by Mario Bolduc
“The execution didn’t take place?”
“Yes, yes, it did. Musindo was executed, but he didn’t die. He feigned death for a reason Lewis didn’t know.”
“Didn’t your brother give him the injection?”
“Yes, but it wasn’t the lethal cocktail it should have been. It was some harmless liquid.”
Max was confused. Musindo’s execution had been a well-orchestrated piece of theatre? Someone had given him a second chance, and it hadn’t been Lewis, at least according to Janeth. The execution had been public. Max knew that government representatives had witnessed the procedure, including Minister Lugembe and President Komba, in addition to Valéria Michieka. With such a select audience, no one would ever doubt the execution had, in fact, taken place. And this had been the first death by lethal injection — in the past, Tanzania’s inmates had been hanged.
Musindo had been allowed to pretend to die. Since no one had ever seen such a method of execution before, no one could tell whether it had taken place as it should. But how could such a thing happen? High-level contacts with the penitentiary authorities would be needed, perhaps even as far up as the Ministry of Home Affairs.
Max closed his eyes, shaken by the repercussions of what the woman had told him. “Why hide this information all these years?” he finally asked.
“I didn’t want to cause trouble for my brother. He’d left his job, sure, but I was afraid it might come back to haunt him.” She paused, then added, “A few weeks ago I got a letter from the United States. The letter was addressed to Lewis, but since my mother died last year, and with him gone … the letter ended up in my hands.”
A long missive, written in a tone that seemed sometimes a hair’s breadth from madness. An American executioner writing to an African colleague. The letter was all about how it was necessary to close the loop, to end what had been started, to not let debts remain outstanding …
Reading and rereading this strange letter, Janeth had understood that the American was looking for Samuel Musindo, hunting him, really, to kill the man who’d walked free years ago.
“I was afraid. I called Samuel’s father and told him everything.”
“And who was this American?”
“Albert Kerensky. A man they brought over from the United States to support Lewis.”
“Another executioner?”
“Yes. It was my brother’s first execution. He was unsure about the technical details. He didn’t want to make a mistake. The authorities brought this Kerensky fellow here to supervise his work. An expert in lethal injection. It was all done in secret, of course.”
Janeth didn’t know any more than that. In his letters, Lewis often spoke of Kerensky, sometimes recounting their conversations, but never in much detail. Musindo hadn’t developed the same relationship with Kerensky as he had with the younger executioner. Janeth knew the American had returned to the United States right after the execution.
Clearly, the decision not to execute Samuel hadn’t come from Lewis Katala. Had it come from this American? Or was Kerensky following somebody else’s orders, someone complicit in the crime?
Max knew he absolutely had to find the American to learn more about Janeth Katala’s surprising revelation.
“Did you keep the letters?”
“I burned everything. I was afraid someone might find them.”
26
The decision of the Republican governor of Illinois to suspend executions in 2000 surprised pundits and citizens alike. Then, on the very last days of his mandate in 2003, George Ryan cleared death row, sending waves through the political establishment. One hundred and sixty-seven inmates saw their sentences commuted to life in prison. And Ryan was no angel, quite the opposite, in fact. Accused of racketeering, corruption, and fraud, the governor was clearly attempting to put part of public opinion on his side, perhaps trying to avoid too severe a prison sentence. Hence, this last-minute spectacular measure, which did not end up helping him, in the end. George Ryan was sent to jail, anyway. He paid his debt to society in an Indiana prison.
Phil Stanway, the inspector in charge of Albert Kerensky’s disappearance, guided Roselyn through the corridors of the Chicago Police Department, telling her about the former governor’s stunt. She would have preferred he speak of something else. Or not speak at all.
“Today,” Stanway rambled on, “with DNA testing, handing out a death penalty is a total crapshoot. I don’t know how you do it in Texas. You just keep going full speed ahead like that.”
Roselyn had taken for granted that her husband had done his job diligently over the years, without questioning the role of capital punishment in society. She might have been wrong. Some of the men he’d executed might have been victims of a miscarriage of justice. Roselyn couldn’t remember if her husband had ever been confronted years after an execution with new evidence about someone’s innocence. However, she did remember when one of the death row inmates had received a retrial sometime between 1972 and 1976. His sentence had been commuted to life in prison.
Albert had been irritable and nervous then, like all his colleagues most likely. A few years ago he’d even gone off on a rant — a rare occurrence for him — about DNA tests that were increasingly showing up in courtrooms as irrefutable proof. Albert was worried that old cases might be reopened and that the stories of men who’d been executed years or even decades earlier would end up being discussed in courtrooms across the state. Lawyers sticking their noses in every which way, trying to prove the innocence of long-dead men through DNA testing.
Thankfully, Texas authorities had resisted these requests. After all, there were currently too many prisoners on death row to think about criminals from a long time ago. The men were dead already, and nothing — except more pain — could come of reopening their files.
All the same … did Albert go to sleep at night picturing the poor souls he’d put to death, trying to figure out which of them was innocent? He wasn’t responsible for the trial, for the sentence, but he was the man who put the needle in their arms. He caused their deaths directly. He saw each man have his muscles contract, face contort, then fall silent. He pulled the needle out of their arms once death had been confirmed by the doctor.
The abolitionist waves of the 1990s hadn’t seemed to bother Albert. Maybe he didn’t have an opinion on the question, and Roselyn had refrained from discussing it with him.
Perhaps she should have. Today there were so many subjects she regretted never having talked about with her husband.
Phil Stanway led her into a room where the objects they’d found in Albert’s Holiday Inn room were displayed. On the table, she recognized his clothes, razor, toothbrush, an old copy of the Chicago Tribune, an unopened bottle of Tylenol, a can of Canada Dry. Out of a small leather case, Stanway pulled out a cellphone. Years earlier, after months of Roselyn’s nagging, Albert had gotten a phone. But it wasn’t this one.
Stanway read her thoughts. “We checked. No messages, no calls.”
Roselyn asked him whether he had any idea where her husband was, or why Albert had come to Chicago. According to Stanway, her husband had registered under a false name and paid cash, as if attempting to avoid someone’s attention.
“It’s the most plausible hypothesis,” he said. “However, we also discovered that your husband made a passport request with a private company that specializes in the speedy procurement of travel documents.”
That surprised Roselyn.
“He received his passport three days ago.”
“He was trying to leave the States?”
“Looks like it.”
He’d gotten the room as he waited for the passport. Roselyn renewed hers out of habit, even if she hadn’t had the opportunity to leave the United States in a while and had given up on travelling to Mexico.
“We’ve sent his name and description to border agencies and airports. No one has seen him so far.”
“Why Chicago? You can get a passport anywhere. He could have gotten it back
home in Texas. Why come so far?”
Stanway didn’t have a clue.
“And how did he come here?”
“Most likely by bus. I’ve had his picture sent out to the terminal. We’ll see.”
An employee walked into the room and handed Stanway a regulation cardboard box, which he filled with Albert’s personal effects. Roselyn signed a document the young woman gave her, took the box, and followed Stanway through the corridors again.
“If we hear anything, you’ll be the first to know. Do you have a place to stay in Chicago? Or would you like —”
“I’m fine. I have friends in the area. Old friends.” Roselyn hadn’t prepared herself. If only she’d accepted Peter’s offer. He would have helped her keep a cool head, make sure she was organized. She was completely lost.
Roselyn felt Stanway could see right through her, knew she didn’t have friends here, and was cross with herself for acting this way. Why had she refused his help?
Stanway handed her his card, telling her to call if she needed anything, at any time — he even added his private number — but Roselyn understood it was a form of politeness. Surely, he wouldn’t be happy if she bothered him at home.
“Can I call you a cab?”
“Yes, please.”
Roselyn just wanted to get away from him and be alone. To puzzle through everything that had happened in light of what she’d discovered in Louisiana, as well as what Stanway had told her. Of course, she hadn’t told the officer she suspected her husband of having murdered Clements and Arceneaux. That would only complicate things. And she didn’t feel like having to explain Albert’s behaviour.
Roselyn had gone straight to the police station from the airport. Now she needed to find a hotel room. The Westin seemed both luxurious and anonymous. Why not? The taxi driver dropped her off at the entrance while a bellhop grabbed her luggage.
By the time she got into her room, her back ached and she had but one objective in mind: get some sleep. Despite her exhaustion, she called room service and ordered something to eat. She then got in touch with Stanway to tell him where she was staying and thank him for his efforts. Roselyn even had time to take a shower before the food arrived; she placed the tray on a small table next to her bag.
Her phone vibrated: Peter trying to reach her again.
“How are you? Did you see Inspector Stanway?”
“He’s in charge of the investigation. He seems like a sharp fellow.”
“Good, good. You told him about Clements and Arceneaux?”
“No.”
“Why?”
She sighed. “I just can’t see Albert as a killer. And I don’t want the police looking for him as if he were a murderer at large. I want them looking for an old man who’s gotten lost.”
“I understand.”
“How’s Adrian?”
“Fine. He misses you.”
“Tell him I miss him, too.”
Roselyn hadn’t yet opened the cardboard box she’d received from the police. As she ate, she examined its contents. In addition to familiar objects, a flyer caught her attention. An ad for an organization called The Colour of Respect Foundation, showing African albino children. The last sheet of the pamphlet was an envelope in which donors could send their contributions. Headquarters were located somewhere in Africa. In Tanzania.
The pamphlet was a strange thing to find in Albert’s belongings. What was more, Valéria Michieka’s name was familiar. Roselyn had encountered it in a police report. When Mitch Arceneaux died at Clear Creek, the police concluded it had been an accidental fall, though they had investigated his criminal past. Mitch had been arrested for fighting in Tanzania and was charged with assault and battery. Valéria Michieka, a lawyer, worked his case. Thanks to her, Arceneaux had been able to return to America. Later, still according to the report, he’d kept up a relationship with the Tanzanian woman, though no further details had been given.
Roselyn furrowed her brow. Angel Clements, Mitch Arceneaux, and Valéria Michieka. All three linked to Albert one way or another.
Valéria Michieka.
Roselyn turned the name over in her mind. Where had Albert gotten the pamphlet? Here in Chicago? Why would her husband come to a city he knew nothing about and rent a hotel room for a few days? Why had he left in such a hurry without packing his bags or taking his papers with him, all information that could easily identify him? Unless, of course, this precipitous departure was involuntary. Perhaps he’d been lured to Chicago, someone making him believe he could find something he was looking for. A trap. Albert was somewhere, in a bad spot, in the hands of individuals who wanted to harm him.
She pushed that hypothesis out of her mind. Her husband was armed, definitely, and the weapon wasn’t part of his personal effects. Neither was his new passport. Reality was far simpler, she was sure: the hotel management was worried about this customer and had contacted the police. Albert had noticed the commotion and decided to disappear discreetly.
With a passport and a gun.
A bad combination if there ever was one.
After her meal, Roselyn thought about calling Stanway at home but decided against it.
The next morning she went into the lobby where the Westin concierge apologized for the renovations to the business centre. Wi-Fi was still available in every room and the lobby. Since Roselyn didn’t have a computer, she was directed to the Harold Washington Library, Chicago’s main branch, a few blocks away.
Roselyn walked to it and found herself among a horde of schoolchildren on a field trip. Behind the counter, a young librarian greeted her with a smile. “May I have your ID? It’s mandatory for computer use.”
Roselyn handed it over.
“Kerensky! What a famous name! Shared by the man who replaced the tsar as the head of the short-lived provisional democratic government in revolutionary Russia. Driven out of power by Lenin.”
Roselyn recalled having seen the name somewhere during her studies a long time ago. She couldn’t remember the context anymore.
“Do you know what happened to Kerensky?” the librarian asked.
Roselyn had no idea.
“He died in New York City in 1970. Can you imagine? He outlived the instigators of the Bolshevik Revolution, many of whom were victims of Stalin’s atrocities, and ended up in New York. Amazing, isn’t it?”
There were three computers in a tiny room behind the children’s section. The librarian showed Roselyn how to operate them. Once the librarian had returned to her counter, Roselyn googled The Colour of Respect Foundation and found the organization’s website. The front page was dominated by a text written by the foundation’s director, Valéria Michieka.
There was a picture of an elegant woman smiling at the camera. A short presentation gave information about her activism for the albino cause. The lawyer, according to the site, had dedicated her career to defending these poor souls. Roselyn discovered, as she read, the horrors these children and even adults were subjected to. Pictures of young women, mutilated, forced her to close her eyes. How could men be so cruel? Why this pathological obsession with hurting one another?
On the right of the screen, a button offered a recording of a portion of a speech. Roselyn opened a new window: a warm, rich voice came out of the speakers after a musical number. A traditional Tanzanian song. Roselyn had been expecting an exotic, strangely arrhythmic beat — one evening, Norah had brought her to an Indian music showcase at the university, and Roselyn had been bored half to death.
The song kept playing, its tempo regular, strong, a song you could almost dance to, making you want to jump out of your seat, clap your hands, and holler along with the beat. A world away from Johnny Cash and his doleful airs, Roselyn thought.
On the screen, over the song, Michieka spoke of her work, her foundation. A younger woman, looking just like her, stood next to her. Her daughter, Sophie. The mother seemed proud of her. Roselyn saw Norah in her mind’s eye, her heart tearing anew. She quickly banished the thought.
She was already making herself sick with Albert’s disappearance. Norah would have to wait.
Curious, Roselyn found the Wikipedia entry for Valéria Michieka. Some of the information was the same, though the article gave more details on her private life and that of her daughter.
All interesting stuff, but Roselyn couldn’t understand why Albert had looked into Michieka and her foundation.
Then a paragraph attracted her attention. Valéria and her daughter had recently been killed. Roselyn was filled with unexpected sadness. She knew nothing of the two women, but simply seeing them together in that short video, so happy standing next to each other, made her feel as if she’d just lost a friend. She clicked on a link and followed the story on the Daily News website. Reading through it, Roselyn discovered with disbelief that Valéria had been an advocate for the reinstatement of capital punishment in order to punish those who trafficked in albinos. Her cause had triumphed thanks to the trial that resulted from Clara Lugembe’s killing, the albino daughter of the minister of home affairs at the time. Samuel Musindo had been executed on July 23, 2003.
Roselyn leaned back against her chair. Returning to the hotel, she called Peter in Huntsville. “Tell me again. When did Adrian disappear from Camp Connally?”
Peter put the phone down to get an old calendar. When he returned a minute later, he flipped through it. “The week of July twentieth, 2003. From Tuesday to Thursday.”
Just as Samuel Musindo was being executed in Tanzania.
Roselyn thanked Peter, hung up, and called Glenn Forrester to ask whether he’d actually gone hunting with Albert in July 2003. It was years ago, and Glenn’s memory wasn’t what it had been. He promised he’d look through his old records for the answer.
An hour later he called Roselyn, after communicating with a student who occasionally helped him at the museum. The student confirmed that Glenn had gone hunting, but according to the young man, Glenn had camped out that week.
“Albert hated sleeping in a tent. When we went together, we always rented one of the cabins the park has. If I was camping that week, it means Albert wasn’t with me.”
