Free Bodies in Winter by Robert Knightly

the ski mask worn by one of Lodge’s assailants had slipped as he got into the red car, exposing the back of his neck.
    The New York Post hadn’t gotten to any of the witnesses. Instead, a ‘highly placed source within the NYPD’ had told a reporter named Ted Loranzo about the location of the abandoned Toyota and the TEC-9’s recovery. The main focus of Loranzo’s story was the relationship between the TEC-9 (which Loranzo described as a ‘machine pistol’) and gangster rap. Profusely illustrated with photos culled from album covers depicting black men holding TEC-9s, the text made no effort at subtlety. The police, Loranzo told his readers, were concentrating their efforts on friends and associates of Clarence Spott.
    So, the cat was out of the bag. All those blatant clues were never meant to fool the investigators unfortunate enough to catch the case. They were there because reporters need blatant clues in order to write slanted stories. Stories that somehow failed to mention Ellen Lodge’s evasiveness, or Otto Hinckle’s observations, or the convenient placement of the Toyota. Had Loranzo asked himself why Lodge’s killers didn’t park the car legally? If they had, the car might not have been discovered for weeks and would almost certainly have been stripped of anything as valuable as a TEC-9 by the time it was.
    Accompanied by a corrections officer in a parka suitable for Antarctic exploration, I proceeded from the main gate to the administration building along a path bordered by snow banks even higher than the ones in the parking lot. The guard’s name was Bardow and he hesitated when we finally reached the door.
    â€˜Are you here about the Lodge murder?’ he asked.
    With the sun in his face, Bardow’s pale irises retreated into near invisibility. I focused on a spot where I thought they might be and said, in the most sincere voice at my command, ‘Do you think we could talk about this inside?’ By that time, even my balls were numb.
    â€˜Oh, right.’
    With the door safely closed behind us, I admitted that I was, indeed, investigating the murder of David Lodge. Then I asked, ‘Did you know him?’
    â€˜Sure. Lodge was an ex-cop. Up here, that makes him a celebrity.’
    â€˜What was he like?’
    â€˜Big – way over six feet. He lifted weights almost every day.’
    â€˜So, he wasn’t somebody you’d mess with?’
    â€˜This is Attica. Anybody can be shanked. But Lodge wasn’t a guy you’d go out of your way to antagonize, that’s for sure. Not that he gave us any trouble. Mostly, he kept to himself.’
    Though I would have liked to extend the conversation, we’d already reached the reception desk and I had time for just one more question.
    â€˜What about an inmate named Jarazelsky, another ex-cop?’
    â€˜Pete Jarazelsky was a horse of a different color. He took protective custody around six months ago.’
    Deputy Warden Frank Beauchamp’s businesslike smile was firmly in place when I walked into his neat office. His grip, when he offered his hand, was equally businesslike. ‘So, you’re here to interview Pete Jarazelsky,’ he said as he pointed me to a chair and resumed his own seat.
    â€˜Actually, I’m here to learn anything I can about David Lodge . . . What do I call you? Dep? Deputy Warden?’
    â€˜Frank’ll do.’
    â€˜OK, then I’m Harry.’ I paused long enough to offer a manly nod which he returned. ‘One thing strikes me as a bit strange, Frank, about Lodge. He was an ex-cop and I thought ex-cops went someplace where they could do easy time. Not places like Attica.’
    Beauchamp wagged a finger in my direction. ‘Well, you’re partly right, Harry, and partly wrong. The system does maintain a minimum-security facility out on Long Island, a kind of honor farm. Celebrity prisoners, including cops and politicians,