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“Is this where the sheriff would have been?”
Weiss shook her head. “Normally, the sheriff would have been in his office, but Ezell was gone—you know about that?”
“We heard something.”
“The sheriff came back here to hold down the fort with Glover. This part is called the control center.”
“Add that to the list,” North said. “We want to talk to Glover.”
“Get in line. He’s already got his union rep, and he’s not talking to anyone until Highway Patrol gets here.”
North grunted. “So, how would the sheriff have gone to check on Weber?”
Weiss led them across the control center to a door. The door had a security window that looked into a small enclosure, with another door at the other end. The design was familiar—it was called a sally port, or a mantrap, and each door had to be unlocked in turn. In theory, this meant an offender couldn’t jump a guard while he was entering or exiting the secure portion of the facility. Or rather, an offender could jump a guard, but they still wouldn’t be able to escape.
Steps made Shaw turn. A thin-faced deputy with penciled-on eyebrows stood in the doorway. Her nametag said Lang.
“Deputy Lang was on tonight as well,” Weiss said.
“Here?” North asked.
“The women’s unit.” Lang’s voice was deeper than he’d expected. “We didn’t know anything had happened until the alarm.”
“We’re going to want to talk to you,” North said. “About Ambyr Hobbs.”
“Chief Somerset sent them,” Weiss said.
Lang’s face remained skeptical. Or maybe that was just the eyebrows. All she said, though, was, “I can’t help you. They found her in the laundry, not the women’s unit.”
Weiss produced a keycard and let them through first one door, then the other. North was frowning.
“It’s called a sally port,” Shaw said.
“I know what it’s called,” North snapped.
“Oh. Because it looked like you didn’t.”
North scowled at him as he strode off after Weiss.
The secure portion of the jail smelled like what Shaw thought of as hospital cleaner, with an underlying flush of warm bodies and warmed-over cafeteria food—tinned meats and overcooked grains. It looked well maintained, with panels of fluorescents providing unflinching light. There were no Alcatraz-style corridors of cells. Instead, Weiss led them past a door with a sign above it that said DORM 1, and men looked out at them from the inset security window. No one said anything. No catcalls or hoots or shouts. But the sound of restless movement came even through the closed door, and the animal part of Shaw’s brain was aware of too many eyes focused on him. Ahead, North’s shoulders were tight, and his head moved slowly from side to side.
Weiss had to stop at another sally port, where she used her keycard again to get them through.
“How big is this place?” North asked. “I thought we were talking about a county jail.”
“You’ve seen most of it,” Weiss said. “There’s a second men’s dorm, the rec room, the yard, the canteen. The women’s facility is even smaller, and the isolation unit—that’s what this is—doesn’t get used unless we need it.”
“Why was Dalton Weber in isolation?” Shaw asked.
“We usually have people in isolation for a few reasons. One, they’re a danger to themselves. Two, they’re a danger to the other offenders. Three, they’re in danger, and we’re trying to keep them safe. Sometimes a lawyer asks the judge for special housing. That happens if we’ve got someone with a gang affiliation, for example. LGBTQ offenders are another one.”
“Is that why Dalton was in here? Because he was gay?”
“I don’t know why the sheriff put Mr. Weber in isolation, but that seems like a good guess.”
North waited for her to start walking again before he whispered, “Or the sheriff knew Dalton was an important witness because John-Henry told him.”
“Or that,” Shaw whispered back.
