Page 22 of Guess Again

Boscobel, Wisconsin Tuesday, July 15, 2025

THE FOLLOWING DAY ETHAN DROVE ONE HOUR AND FORTY-FIVE MINUTES west of Cherryview to the town of Boscobel, Wisconsin and pulled through the gates of the Wisconsin Secure Program Facility.

The maximum-security state prison sat on one hundred sixty acres of desolate land west of Madison and housed some of Wisconsin’s most dangerous criminals, including Francis Bernard.

Ethan flashed his temporary DCI badge to the guard at the security booth, who confirmed that Ethan was on the list of scheduled visitors for the day and waved him through.

Ethan pulled past the three levels of fencing that surrounded the prison—an innermost motion detection fence, a non-lethal but immobilizing electrified fence in the middle, and a tall outer fence draped with four layers of razor wire—before parking in the main lot.

The prison building was bone white.

The only contrasting colors were the black bars that secured the windows.

Gray AstroTurf took the place of grass—another indication that the place was void of the basic joys of life, even color.

It was never easy to visit Francis Bernard—neither logistically (it required an hour of red tape to finally sit in the chair opposite the man), nor mentally (it took everything Ethan had to stare his father’s killer in the eye)—but it was necessary.

Both for himself and to honor the memory of his father.

So he did it.

And he’d continue to do it.

Ethan cooperated with the guards at each stage of the process.

Some knew him from back in the day, most did not.

The DCI badge helped facilitate the process and, finally, he arrived at the visitation booth.

At the WSPF, prisoners were never allowed direct contact with visitors.

Instead, thick glass separated inmates from those who came to see them, and communication came through a constantly monitored phone system.

But it was not just visitors from whom inmates were prevented from having direct contact.

It was everyone.

The incarcerated at WSPF were housed in single unit cells where they spent nearly every waking hour.

There was no mess hall, which forced prisoners to eat in the solitude of their cells.

There was no prison yard where outdoor activities could be enjoyed with fellow inmates.

There was no weight room or library or community center.

Prisoners at the WSPF were alone.

The only interactions they had were with the guards and, through six inches of tempered glass, those who came to see them.

The ACLU had filed lawsuits against the state of Wisconsin claiming that the prison was less a correctional institute than a practice in the art of sensory deprivation.

And it was because of these fierce restrictions, Ethan believed, that Francis Bernard had never once declined a visitation request from him.

The man was desperate for human interaction, even if it came from the son of the man he was convicted of killing.

Ethan’s face was expressionless when Francis sat down on the other side of the glass.

Francis Bernard had been thirty-two years old when he killed Ethan’s father.

He was sixty-four today.

Despite the fact that he’d spent exactly half his life behind bars, the man looked improbably healthy, other than his ghost-white skin from lack of sun exposure.

His hair had hardly grayed, and he was a bundle of muscle. To pass time, Ethan imagined, Francis spent his days in a repetitive loop of pushups and sit-ups and squats in his cell. The alternative was to wither away in madness.

It was Francis who lifted the phone first.

“Hello, Ethan,”

Francis said when Ethan placed the phone to his ear.

“Every time your parole comes up, I’ll be there at the hearing,”

Ethan said.

“I know.”

“As long as I’m alive, I’ll never allow you to get out of here.”

Francis nodded.

“My attorney believes that mandatory parole will come in just over eight years.

I was grandfathered into the parole system since I was sentenced before it was revised in 1999.

I’ll be out in due time.

So, although I appreciate your vigor, your presence at my parole hearings doesn’t really matter.

But I’m sure it fulfills some need for you to make your father proud.”

Ethan had never taken the bait.

He knew Francis wanted to see him lose his cool.

He never did.

He never gave Francis anything to work with.

And Ethan had been very careful to never mention his relationship with Maddie Jacobson, or the fact that he knew about the letters Francis was sending her.

“But eight years is a long time,”

Francis said.

“You know they force me to eat in my cell, and that every second day they grant me one hour outside.

And even then I’m by myself.”

“When you kill a cop and eight women, do you think you should be treated differently?”

“I was convicted of a single homicide, Special Agent Hall.”

Ethan had never corrected Francis’s misnomer of his title.

“The state of Wisconsin didn’t treat Jeffrey Dahmer the way they’re treating me.”

“Forgive me if I don’t shed a tear because you’re lonely.”

“Forgive you?”

Francis said.

“Of course I will.

The real question is will you forgive me?”

This caused Ethan to pause.

“It’s eating you alive,”

Francis continued.

“The hatred.”

Another pause.

“And the guilt.”

Francis smiled and waited.

Sixty seconds passed as he stared at Ethan, who did his best to look calm and comfortable under the man’s icy gaze.

“The guilt of no longer being a special agent with the department of criminal investigation.”

Ethan’s eyes flicked to his left.

The first indication that Francis had gotten to him.

“Oh, yes,”

Francis said with a smile.

“You never told me, but I’ve learned that you are no longer in law enforcement.”

Francis’s smile dissipated.

When he spoke again his tone was vile.

“You quit.

You quit because you couldn’t live up to your father’s expectations.

You quit because you couldn’t handle the things you saw.

You quit, Ethan, to play doctor and save people.

Do you really think daddy is proud of you now?”

Ethan’s Adam’s apple rose and fell as he swallowed.

“How do I know all of this? I’m stuck in a cell twenty-four hours a day with no access to the outside world.

But you see, the guards here offer certain information in exchange for .

.

.

favors. Sometimes those favors leave a bad taste in my mouth, but this last time was worth it. I heard all about Henry Hall’s son, who ran away from the DCI with his hands over his ears to pursue medicine. But Doctor Hall has been rehired by the DCI to look into a cold case, recruited by the governor himself. So it seems you’re in such high demand that you hardly have time to come all the way out to Boscobel to let me know that you’ll be at my next parole hearing in two years. Really, Ethan, don’t you have more pressing work to do?”

Ethan forced a smile.

“Time’s up, Francis.

But don’t worry, I’ll be back in six months.

Plenty of time for you to service the guards simply to learn that I went to medical school.

Now that seems like time well spent.”

Ethan hung up the phone and stood.

Francis stayed seated and kept the phone to his ear.

He stared at Ethan and continued to talk.

Ethan should have walked away.

He should have turned his back on Francis Bernard and returned in six months, but there was something in Francis’s eyes that prevented him from doing so. Francis pointed to the phone and nodded. Reluctantly, Ethan lifted the phone again.

“It won’t be six months, Ethan.

You’ll come back to talk sooner than that.”

“I doubt it.”

Ethan was about to hang the phone on the wall again when he heard Francis utter a name.

Ethan’s eyes shrunk to slivers, and he put the phone back to his ear.

“What did you say?”

“Callie Jones.”

Francis grinned.

“The governor has asked you to work his daughter’s case.

You’ll want to talk with me about Callie much sooner than six months, Ethan.

I’ve got lots to tell you about what happened to her and where she is.”