The Corruptions Read online

  “That make up for the one you lost down in the shelter,” he said. He then grabbed hold of the CO’s shirt collar, pulled him back into the guard shack, proceeded to tape up his wrists and ankles. He also ripped off a piece of tape and covered the screw’s big mouth. Before exiting the shack, he depressed some select keys on the laptop, killing the CCTV monitors. The ones that were connected to working cameras anyway. I could only wonder if killing them meant we would be tripping a general alarm or, conversely, that nothing would happen at all.

  I took a good look at Sweet’s face in the rearview mirror. Even from where I was sitting, I could see the beads of sweat that formed on his brow. A few of my own sweat beads had no doubt formed on my own forehead. Blood came back around, got back in the 4Runner.

  “Go,” he said.

  I pulled ahead, along the Silk Road.

  I parked beside a big white laundry truck, killed the engine.

  Sweet opened the back door.

  “Follow me,” he said. “And try not to talk.”

  We exited the 4Runner and gathered just outside the back cargo bay of the laundry truck. When the coast was clear, Sweet waved us on with a hand signal.

  “Inside the truck,” he said. “Choose a bin, climb inside. Cover yourself up with the linens.”

  I peeked inside the truck’s open cargo bay. There were maybe a dozen big aluminum bins set on pallets positioned one beside the other. Maybe half the bins had already been unloaded, leaving six to choose from. Without speaking, we all chose a bin and jumped inside, covering ourselves up with the fresh white linens. Within a few seconds, I could make out the mechanized motor of a forklift come to retrieve more bins.

  One by one, the forklift carted us inside a big echo-chamber of a laundry facility. It was hot, steamy, and loud. At one point, I managed to peek out from under the linens. The room was filled with men dressed in white jumpers. They were feeding the big machines with soiled clothing, underwear, socks, and towels. Apparently, the only items to be cleaned and pressed at a separate off-site facility were the bed linens. Scanning the place, I made out only one corrections officer. He was standing at the far end of the large room. He was staring down at the screen on his smartphone.

  I ducked back down inside and waited for the forklift to stop and set the bin down. When it did, I listened for the sound of machine moving away from me. That was when I popped my head out from under the linens, saw that no one was eyeing me, and jumped out of the bin.

  Out the corner of my eye, I saw Blood and Sweet. They were crouched down behind their respective aluminum bins. I, too, crouched down.

  “What now?” I whispered.

  Sweet cocked his head in the direct of a plain wall to which a metal panel was attached. At first I didn’t know what he was doing until I saw him slowly stand, look one way and then the other. When he opened the panel, he placed his index finger pad onto what appeared to be a square, glass digital scanner. The glass flashed when the scanner was activated.

  What was this place? Something out of science fiction movie?

  A door that was flush with the wall opened then. Sweet raised his arm, issued us a wave that told us to follow him through the open door, and into an empty corridor.

  “Through there,” he said, closing the door behind us and pointing to the solid metal door that blocked the end of the narrow passage.

  We jogged our way to the door. He opened it, closed it behind him. The door not only slammed against the solid metal frame, three dead bolts electronically engaged. Turning, I faced an empty concrete room that facilitated two big stainless steel cargo elevator doors.

  “This is where things get tricky,” Sweet said. “They got cameras all over the place. And unlike the guard shack out on the Silk Road, all of them are operational. Chances are we’ll meet some resistance when we make it to the bottom. But there’s no other way inside. Unless, that is, we go back outside and around to the back of the building. But even then, we’d have to find a way to break through a deadbolted metal door.”

  I drew my .45 and Blood drew his 9mm.

  “Got an extra one of those?” Sweet said.

  “Just stay close,” I said.

  He hit the down button on the elevator panel. A beat later, the doors slid open. We stepped inside, not knowing what the hell to expect.

  The ride down was longer than I might have expected. I guessed we’d travelled at least ten stories underground. Nothing like this existed when I was running Green Haven. Or if it did, I was completely unaware of it. One thing was for sure, the people who built the Crypt weren’t kidding around. This was a sophisticated operation, and expensive.

  During the ride, Sweet explained that where we were going was originally constructed back in the late 1970s as a bomb shelter for New York’s most distinguished politicians, like the governor for instance, should the Russians and the US unleash their nuclear arsenals at one another. Thus the high-tech gadgetry up in the laundry facility. But in the years since the Cold War ended, the space had been transformed into something else entirely.

  “What you’re about to see will probably shock the living crap out of you,” he said. “Some of it might even make you sick. But like my mother used to say, Mr. Blood and Mr. Marconi, it is what it is.”

  “That what she say after you run that sheriff’s deputy over with your truck a hundred times?” Blood said.

  “Actually, Mr. Blood,” he said, “she thought the prick had it coming.”

  “Your poor mother,” I said.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Blood said.

  The doors opened.

  “Gentlemen,” the ex con said, “behold, the Crypt.”

  Luck was on our side. Because the long, brightly lit corridor we faced was empty. But that didn’t mean we were alone. At least judging from the scattered voices belonging to the handful of men shouting out orders from behind closed doors. I could also make out something else. The high-pitched wail that I’d heard up on Clark’s office. But this time, the wail was much louder.

  “Hell is that?” I said.

  “Come with me,” Sweet said.

  We followed him out of the elevator and into the hall. The first set of metal doors on the right were identified by the word DORMITORY in solid white letters. I peeked in through the chicken-wire safety glass panel that was embedded into the solid metal door. There were several sets of metal bunk beds taking up floor space inside the otherwise empty room. Several kids were sleeping on the beds. Others were sitting up. It took me a few seconds for the reality to sink in, but all the kids were chained to the metal framed bunkbeds. They were dressed in blaze orange jumpers, just like the ones ISIS forces its prisoners to wear. Some of the kids were despondent, crying, weeping, wailing.

  “Jesus,” I said. “Slaves. The kids are slaves.”

  “I say we break them out now,” Blood said. There was acid in his tone. I could feel the anger radiating off of him.

  “We need to keep moving,” Sweet said. “We get into the office, I can access the vault. But we’re exposed out here.”

  “He’s right,” I said. “You two go. Get working on the access code. We’ll deal with the kids on our way out.”

  Although I didn’t come right out and say it, I wasn’t leaving the Crypt without those kids in tow. For certain, Blood knew my intention without my having to spell it out. He could read my mind. Sometimes, I could read his. We were in sync that way. But for now…right that very minute…my overriding objective was to make a photographic record of the place that I could use against Clark, against Rodney, against Valente. My purpose was clear. I was to gather up enough evidence to shut this place and others like it down, then bring those responsible for it, to justice.

  Blood and Sweet proceeded to move on down the corridor. I pulled out my smartphone, went to the pictures app, snapped several photos of the kids through the glass. I made a three-hundred-sixty-degree spin on the balls of my feet, snapping photos of the underground corridor. Moving on, I shifted to the
opposite side of the corridor, to a place marked WAREHOUSE. Inside the glass I made out stacks of boxes set on palates and wrapped in transparent plastic. The boxes were marked Pickles. But I knew without having to tear a box open that they contained product. Drug product. The Crypt housed a meth lab. The boxes were filled with dope.

  Sweet and Blood were almost at the other end of the corridor by the time I arrived at the next metal door. Peering inside the door’s safety glass pane, I saw a wide open room that housed a sophisticated air filtration system, several stainless steel tanks for boiling large quantities of material, plus driers and drying racks, like the kind you might find in an industrial sized bakery. Several men dressed in white HEPA suits and sporting oxygen masks over their faces were working inside the facility. You didn’t have to be a genius to know they were cooking meth and doing so in large proportions. My camera pointed at the operation through the glass, I snapped away.

  I then made my way quickly back across the floor once more. This time I came face to face with a small kitchen and dining area. Beside that was a studio for filming movies. Without doubt, the porn and snuff movies Sweet described. The room supported portable lighting and filming equipment, plus a stage consisting of a plain table outfitted with chains and iron shackles. A drain had been installed in the center of the concrete floor. It made me sick to my stomach.

  I tried the door. It opened. The interior of the television studio-like room was covered in exposed wires and other electronic gear. Another table with several laptops set up on it had been situated near a far windowless wall. I sat before one of the laptops, depressed the enter button, bringing up the home screen. I found a listing of maybe two dozen movies. I glanced through the list of titles, all of which appeared to be borrowed by the video actor’s first names. One of them that caught my eye was titled Moss + Lisa + Jeremey. I clicked on it. The 50 Shades of Grey table with its chains came into view. Suddenly two kids entered into the picture. A girl and a boy, no more than twelve or thirteen years old. They were thin. Malnourished. Then a man came into view. Reginald Moss. He looked like a giant compared to the far smaller kids. He began to undress in front of them and then they began to do things to him.

  Instinctively, I turned, faced the floor, and vomited.

  When I was emptied, I slapped the laptop cover closed and stood up. Grabbing hold of the laptop with both hands, I tossed it against the concrete block wall. It shattered into a dozen pieces.

  “You fuckers,” I said aloud, as if the bastards responsible for the horrors taking place down here could hear me. It felt good to say it anyway. Retrieving my phone once more, I took a dozen pictures of the studio. Before I left the room, I approached the shattered computer and retrieved the memory card from the broken keyboard housing, stuffed it into my cargo pants pocket. Then I made my way back into the corridor.

  I located the vault which was housed inside a room accessed by yet another metal door. And beside that was the office space. A space that also contained an inordinate amount of semi-automatic and automatic weapons both long and short. I took pictures of it all, documented almost every square foot of the space not only for Sheriff Hylton and Trooper D’Amico to see, but also for the world to see. But before any of that, I needed to send the photos on to someone who would appreciate their value more than anyone else.

  Governor Valente.

  Selecting a series of twenty separate photos, I then forwarded a mass MMS to the governor. Only when that was accomplished did I send the photos onto both Bridgette and D’Amico. For good measure, I CC’d FBI Agents Muscolino and Doyle. For certain my location ten stories underground would prohibit the transmission from taking place right away, but the photos would go out as soon as I was back in WiFi range.

  The door to the office was open. There were several metal desks set up one beside the other on the floor, just like you would find in the general booking area of a police station. To my right was the wall of weapons. To my left were shelves that contained boxes of ammo. The wall behind the desks was constructed of plain concrete, except for a narrow area at the far end that contained a metal door with no glass embedded inside it. The ceiling-mounted lighting was LED and bathed us in a warm white glow.

  Sweet was rummaging through the desk drawers, searching for something. I pulled out my .45, thumbed back the hammer, aimed the barrel at his face.

  He threw his hands up in the air. “What the fuck, man?”

  “Keeper,” Blood said, “what you doing?”

  “That studio,” I said. “I saw what kind of movies they make in there. Saw one with your partner, Moss, as the headlining star.”

  He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his skinny chicken neck.

  “Tell me you never made one of those movies,” I went on. “Tell me now, because otherwise, I’m gonna blast your brains all over the wall.”

  “Take it easy, Keep,” Blood said, “we need his nervous skinny ass for now.”

  “Tell me, Sweet!” I shouted.

  His face had gone pale again, the bandage on his damaged hand stained with fresh blood.

  “I know you don’t trust me and you probably won’t believe me when I tell you I never once made one of those movies, nor did I ever touch one of those kids. My job down here was computers. I’m fucking IT. A computer geek and an asshole, remember?”

  “You’re right,” I said, “I don’t believe you.”

  “But you have to,” he said. “Listen, physically speaking, Moss was far better outfitted for the job.”

  “You mean he was hung,” Blood said.

  “For lack of a better term,” Sweet said. “Yes. And if it makes you feel any better at all, Keeper, Moss was forced into doing those films. Forced at gunpoint. He didn’t perform, they would have shot him in the back of the head inside his cell and burned his body in the furnace. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “Keeper,” Blood said. “Stand down. He telling the truth. Let’s focus on the job and get the hell out of here.”

  Thumbing the hammer back to the safety position, I turned away from Sweet, wiped the tears from my eyes with the backs of my hand.

  Moments later, Sweet was back to searching for the vault code.

  “Fuck, shit, fuck!” he barked. “I can’t find the fucking code anywhere.”

  “You don’t remember it?” Blood said, his 9mm still gripped in his right, shooting hand.

  “It changes daily,” Sweet said. “And even then, only Rodney and the super are in possession of it. Only way I’d know is if they asked me to use it.”

  He pulled up the top on one of the computers and sat down on the chair.

  Sweet then said, “There is a possibility, however, that I might be able to hack my way into the code.”

  “You the computer expert,” Blood said.

  I looked at Blood. He looked back at me. I knew what he was thinking. We already had the photos and proof we needed to prove to the world that the Crypt inside Dannemora was being used for trafficking not only little kids as sex slaves, but also for moving meth. What difference did the cash make at this point?

  He approached me.

  “The money,” he said. “We can leave the state’s evidence alone and find a way out of here. Or we can take it, and at the same time, throw a real wrench into their operation. Take away their fiduciary leverage.”

  “Maybe take a little for yourself,” I said, not without a smile. Despite the circumstances, it felt good to smile. Felt good to enact our revenge.

  “I got a nephew. My sister’s boy. He could use it to pay for college one day.”

  “There’s a lot of good things that money can be used for,” I said, recalling my vow not to take even a dollar of it if, in fact, it existed. “But you and I both know that we can’t do it. It’s against the rules, and if we ever want to work again, we need to play by them.”

  He nodded.

  “However,” I said, “what if, once we free those poor kids, they manage to find a way to steal the mone
y on their own, stuff their own pockets without our being the least bit aware.”

  Blood smiled.

  “Payback,” he said.

  “Much deserved payback,” I said.

  I might have high-fived my partner, had the general alarm not sounded.

  “They’ve fucking breached the crypt!” Warden Clark, screaming. He’s pacing behind his big desk, a lit cigarette balanced between trembling lips. The cigarette isn’t halfway finished yet, but still he finds himself digging into the pack for another. He stops and stares down at his laptop. “They fucking drove right into the back lot in a fucking bright red Toyota four by four in broad fucking daylight. And it’s all because of you, you over-fed, muscle-bound, moron!”

  Rodney Pappas stands in the center of the square office, hands by his side clenched into fists, his heart pumping, toxic adrenalin flowing through hot-blooded veins.

  “You already got one going,” the bald-headed, mustache and goateed captain of the guard points out.

  Clark turns, eyes his subordinate with scorn worthy of a master to his mangy mutt.

  “Let me explain something to you, Rodney,” he says, lighting the new cigarette off the old one. “If those three men were able to break into the prison so easily, it’s because your men let it happen. Your men can obviously be easily bought.”

  Rodney smiles.

  “That’s rich,” he says. “Look who’s talking,”

  “Excuse me?” Clark snaps.

  “You, too, can be easily bought. Or else you wouldn’t have agreed to run the operations down in the Crypt. You would have walked away from it. Walked away from the Silk Road, Walked away from Little Siberia altogether. You would have looked for a more honest line of work. But instead, you saw green. Lots of it. We all did. So own up to your own low moral standing before casting a stupid ass judgement on a lowlife member of your support staff like myself.”