False Witness (John Steel series Book 3) Page 2

  The sound of metal springs screeching was the only noise to break the silence as Armstrong got back on to his bunk. Gomez, the cockroach-like man, had left, had scurried away to find another hole to hide in.

  “You must be the schoolteacher?” Armstrong looked over at the doorway where the voice came from to see a huge form blocking the entrance, but his face was covered by shadow.

  “It seems you are good at your teachings,” the newcomer continued. “Maybe you could spread some education in here.”

  Armstrong sat up as some other men came in and dragged away the unconscious bodies of the three men he’d dealt with.

  “What did you have in mind?” Armstrong asked curiously.

  “Maths, English, those sorts of things. This place has lost purpose, I was hoping you could restore that.”

  Armstrong nodded silently.

  “Welcome, Teacher. And I wouldn’t be worried about any more visits, you have definitely laid out the ground rules and taught the guys a lesson.” The man’s booming belly laugh echoed through the block, accompanied by the sound of the doors closing.

  Suddenly Brian Armstrong opened his eyes and looked over to the small television set that sat in the corner, then sighed deeply. The images of the past were now a distant memory, but one he would ever forget.

  The television had a news report on the prison. At first, his sleepy eyes couldn’t make out too much, and he rubbed them a couple of times to let the eyes’ natural lubrication get to work before opening them again.

  In fact coincidentally, the news report was about him going to the review board at the County Court along with nine other men, but it was his face that was making the news, as it had done all those years ago. The press had labelled him all those years ago and they were doing it again now: to them he would always be guilty, to them he had stabbed his wife in that alleyway and left her to die slowly.

  *

  The journey from the prison to the city would take a good hour. Outside the rain came down in thick sheets, making driving almost impossible. Bursts of light illuminated the sky as the thunderclouds above crackled and flashed with the build-up of electricity.

  The streets outside the long white armoured prison bus were covered with inch-high water that reflected the lights of the stores and the headlights of the passing vehicles that waded through the ocean on the road, water spewing from their wheel arches as they flew past each other.

  Brian looked out across the half-empty streets; people were either where they should be or smart enough not to leave the comfort of where they already were.

  Armstrong closed his eyes as he felt the coldness of the window glass on his face and the feel of the rain pounding on the thick grating as the deluge appeared to come down sideways against the side of the bus, the noise like a storm of hailstones. Brian watched the world as it blurred past through water-streaked windows. This was not a world he knew, just merely one he had passed through several times.

  His world had gone, ripped away from him in conspiracy and lies ten years previously, however, he had reinvented himself and established himself as a big part of the prison. The large man who had visited him in his cell on his first night had said something to him once that he had never forgotten, which was:

  “You can let this place consume you or you can make yourself become so important that you are hard to be swallowed.”

  At the time Armstrong hadn’t understood this logic, but as time went on and he saw the beatings and the stabbings he came to understand. Be someone they respected. Respected not out of fear, no, that was someone else’s domain. His strategy was to become something so different that they couldn’t do without him, he’d become an influence of a different kind... a teacher.

  Brian was suddenly awoken from his daydream by an argument between the head guard and the driver. He couldn’t make out what it was about, as they held their tone down, so as not to alarm the prisoners. However, he paid it no heed, just went back to listening to the music of the raindrops on the metal.

  “Okay, ten minutes, people,” yelled the guard who stood next to the driver. Brian opened his eyes and smiled, calculating that even if the board never granted him early release he had still gotten outside the jail for a little while.

  Brian casually looked around the bus, at the other inmates and three guards who were along for the ride. His slight glance suddenly turned to an interested glare, and as he took note at the way everyone was set out, almost confused at the seating arrangements, the ‘old soldier’ in him kicked in. He hadn’t noticed it before, he hadn’t really had time as they were carted on to the bus like cattle for the slaughter house.

  He found it curious the way they were set out into two groups and his group was at the back of the bus and seated against the right-hand wall, while the others were seated against the left-hand side near the front. He shook the suspicion off as just his soldier paranoia began to kick in, and he went back to looking out of the window.

  The rain had gotten heavier, making it almost impossible to see out of the glass, which was beginning to mist up. The glazing had been strengthened but was still breakable, however, the steel caging on the outside of the windows prevented any idea of escape. In addition, each of the men was clamped down by a securing grip that held the leg cuffs in place on the floor.

  Brian stared out of the window as best he could, shapes of buildings blurred past and he realised in horror that the bus was getting faster. Brian turned towards the long gantry to see if there was a problem and everything seemed to go into slow motion as the bus skidded out of control when they turned a sharp bend. Those at the rear were thrown to the ground as the men at the front were almost pinned to the windows of the bus because of the sudden velocity of the skid.

  Armstrong heard screams and then what seemed to be a loud explosion behind them. Small glass fragments fell from shattered windows, covering the men as they sought shelter on the floor, then there was another massive shudder and their bodies were thrown upwards as the bus was hurled onto its side.

  Prisoners on the left side of the bus screamed in pain and fear as they suddenly found themselves hung upside down from their leg restraints. Brian Armstrong looked up at the men as they struggled to grab hold of something to support themselves. Fountains of water sprayed inside through the broken windows. Filling the interior with rainwater as the bus skidded across the flood-covered road.

  The sound of yelling and the screaming of metal against concrete was deafening. Brian covered his ears as best he could and closed his eyes.

  Brian knew it would only be a matter of time until it stopped, the only question was how long. He didn’t have long to wait for the answer as he felt himself smash against the seats, there was another loud explosion and the bus came to a halt.

  Half dazed, he felt himself being carried along, and then the sensation of wet and cold against his skin, before he was outside. He looked up through half-closed eyes and saw the two large black men that he had shared the back row with. His body felt heavy and he could feel himself losing consciousness.

  He felt himself become light, as though he was leaving his body, then slowly he closed his eyes once more and fell into the darkness.

  THREE

  Detective McCall peered curiously past the shower curtain and listened hard to the faint sound of her house phone ringing beyond the closed door of the bathroom.

  “You have got to be kidding me!” she moaned at the inconvenient timing. Getting quickly out of the shower she rushed naked through the apartment to the sitting room, leaving small puddles on the dull wooden floor as she went. McCall held a towel which she was quickly attempted to wrap around her athletic form as she rushed for the telephone.

  “What’s up, Tooms?” She had recognized the caller ID as that of her colleague, Joshua Tooms.

  “Captain wants all hands in on this one, there was an accident with a bus from Rikers. I’ll fill you in when you get here.” McCall looked over at the clock that hung over a 32-inch flat-scr
een television and saw that it was almost six in the evening. She grunted to herself as her plans of a quiet evening at home were shattered by the news of the crash of a bus from Rikers Island, New York city’s major jail complex.

  “Okay, where are you?” She picked up a pen that sat next to a large jotter pad and got ready to write. “Give me fifteen minutes,” she told him as she stopped writing. “I’ll meet you there.”

  *

  The address was at the junction of Kenmare Street and Lafayette Street. It was a massive built-up area with a large bend onto Lafayette.

  McCall had to park near Petrosino Square, which was a large concrete park where people could just relax from the day to day. Police tape and barriers closed off the road, meaning traffic had to be diverted to Broadway, and the two lanes were full of debris.

  Detective Samantha McCall stopped for a moment and just looked at the scene from a distance as she stood at the junction, and her head moved slowly as she took in the scene through her own perspective.

  The rain had stopped but the lakes on the road and sidewalks remained, as droplets of water fell from overhangs and store signs, causing ripples in the otherwise motionless water.

  McCall took out her small digital camera and began to take photographs of the scene, starting at the junction. Satisfied she had enough, she moved slowly towards the police tape, where a tall uniformed officer stood ready to steer off any members of the press or of the over-interested public.

  “Hey, Tom, how’s things?” she asked the large uniformed officer, who smiled as he lifted the tape for her to pass under.

  “Hey, McCall. Things ain’t too bad, at least it’s stopped raining.”

  She smiled back at him as she stood up straight and headed for a group of men who were standing around a police unmarked black Dodge Charger.

  The three men were Captain Alan Brant, Detective Joshua Tooms and Edgar Marks—who was the CSU (Crime Scene Unit) tech in charge of this scene. McCall didn’t move up straight away, she stopped and looked at the surroundings, taking in impressions of what she considered to be important.

  The police bus lay on its side. There was a large slash mark embedded in the rear of the vehicle, which went from left to right, and the back door lay on the ground a couple of feet away.

  Detective Tooms nodded to the others as McCall walked up towards the men. Captain Brant, their boss, and Marks, turned to greet her.

  “Captain.” Her eyes locked with those of her captain as she tried to ascertain his mood. She could always judge his mood by his eyes: if they were crazy then she would avoid conversation or find a way of steering clear of him.

  “McCall.” Brant nodded a greeting as he pulled up the collar on the heavy wool trench coat that covered his blue suit. He was a big black man in his mid-fifties, and he had the build of a quarterback and the temperament of a pit bull. She looked round at the carnage that lay before them.

  “So what happened?” Detective McCall turned back to face them.

  “As far as we can tell the transport was taking ten prisoners to the Supreme Court for their meeting with the review board when it lost control and skidded into that delivery truck,” Edgar Marks told her, using an outstretched index finger to point out the route the bus must have taken.

  “After which it found itself on its side and heading towards that building. Three of them managed to get an early release via the door,” Tooms added as he pointed out the damaged back door.

  McCall looked over towards the bus, noting that long skid marks torn into the tarmac showed the distance it had travelled before it hit the building. Pieces of white metal lay strewn across the ground and the remains of the loading ramp lay next to the back door of the bus; the large metal ramp looked as though some wild beast had chewed it up and spat it out.

  “How many survived?” she asked, shocked that anyone had actually come out alive.

  “Three got away and four were injured. Five of them didn’t make it, along with the driver and another guard.”

  McCall looked back at Tooms with a puzzled look. “I thought they were all locked down by the floor lock?” she said.

  Tooms gave her an awkward look. “Apparently the device unlocked due to the impact.”

  McCall shook her head and laughed at the absurdity of that possibility.

  “Unbelievable,” she muttered to the captain. “So do we know who got away, sir?”

  Tooms flicked open his notebook and read the list of names: “Darius Smith. This guy is a real peach, been in and out of prison most of his life, for burglary, attempted murder, murder, carjacking. The list goes on.” Tooms looked down at his notepad for confirmation.

  “Then we have Tyrell Williams. Now this guy has a good résumé: armed robbery, attempted murder and murder. He shot a guard, a clerk and two cops.”

  McCall stopped looking at the bus and turned slowly towards the men. “You said there were three, so who’s the third guy?” She saw the look on the captain’s face and she froze.

  “Some guy called Armstrong, Brian Armstrong. Some schoolteacher who was sent away for killing his wife.”

  The men could see the anger in her face.

  “McCall, I know how you feel, but it’s our job to take care of the dead—we are investigating the crash not the breakout.”

  Sam McCall could feel herself become dizzy with rage. There were two violent men and a killer schoolteacher on the run, she calculated. Two of them would be up to their old tricks and would probably disappear into the crowd, but she knew that they would be killing more people, and they would have to pick up the pieces.

  The other man, the schoolteacher, they would no doubt pick him up wandering the streets, looking lost and scared. She had seen it all before: a one-time criminal finds an opening and goes for it, with no plan apart from breaking out. Next thing you know they are trying to hold up a 7-Eleven store, or a gas station for quick cash.

  All the cops had to do was wait for either their capture or for the bodies to start mounting up. She didn’t want to chase after these desperate men—that was a job for the Feds.

  She wanted to know how the men got free in the first place.

  FOUR

  Andy Carlson sat alone in his small two-roomed apartment, a can of cheap beer in one hand and a large bowl of chips resting on the armrest of the armchair on the other side.

  He had lived alone since his old lady kicked him to the curb nine years ago, but he liked the quiet of his new life. The apartment had a seventies thing going with the outdated wallpaper and imitation furniture.

  Carlson had once been a respected member of the community and a gym teacher at the local school but now he was nearly two hundred pounds of disappointment and shame.

  The large ancient-looking television set was showing an old cop movie with Steve McQueen. Carlson just sat there and watched while he downed half the can of beer robotically.

  He hadn’t chosen the programme, it merely happened to be on and he wasn’t really even watching it. With a large hand of bloated fingers, he reached into the bowl, pulled out a mass of fries, and shoved them into his large maw just as a newsflash came on.

  As the report came up about the escaped prisoners and the accident, Carlson watched with little interest, but it made a change from the usual game shows and old movies.

  He took another handful of fries, shoved them into his thin-lipped mouth, and began to crush them rather than chew. The screen changed as the reporter named the escaped men and showed recent photographs of them so that the public were aware who to be on the lookout for.

  Andy stopped chewing and sat with his eyes wide in fear. His mouth fell open in a state of shock, and half-eaten chips fell onto his stained grey sweat suit pants, and as fear set in he crushed the flimsy can, sending the rest of the beer flowing over his left hand.

  The newsflash finished and the movie came back on. Half dazed by the news, Carlson stood up and looked round for a second as though he didn’t know what to do next.

  His ey
es shot towards the front door.

  As quickly as his large bulk could carry him, he headed towards it, to check that the locks were fastened and the chain was safely in place.

  Andy Carlson breathed a sigh of relief and headed back slowly towards the kitchen, shaking his beer-soaked hand to kick off the traces of spilt liquid. He was still trembling with the shock of the news as he opened the refrigerator door and reached for a fresh beer.

  Carlson took a knife from a sink full of dirty plates and bowls and used it to pop the ring-pull on his can of cold beer, as his fingers were too thick to get under the tab. After a quick sound of escaping gases and a small spray of foam, he brought the can to his lips and drank half the can before heading back to the sitting room.

  Andy smiled comfortably: he was safe and he had everything he needed. As he went to sit down again, he stopped. The grin he’d been wearing turned sour as he noticed the upturned bowl and the fries that were spread out across the floor.

  He just shrugged and, with a groan of effort, got down on his knees and started to retrieve his snack.

  There was a noise behind him. A clicking sound, as if something metal was being cut. Then there was a sudden breeze.

  Turning, he looked into the dark corner past the kitchen, towards the front door.

  His face was red with panic and his heart was beating, straining the arteries as he waited to see who was coming for him. His eyes looked up full of sorrow and tears began to form, clouding his view.

  “You! I knew you would come!” Carlson was about to scream but the bite of a taser rendered him unconscious.

  The room fell silent as the dark figure got to work on the victim.

  FIVE

  McCall stood at the hotdog vendor that was located just down the street from the precinct. The evening sun was fading and most of the rainwater had disappeared, leaving dark grey patches on the sidewalks.