The Perfect Inmates

by Chick Lang

The new warden leaned over the desk, his hands resting lightly on the sheaf of papers he'd just explained to his guards.

“So, what do you think, men?”

The senior officer shook his head. “It'll never work, sir. You can't reform these guys. They're habitual criminals.”

“You'd still be behind bars yourself, Charlie, if everyone thought that way.”

Charlie Dugan cocked his left eyebrow. “Not the same, Warden. I killed that man in self-defense. It's just that the jury didn't see it that way.”

“The point I was making...you caught a break. Somebody saw something good in you, and you made something of yourself. The proof is standing before me now.”

Charlie's face crimsoned. He was about to smile, then caught himself. “I appreciate the kind words, sir, but the men you're wanting to reform are different. They'd as soon cut your throat as look at you—all of ‘em.”

“Nevertheless, Charlie, we'll implement the new agenda...now won't we?”

The man looked around at his fellow officers; each had a frown on his face. “You're the warden, sir. What you say goes.”

“Fine. Now take this list down to procurement and order the supplies. Let me know when they come in.”

Charlie eyed the list as he walked toward the door. He hesitated, then turned. “Paint, brushes, easels, pottery clay...who in the world—?”

“Mickey Kopek. The psychiatrist tells me that he's got quite a gift. Seems he draws constantly during his sessions.” He pointed to a sketch on his desk. “Pretty good likeness, huh?”

Charlie walked over, picked up the drawing. A pencil self-portrait by Mickey Kopek.

“So, the guy's got talent, Warden. So what? He's even better at robbing banks. And killing innocent bystanders.”

The warden stood up, balled a fist, and softly pounded the stack of papers in front of him. “Statistics don't lie, Charlie. Everywhere these procedures have been implemented...everywhere the inmates have been given some sort of hobby to pursue—the rate of recidivism has declined. It's no coincidence that the long-term criminals have been easier to control as well.”

“I guess you know what you're doing, Warden. Sure hope so.”

As the guards left the room, Charlie was still shaking his head. Mickey Kopek an artist, he thought. And me, I'm a dance instructor.

Weeks passed and the warden's plans were integrated into daily prison routine. Strangely, at least according to Charlie, it seemed to be working.

Coltrane, one of the lifers, had taken up music appreciation. His cell often reverberated with Chopin, Mozart, and the work of other composers—none of which Charlie had ever heard of. Benny the Dip, an inveterate pickpocket, was becoming quite skilled at crochet. And, as the warden had indicated, Mickey Kopek was producing an ever-growing portfolio of paintings. He'd even started to dabble in sculpture.

“Damndest thing I ever saw,” said one of the other guards. “Haven't had a beef with any of them in almost a month. Guess that new warden knows what—”

Charlie smacked his palm with a billy club. “A lull before the storm, Jessie. These guys ain't ever gonna change. It's all new right now. They've got a little more freedom, that's all. Wait till they get tired of it, bored. They'll revert to form, all right.”

A month went by. Then another. No trouble. In fact, the latest inspection by the prison board had resulted in a citation for the warden and his whole staff. No one was more astounded than Charlie Dugan.

“Go ahead, admit it, Charlie. It's working, ain't it?”

“I'd have never believed it, Jessie. Things keep going like this, some of these guys will be back on the street before long—for good behavior.”

Still Charlie fretted. It was his job, and he was good at it. Guys like Coltrane and Kopek didn't change—not permanently. Did they? Of course not, he thought. Surely it was just a phase. But six months? He wrestled with it the rest of the day.

The next morning, during his rounds, he heard two guards screaming at one another.

“I thought you checked them!”

“They were there all night, I'd swear it.”

Charlie walked up to the two men standing in front of Mickey Kopek's cell. The door was open and the officers were standing half-in, half-out of the cell

“What's going on here?” he asked the taller guard.

“See for yourself, Charlie.”

When Charlie looked into the cell, he froze. “Have you notified the warden? Has anyone set off the alarm?”

As he spoke, the great sirens began to blare from the top of the prison walls, joined by a sudden clamor of loud chatter among the prisoners. Yelling from their cells, laughing, crying, jeering.

Moments later, the warden appeared, a look of sheer panic on his face.

“Is it true, Charlie? Where are they? How could this—?”

“There's your project, Warden. Look close.”

Charlie pointed to Mickey Kopek's bunk. When they walked closer, it was easy to see the carefully sculpted head above the pillow, its features painstakingly painted right down to the sardonic grin. A perfect replica of Mickey Kopek's face.

“And Coltrane...and Benny the Dip?” cried the Warden. “They're gone, too?”

Charlie couldn't keep from smiling. “Like you said, Warden. That Mickey's quite an artist. Must've made a half-dozen heads like that. Six missing...is that right, Jessie?”

“Y-yeah...six, Charlie.”

“But this cant' be,” cried the Warden. “They couldn't—”

Charlie pointed to the perfect likeness of Mickey Kopek. A masterpiece of molded clay.

“Well, Warden...you got what you wanted.”

“Huh?”

Mickey here is a model prisoner!”