam,” I called out.

“Good timin, Mr. Cleary,” Nora said, handing me a grocery sack. Perceptive. “Is that another government man?” 

“Not the same type that visited us several weeks ago.” 

Inside, she toweled her hair, drying the mist. ”Soo this one is to be trusted, or not soo much tis what you are sayin? At home we only have to worry about the Garda come a callin. Here they show up in all shapes and in jibes.”

It was time I laid out my worries. After helping deposit the groceries in the freezer and cupboard, we sat. Me with a Blue Moon poured in my favorite liter stein mug, with a ceramic of Bavarian mountains on it, Nora with a glass of Merlot. 

Chapter 35: Gil’s Request

I rewound the morning, telling Nora about my talk with Cummings. And that I’d talked to cousin Riordan who simply told me that I needed to resolve this matter with Mr. Franklin. I related Franklin’s story and how I thought, as did Agent Cummings, that he’d got an unfair shake from his lawyer. She asked what it was that the government wanted from me and I told her to help nab a crooked lawyer.  

When I confessed that something in me wanted to right a wrong, she reached over and kissed me.  

We spent the afternoon in bed, with the window cracked, despite the weather. The West of Ireland occasionally gets snow, but not as frequently as the American Midwest. So Nora relished the late Fall briskness. She said it gave her a reason for me to keep her warm.  

I’d laid-out to Nora about Agent Gil’s request, none of which was meant to be comforting. Despite me telling my wife I had noble intentions on helping this inmate who had been wronged with all too stiff of a sentence, I knew she already felt threatened with having her visa lifted by some wanna-be-tough Fed boys, as a result of me tangling with Mr. Franklin. And now I was suggesting to her that I wanted to play out the whole matter, helping the government. 

As we drifted off in the late afternoon to a sound track of the Irish Brigade, Nora curled up in my arms. She whispered, “You’ll do the right thing Peter.” 

At 3 in the morning my cell jingled a call from Dr. Fordham. He was on-call for the weekend and had gotten a message from the in-charge CO at the prison, who said an inmate had been placed in the suicide wing, a standard procedure. And according to the COs he had then started banging his head on the cell door. Dr. Fordam couldn’t make it into the prison due to having fallen himself taking trash out, now nursing a swollen ankle. 

“I owe you, Cleary, if you cover for me. I didn’t want to call Maria, because I knew she’d go in.” 

An hour later, I arrived at the facility. The snow had stopped but driving in was slow. Answering a call for duty in the wee hours of the morning endears one to the correctional staff, at least that’s what I’d detected from the smiles on the COs faces. They were paid a lot less than mental health and had 24/7 hours. Seeing one of us show in the wee hours equalized things. 

I made my way to Three House. All was quiet. Inside the Lieutenant pulled me aside, handing me hazmat gear. “He’s started to throw his shit on the walls, naked as a jaybird.” 

I took the information from the Lieutenant, which showed the time sequence of this event. Nothing definitive about a suicide attempt although some behavior prompted his placement on Watch. As I ran the medical and mental health check on the man from the interview room, my stomach sank. Dr. Fordham had told me when he called the man’s DOC’s number was my caseload number, last DOC digits 29 to 50, but I hadn’t recognized the name then. 

It was Mr. Kincaide who I’d talked to weeks earlier who had asked for sleep medication. Then, he was having nightmares about a stepfather who was housed in a prison where Kincaid feared he might be incarcerated.

I walked to the cell with the Lieutenant, also wearing a hazard mask. We stood back from the chuck hole now closed. I could smell feces through the air vent. I stepped up to the plexiglass window. In the corner of the cell, crouched, humming was Mr. Kincaid. “What’s it called when someone throws their shit?” the Lieutenant asked.

“Uh, encopresis or scatophilia, ”I said, hoping one was correct. 

“It’s all over the walls. We watched him shit, then grab it and start scribbling something. Surprised he has enough in him as thin as he is.”

I tried to appear calm and learned. As I was contemplating my next move, the graveyard nurse showed. She was twenty something, had on her scrubs, coiffed hair, just below the ear lobes. Her name tag said she was RN Becket. She had a computer tablet and scrolled down searching for any record of the man’s history. Registered nurses are in charge of medical care when no MD is there and are well paid. “Nothing on the guy, medical wise,” she said to me. “Other than a request for sleep meds.” 

Mr. Kincaid stood up, letting his private dangle proudly. He started dancing about the cell, still humming. 

“What’s behind all this?’ the Lieutenant asked. 

The nurse looked up at me curiously, but I expected knew as much about the rhyme or reason for Mr. Kincaid’s action as I did. 

“Who knows about the whys. Control or a feeling of lack of it, some believe. Often related to early trauma,” I said, knowing that explained about half of all actions of mental disorders. “He seems to be having a psychotic break.”   

We all watched for a moment. From the office bubble on the second floor of the house where the video monitors all actions of those on suicide watch, we could see the CO there looking down on it all. “The Captain is going to want something done, Doc, “ the Lieutenant said. “What’s the next step?”

The nurse waited for my words, then quickly scrolled down on her cell. Medical staff were the only staff who were authorized to carry cells in the prison; just for emergencies like this. 

These situations were the most uncomfortable ones for the mental health staff. Most of us felt that all too often we were supposed to have some magic dusk to throw out to these situations. But head banging, fecal throwing, or bizarre behaviors were rarely matters that ceased due to some profound words cast on the situations. With Mr. Kincaid, I remembered his intense fear of having to go to the same facility where his stepfather was housed, could be an in. 

“Let me try and talk to him for a minute,” I said. “You guys keep your distance.”