CHAPTER THREE
Dyson sat in the pit. It was the holding area where you went after they patted you down and were doing the paperwork to officially book you into jail. He'd been here a few times, but never for anything serious, and never for more than a day.
This was going to be a much longer stay.
He hadn't said anything since his arrest other than his name. It was up to the state to build a case against him, and while he was sure they would, he wasn't going to give them any help in doing it.
When he saw the cops with their guns pointed at him, he didn't resist, there was no point. To fight made it look as if he was doing something wrong, and in his eyes, he hadn't done anything wrong. What he'd done had been deserved. The fuckers he went after deserved worse than he did to them.
Several of the cops at the long desk that lined the outer wall stared at him, whispering to each other. He could imagine what they were saying. The 'castrator' as they called him was infamous, someone they'd been trying to catch for years. Well, not really trying. Rumor had it that no one was really searching for the castrator, because they understood why he did what he did, but they'd always wondered who was behind it.
Now he'd be the one to take the fall. All of the castrations over the years would all fall on him. It didn't matter that he only did a small portion of them, they would put it all on him.
Honestly, it was probably best it was him. Kasey and Xander were in relationships, both had kids. At least with him being locked up, it didn't hurt anyone else. There was no one waiting at home who'd miss him.
Hell, there had never been anyone at home to miss him, even when he'd been a kid.
He smiled at the cops as they looked at him. It was like they were trying to decide if he was sane or not. He'd been polite, acted normal, hadn't caused any problems so far, but in their minds, he was a violent criminal. It was probably easy to see him that way, with all the tattoos.
It didn't matter. He was stuck here. Even if they did agree with what he'd done, they couldn't turn their heads from it now. He'd been caught red-handed. He had the lock pick on him, the bloody knife, the torch. There was enough evidence there to make a case that would send him to prison for years.
Now that he had a chance to calm down and wasn't lost in the rush of the arrest, he thought about the plan they'd always had in case this happened. It wasn't very promising. Sure, he'd get out in time, but then what? Anything was better than spending his life in prison, but his fear of what would come after was strong.
"Dyson Fowler," one of the officers called.
He stood, walking up to her. "You'll need to go to medical and fingerprinting. This way." The older officer led him to another section of the booking area and pointed for him to sit again.
By the time he'd talked to medical, gone through booking, spoke to pretrial release and been denied, and then forced to strip, shower, bend over, spread his ass cheeks, and cough, his mood was foul. Glad the process was done, he took the bright red jumpsuit they gave him, quickly changed, and happily followed the guard out of booking and down a long hallway that led to the pods where the cells were.
He wasn't shocked they were putting him in the maximum-security section. His crimes were severe and many. He took the blanket and sheet that were given to him, then headed off to the cell where he was probably going to be spending the next few weeks.
As he stepped into his cell, he eyed his new cellmate. He looked young, maybe early twenties. Dyson knew better than to try and guess what he was in for. If it hadn't been the middle of the night, and if his mood wasn't shot, he might ask. Instead, he took the empty bottom bunk, using the sheet as a pillow and curling the blanket around him.
He lay in the darkness, unable to sleep, wondering what the team was thinking now. He hoped they weren't in a panic. This was the risk they took. It was worth it. He thought about all the pedophiles they'd caught, they'd stopped. It had been worth all of this. Even if he did end up spending the rest of his life in prison for it, he would do it again if given the chance.
Around five in the morning, the lights snapped on, and the pod came to life. He stretched, preparing himself for the hell that was about to come. First was getting to know his roommate who had done little more than glance his way as he'd first come into the cell.
"Hey, I'm Dyson."
"Patrick." The guy nodded. "You here for long?"
"Probably. At least until court and they transfer me to prison." He glanced out the small window on the cell door, trying to get the layout of everything.
"Me too. Second-degree murder. What about you?"
"Right now, they have me on breaking and entering, illegal distribution of a controlled substance, and assault. I'm sure that will change as the day goes on." He ran his fingers through his hair.
"Heroin?" The guy asked.
Dyson laughed. "No, it wasn't anything like that. It's nothing I want to talk about. The cell has ears, ya know." He pointed to the small speaker that each cell had. He knew for a fact the guards listened in, hoping to learn information. He wasn't going to help them. He doubted they would figure out what was in that syringe anytime soon, and when they did, it wouldn't matter because there would be all the castration charges to hold him on instead.
"Yeah, don't blame you." Patrick sat down on the single seat that connected to a metal desk in the corner.
"How long have you been in?" Dyson sat down on his bunk.
"Five weeks. I wish they'd just move me to the prison. I hear it's a lot better there. Waiting out my court dates could take a year or more." Patrick nodded to the cell door. "Breakfast is coming. I can hear them. You been here before?"
"Yeah, a couple of times, just for a night for drunk and disorderly shit. Nothing major like this."
