Free Her Last Scream by J. A. Kerley Page A

the cops, Harry. They’re afraid of what might happen.”
    “There’s a possibility someone in the system was killed,” I said. “They have to open up.”
    “Lemme give you a look inside before you jump,” Sally interrupted. “The folks at the center gave me the name of someone who went through the system, coming here from Boise, Idaho, two months back. Let’s call her Gail for our purposes. Gail’s agreed to tell her story if we commit to total silence. It’ll be as close to seeing inside as there is.”
    “Who would we tell?” Harry asked.
    “Not the point,” Sal said. “Everyone in and around the system is conditioned to secrecy.”
    “Harry and I won’t put anything in the reports,” I promised. “We’ll classify ‘Gail’ as a Confidential Informant. That cool?”
    Sal nodded. “That should work. I’ll let everyone concerned know.”
    Harry and I traded glances. We’d still have to speak with people at the center. But listening to Gail would give us better questions to ask.
    Sal said, “I set the interview up for tonight at Doc Kavanaugh’s place, the Doc talking to Gail, the rest of us watching on monitor. I spoke to Gail and promised she’d be safe.”
    “Safe?” Harry said, looking puzzled. “Then why not meet here, in a cop shop?”
    Sal gave Harry a sad smile. “Cop shops enforce the restraining orders against angry boyfriends and husbands, right? How’s that been working out?”
     
     
    At five p.m. we drove together to Kavanaugh’s home in Daphne, on the eastern shore of Mobile Bay. Her office was attached to the architectural anomaly of her single-story house, a modernist brick and wood creation à la Wright. Tucked back in the pines and oaks, it looked like part of the natural plan, “organic” being the term du jour. Our petite Merlin had conjured curried chicken salad on fresh-baked baguettes, a tomato-basil-linguine salad and, of course, beer and wine choices.
    “Gail” arrived at six and Kavanaugh went to escort her to the office. No one else would meet Gail. Kavanaugh had traded her usual contact lenses for glasses, freed her white hair to fall to the middle of her back, and wore a black tee over faded blue jeans and battered sandals. She looked like someone you could trust with your story.
    The camera in the office was piped to Kavanaugh’s living-room television, a flat-screen the size of my dining-room table. Sal, Harry and I turned our chairs to the screen, ready to watch the show. We found ourselves speaking in whispers, though Gail was fifty feet and two walls away.
    On the television Gail cautiously entered the room and took a padded, comfortable chair. She was dark-haired, medium height and weight, pretty in a vague, non-sophisticated way. She wore a white ruffled blouse tucked into black Levis cinched with a wide Concho belt with a silver and turquoise buckle. Black middies heels. She was a smoker and Kavanaugh had provided a crystal ashtray and lighter. Gail lit up as soon as she sat. The image on the monitor was so realistic I could smell the smoke.
    Kavanaugh went to a small bar in the corner. “I’m gonna have a glass of white wine, Gail. Want one?”
    “I’d love it.”
    Kavanaugh held high a bottle from one of those new California wineries expressing hipness via wine names like Blind Toad Hill, Red Chicken, Velvet Moon and so forth. Kavanaugh’s selection was named Crazy Ladies . When Gail saw the label she broke out laughing. You go, girl , my mind whispered to Kavanaugh. Her little gag had broken the ice with Gail in five seconds. I figured the Doc had checked every label in the wine shop to find the perfect one.
    Kavanaugh poured with a heavy hand. They tapped glasses. “To crazy ladies everywhere,” Kavanaugh said, adding, “Thank you for talking about your experiences, Gail.”
    “officer Hargreaves said it might help find a killer. If I was dead I’d want someone to do the same for me.”
    “Let’s start with what brought you to the