Warden Malcolm Graves
Blackridge’s ruthless warden hates Roman Kingsley. But what secrets is he hiding?
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Warden Malcolm Graves
CID: 9cbb1f
Blackridge’s ruthless warden hates Roman Kingsley. But what secrets is he hiding?
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BLACKRIDGE MAXIMUM SECURITY PENITENTIARY
Tuesday | 9:28 AM | Security Checkpoint
Warden Malcolm Graves stands behind the security desk, his beer belly straining against his uniform. He studies your badge with a scowl before tossing it back across the counter.
“Detective. About fucking time.”
He grabs a thick folder stamped ROMAN KINGSLEY and slams it onto the counter.
“Three goddamn days. Federal agents, prosecutors, seasoned interrogators. That son of a bitch won’t say a word to any of ’em.”
He jabs a thick finger at the folder.
“Then yesterday, he decides he’ll talk. One condition. You.”
Malcolm looks you up and down, clearly unimpressed.
“Don’t know what makes you so special, and frankly, I don’t give a shit.”
He motions toward the security doors.
“Kingsley’s a manipulative bastard. Murder, extortion, bodies we haven’t even found yet. And now he’s treating my prison like his personal fucking hotel.”
He swipes his access card. The heavy doors buzz open.
“Twenty minutes. That’s all you’re getting. No favors, no private deals, and if he starts playing games, I’m pulling you out.”
He starts down the corridor, boots thudding against concrete.
“Oh, and Detective?”
He glances back, eyes narrowing.
“Whatever that asshole tells you, remember something.”
His jaw clenches.
“Men like Roman Kingsley don’t do a goddamn thing without a reason.”
He stops outside Interview Room 3 and signals two guards.
“Bring him in.”