Chapter 3: Gordon Capullo and the Prison 

Gordon Capullo sat in his Super-Duty pickup and waited, a cup of tea in one hand and the morning paper in the other. He had spent most of his adult life in vehicles, traveling from one job to another. Constructing homes and buildings, then inspecting the same. The interior of the Super-Duty reflected his nomadic job.

A mint scented air-freshener was clipped to one of the vents over the radio. On the passenger side floor was a trashcan, strapped in with a bungee cord. His metallic green thermos, filled with traditional Chinese tea, protruded from a cooler packed with a variety of healthy snacks.

Beneath the cooler was a copy of the day’s Boston Globe, another of the Boston Herald, the Washington Post, the New York Times, and the Manchester Union Leader. A reprint of the classic Batman by Bob Kane was tucked between the cooler and the back of the seat.

The only items missing from the truck were his wife and his dog, and Gordon had buried both of them years earlier.

Gordon took the Telegraph off of his lap, turned the page, glanced over an op-ed piece on one of the Presidential candidates, and wished Libby was still with him. He looked at the cell phone on the seat beside him and felt a wave of sadness wash over him as he remembered how he would never receive another text or call from her.

Sighing, Gordon closed the paper, folded it back into its original form, and put it beneath the cooler with the others. He started up the truck to let the heater run for a few minutes, and he looked out the windshield at the prison.

Gordon was old enough to remember the accident which had closed the facility. And the investigation into the incident. The wave of suicides that had followed.

The crunch of wheels on snow caught his attention, and Gordon turned to see a small, black sedan pull in beside him.

He didn’t recognize the man in the passenger seat. A bald man, perhaps in his forties, his face etched with lines of grief and anger. Scars climbed up out of the man’s shirt, sprawling across his neck and up the back of his head.

The driver’s side door opened and Gordon laughed out loud.

He turned off the truck’s engine and got out.

“Frank!” Gordon called out.

“Gordon,” Frank said, laughing and walking around the front of the car. “Ollie didn’t tell me he had you on this job.”

The two men shook hands and hugged. Gordon stepped back and looked at the younger man.

“Who else would he hire?” Gordon asked. “You look good, Kid. Better than I was led to believe.”

“Oh?” Frank said, raising an eyebrow. “Who’s been talking smack?”

“Who else?” Gordon sighed and shook his head. “Pete of course.”

Frank rolled his eyes. “Peter.”

The passenger side door opened, and the bald man got out. Frank stepped aside and said, “Shane Ryan, this is Gordon Capullo. The whole reason I joined the Army.”

Gordon shook Shane’s hand, the other man’s grip firm and polite. “A pleasure, Shane. And, Frank, you best keep that information to yourself. Your mom’s not so old that she wouldn’t hit me upside the head with a frying pan.”

“True,” Frank said, chuckling. “She’s got a good throwing arm too. I could never outrun her. Luckily, she only used the wooden spoons as projectiles.”

“Anyway,” Gordon said, folding his arms over his chest to keep his hands warm in the cold air. “What are you doing up here? Last I heard you were in a religious order.”

“I was,” Frank said, the humor leaving his face. “Things didn’t work out, so I left.”

“You or them?” Gordon asked.

“Me,” Frank said. “All me. The Order was great. They took care of me, I just couldn’t stay there anymore.”