Sam Kincaid 01 - The Commission

in debt and was badly in need of cash. Given that, and his interesting sexual proclivities, we figured he’d be a good candidate to join our little enterprise. We obviously misjudged him. When Levi declined our offer and threatened to expose Allred unless Bill resigned from the Board, we had a decision to make. We could either lose a growing source of income, or eliminate Vogue. It was actually an easy decision.”
    “How did you come up with Slick Watts?” I asked.
    “We recruited him from inside the prison. The dumb shit was actually stupid enough to believe he was embarking on a new career as a contract killer. But he couldn’t be trusted. We knew that and intended to kill him all along. Watts was the perfect choice to eliminate Vogue because he had motive. Isn’t revenge the sweetest of all motives?
    “Time for just one last question,” she said, a faint smile tracing her mouth. “Think of it as a condemned man’s last words.”
    “That’s comforting,” I replied. “Tell me how the four of you came together in the first place. And what made you do it?”
    “As it turns out, Fuller and Schumway had been running an inmate extortion scam for about as long as they’d worked together at North Point. One day I happened to overhear a conversation between an inmate and Captain Schumway that I wasn’t supposed to hear. Shortly thereafter, Fuller invited me to join the group. It probably didn’t hurt that I’d been fucking him almost from the time I transferred into his unit. As for that little worm, Bill Allred, Fuller brought him on board. They’d known each other for twenty years. Allred actually supervised Fuller in several different prison positions. They were old friends.
    “And why did we do it? That’s easy, not a complicated motive at all. Try money. You know that when I started at the prison almost five years ago, I was hired for a whopping $9.65 an hour. Imagine working in a shithole prison for that kind of money. It doesn’t get you very far. I was food stamp eligible for the first year and a half. And you contributed to that, Kincaid. You made it impossible for me to ever receive a promotion. And for what? Because I slapped an inmate around.
    “And let’s not forget the inmates—dirtbags who have spent a lifetime victimizing others. I can hardly describe how good it felt to inflict a little extra-judicial punishment on those asswipes. Whatever we did to those lowlifes, it wasn’t enough.
    “Well, time’s up. As much as I’ve enjoyed our little talk, I’m afraid that it’s time for me to take care of business and get out of Dodge while I still can,” she said.
    Stimson removed the roll of duct tape from her bag, cut off a strip and placed it over my mouth. She walked behind me, and bent down until her lips were almost touching my ear, close enough that I felt her hot, fetid breath. She whispered, “I want you to watch. First I’m gonna wrap my gun in a towel, noise, you know, and then I’m going to shoot Granny in the head. Would you like me to remove the hood first so she can see it coming? Then for a change of pace, if I can borrow one of your bedroom pillows, I’m going to suffocate the life out of little Sara. I wonder how much she’ll kick and squirm? Then, if you’ve been a good boy and haven’t tried to cause a scene, I’ll give you one behind the ear, and it’ll be over quick. But if you’ve been a bad boy, I’m going to shoot you in both kneecaps and then give you one in the belly. Gut shot. You’ll die a slow and painful death. Enjoy the show.”
    I watched in horror as Stimson removed a small hand towel from her bag and began wrapping it around the barrel of her gun. I struggled in vain against the restraints that secured me to the chair. I felt the plastic cuffs cutting into my wrists. Blood trickled down and ran onto my hands. The cut above my eye bled freely, making it difficult to see.
    When she tied me, she had neglected to run the duct tape around my ankles, which gave me a chance to stand and use the chair as a weapon. It was an act of desperation, but I had run out of time and options. I tried to scream but only managed audible, muffled groans of protest. As she turned her back to me and walked slowly across the room to deliver the fatal head shot to Aunt June, I stood up and charged. At six feet four inches and two hundred pounds, I hit her hard from behind, driving her headfirst into an end table next to the couch. I landed on top of her. She