The Knight

by Steven James

  The recorded message in the mine hadn’t contained any specific threats against me, but if Taylor were here, I wanted to flush him out, so, even though there was a secure parking garage underneath the courthouse, I’d insisted that we not use it.

  I wanted to be in the open, where he could find me.

  Now, while I shuffled through my pockets for some change, Calvin, who was in his mid-seventies and looked like he was about to get blown away by the wind, tugged his London Fog trench coat tighter around himself. “I’ll meet you inside, my boy.” His light English accent flavored every word.

  “All right.”

  As he disappeared into the dark rain, lightning slithered across the sky, leaving a drumbeat of thunder in its wake. I slipped quarters into the parking meter.

  Calvin Werjonic, PhD, JD, had been my advisor nine years ago when I started my doctoral program in environmental criminology. That was also the year I made the transition from being a detective with the Milwaukee Police Department to becoming an FBI agent.

  For the next four years I’d buried myself in my postgraduate studies, while still working full-time for the FBI’s National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. Tough years. Very little personal life. Only a few friends, but when I finally finished my degree, Calvin shifted from being my professor to becoming one of them.

  Parking meter fed, I splashed across the street toward the courthouse, my eyes on the protestors. I’d thought the thunderstorm would have kept them away, but despite the weather it looked like three or four hundred people had shown up.

  I wondered which of them might be FBI agents or undercover officers.

  As I made my way to the building, I entertained the possibility that Taylor wasn’t the one who’d left the recording device in Heather’s mouth. In truth, it might have been almost anyone in the crowd.

  I looked for any familiar faces, for anyone who was making unnecessary eye contact with me, or purposely avoiding it, but I saw nothing unusual.

  There were at least 150 death-penalty supporters, some carrying signs with enlarged photos of the victims, others holding signs that read “An eye for an eye. A life for a life.”

  The people gathered on the other side of the street waved “Death Does Not Equal Justice” and “Rehabilitate, Don’t Slaughter” signs. The two groups were trying to outshout each other.

  Two visions of justice.

  Two sides of the equation.

  Thankfully, the police had cleared a path and blockaded it with wooden sawhorses, so I was able to make it to the courthouse steps. I jogged up them as the wind whipped through the channel between the neighboring administration building and the courthouse, sending rain pelting into my face.

  7

  Calvin was shaking the rain off his trench coat when I found him in the entryway. “Quite a scene out there,” he said.

  “No surprise.” I brushed the water out of my hair. “Considering who’s on trial.” Even though we were inside, the temperature hadn’t changed. The central air must not have been working properly. I guessed it was somewhere around sixty-two degrees. Maybe cooler.

  Calvin was silent for a moment, then said, “I am a bit surprised they didn’t recognize you, my boy.”

  “It’s been thirteen years.”

  “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “I suppose it has.”

  I was scrutinizing the faces of the news reporters and bystanders in the lobby, trying not to look like I was staring. Some of the victims’ family members wore black armbands. “Besides, killers are a lot more memorable than the guys who catch them. Nobody makes FBI agent or police officer trading cards, but three different companies make them for serial killers.”

  “That is a little troubling.”

  “More than a little.”

  A pack of reporters glanced in our direction and apparently recognized Calvin, because they began to flock toward us, eyes locked on him. He was used to media attention, being one of CNN’s most frequently called upon criminology experts, so it didn’t surprise me, but I like media interviews about as much as I like truck-stop coffee, and I think Calvin knew that because he walked past me to intercept them. “I’ll see you in the courtroom,” he said.

  I thanked him and headed for the security checkpoint where six officers stood sentry beside the three metal detectors. One of the officers, a squat man with an uneven dome of sheared-off hair, motioned for me to step forward. It took me a moment to empty my pockets and send my keys with my lock pick blades, along with my Mini Maglite flashlight and some change, through the X-ray machine.

  Before the officer could even ask for it, I handed him my ID and said, “FBI.”

  Then I removed my .357 SIG P229 and the knife Ralph had given to me—a Randall King black automatic TSAVO-Wraith—and handed them over as well.

  The Wraith wasn’t the kind of knife I would’ve chosen on my own, but Ralph had told me I needed a good one and had given it to me last month. Tessa called the Wraith “wicked.”

  Which was actually a pretty good description.

  The officer, whose badge read Jamel Fohay, set my gun and knife on a table beside him, then stared at my ID while I laid my computer bag on the conveyor belt. “Fed, huh?” he said. “Big guy came through here a few minutes ago.”

  That would be Ralph.

  “Agent Hawkins.”

  “You two here to testify?”

  “He did last month. I’m about to.”

  He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to return my ID, and the line of reporters waiting to get into the courtroom was quickly growing behind me, so I plucked the ID from his hand and he backed up as I stepped through.

  He gestured toward my Wraith. “Two and five-eighths ounces. ATS-34 stainless steel blade. Made in the U.S. of A. Good choice.”

  “You know your knives.”

  “I work the evidence room,” he explained, “whenever I’m not stuck babysitting this X-ray machine. See a lot of knives come through. Always glad to see a Randall King. Gotta leave it here, though. The SIG too. You know the drill.” He placed them into a small metal locker attached to the wall. Turned the key. Handed it to me.

  After all the times I’d been called in as an expert witness, I was all too familiar with courtroom proceedings and protocol. While it varies between jurisdictions, I knew that here in Illinois no one was allowed to have weapons in the courtroom except for the two officers who stand guard by the main door. Some states allow judges to have guns hidden beneath the bench.

  But not Illinois.

  As I gathered my personal items, I saw Officer Fohay’s attention rove to the line of reporters forming at the checkpoint. “When you testify,” he said, “remember those women.”

  I remember them every day, I thought.

  But instead of replying, I picked up my things and headed toward the elevators.

  Yes, I remembered them; and now more than ever, because a mistake I’d made when I arrested their killer might be enough to set him free.

  8

  Basque used an abandoned slaughterhouse.

  That’s where he brought the women. That’s where he tortured them, always making sure he kept them alive long enough for them to see him surgically remove and then eat portions of their lungs.

  Based on the medical examiner’s reports, sometimes he’d been able to keep his victims alive for over twelve hours—a fact that still sent shivers down my spine.

  When I found him in the slaughterhouse, he was standing over Sylvia Padilla, holding a scalpel.

  I shouted for him to drop the knife, and he attempted to flee, firing a Smith & Wesson Sigma at me, nailing my left shoulder. When my gun misfired, I rushed him and swung a meat hook at his face. He ducked, and I was able to take him down and cuff him. Then I hurried to try and save Sylvia.

  And when I did, he mocked her as she suffered.

  And when her suffering was over, he mocked her as she died.

  So then, my mistake.

  I hit him. Hard. Twice. Even though he was
handcuffed and wasn’t fleeing or resisting arrest. And in a dark moment of rage at what he’d done, I reached for the scalpel to go to work on him, but thankfully, I was able to hold myself back. As it was, I only broke his jaw.

  Later, for a reason I’ve never been able to guess, he told the interrogating officers he’d broken his jaw when the meat hook hit him, even though it never touched him.

  At the time, I didn’t want anything to jeopardize the state’s case, so in my official report I didn’t clarify things as carefully as I should have. “There was an altercation,” I wrote. “Later it was discovered that the suspect’s jaw was broken sometime during his apprehension.” It was the truth, it just wasn’t the whole truth. The physical evidence was enough to convict him, and the defense didn’t make a big deal out of the broken jaw, especially since Basque himself claimed it was accidental. The specific circumstances surrounding the fight never came up during the trial. He was convicted, sentenced, and that was the end of it.

  But that wasn’t the end of it.

  I still carried the memory with me. I’d physically assaulted a suspect and then omitted pertinent information in my report. It was a secret I wasn’t proud of. And Basque knew about it. And when someone knows your secrets, he has power over you.

  More than anything else, psychopaths crave feelings of power and control. So maybe that was it. Maybe that’s why he’d kept quiet all these years. There was no way to know.

  But one thing I did know: I didn’t like Basque having power over anyone. Especially not over me.

  I found Ralph waiting for me beside the elevator bank.

  Even though he’s not quite as tall as me, he’s still over six foot, and with his broad shoulders he seemed to fill the entire hallway. Lately, he’d been trying to bench as much as he did when he was an Army Ranger, before he joined the FBI. Maybe it was a midlife thing, I wasn’t sure. Last I heard, he was repping at 225—which meant he could probably max out at 405. Not bad for a guy who was pushing forty.

  “Let’s go up the back way,” he said. He was popping some kind of small white snacks about the size of M&M’s into his mouth. He pushed open a nearby door, and I followed him through a narrow hallway toward the back stairs.

  “Anything on Taylor?” I asked.

  “Nothing yet. If he’s here, he’s a ghost.”

  We passed a window and I saw the Cook County Jail encircled with razor wire fences lying just across an alley. That’s where they were keeping Basque.

  When I was still a detective with the MPD working the Basque case, Ralph was the FBI agent who’d been assigned to help us find him. After Basque’s apprehension, Ralph had encouraged me to apply at the FBI academy. It was a few years before I took him up on his invitation, but eventually I did, and we’d been close friends ever since.

  Ralph had shaved his head since the last time I’d seen him, and I decided it was worth a comment.

  “Nice haircut,” I said.

  “Brineesha’s idea,” he grumbled, rubbing a huge paw across his head. “Said it makes me sexy. I feel like a cue ball.”

  “I agree with your wife. You’re looking good, my friend.”

  Even though a few people crossed the far end of the corridor, we’d ended up in a relatively deserted part of the building. Maybe Ralph had chosen this route on purpose so we could talk without anyone eavesdropping on our conversation.

  He popped some more of his snack into his mouth. “Lien-hua’s gonna be jealous when I tell her you said that.”

  I felt a sting of regret as he mentioned her name. Lien-hua was the woman I’d been seeing for the last four months, a fellow FBI agent, a profiler. Ralph didn’t know our relationship was in its dying throes, and it didn’t seem like the best time to tell him, so I decided to change the subject. “What are you eating?”

  The stairs they used to transfer prisoners from the jail to the courtrooms lay just ahead.

  “Yogurt-covered raisins.” He slid his hand into his pocket and drew out another handful. Tossed them in his mouth.

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Brineesha got me hooked on ’em last week.” He was talking with his mouth full. “Have you tried ’em? These things are amazing.”

  He offered me a handful from his pocket. A clump of lint joined them in his hand.

  “No thanks,” I said. “I’m not really a big fan of yogurt.”

  “Suit yourself.” He tossed the entire handful into his mouth, lint and all. “You’re the one missing out.”

  “I’ll try to make do.”

  We passed a drinking fountain, and he nodded toward a restroom near the stairwell. “Hey, I gotta take a leak.”

  I thought of how I’d be stuck in the courtroom for the next few hours and decided I should probably make a pit stop too.

  Ralph paused at the water fountain for a drink so I stepped past him and pushed the men’s room door open and then stopped midstride.

  Facing me, one meter away and flanked by a pair of mammoth Cook County Sheriff’s Department officers, stood Richard Devin Basque.

  9

  As soon as I saw Basque I felt a tightening in my chest, a sharp flare of anger and regret, the past clamping down on me. If only you’d kept your cool after Sylvia died . . . If only you’d gotten to the slaughterhouse sooner she might still be alive . . . If only you’d pieced the case together one day earlier . . .

  He smiled at me. “Detective Bowers.” For some reason, I noticed that his teeth were all still in place, still flawless. His jaw looked perfect too; the surgeons had done a good job. “No, wait . . . it’s Dr. Bowers now, isn’t it? And an FBI agent? How time flies. So good to see you again.”

  I didn’t reply.

  Ralph wedged himself next to me in the doorway, blocking the path.

  “C’mon,” barked one of the officers, manhandling Basque toward the door. “Let’s go.” But Ralph put his hand on the man’s shoulder. At first the guy looked like he was going to swat it away, but then he noticed the cords of muscle in Ralph’s forearm and paused.

  “It’s OK, buddy. Let him be.” Ralph removed his hand when he was ready. “We can talk for a sec. We’re just here to use the john.” But Ralph didn’t enter the bathroom, just stood barring the doorway.

  I began to wonder what he had in mind; I had a feeling he was hoping Basque would try something so he could take him down. Hard. I hoped that wasn’t where things were heading.

  “For the record, then,” Basque said, “I waive all my rights to have my lawyer present. A chat might be nice.”

  “See?” Ralph said to the officers. “There you go.”

  Both of them sized up Ralph, and nobody made a move. They eased back, and we all stood facing each other.

  To be safe, I decided I wouldn’t speak to Basque before testifying and chance a mistrial.

  He eyed me. Thirteen years in prison had hardly changed him. He still had the handsome, confident good looks of a big-screen leading man and the incisive eyes and disarming smile that had served him so well in luring his victims into his car. Just like Ted Bundy and so many other killers, Basque had used his charm and charisma as his most effective weapon.

  Looks intact, his time in prison had only served to harden his features, lend a few creases to the edges of his eyes, and wrap him in a thick layer of chiseled muscles that flexed against the designer suit that his lawyers had undoubtedly purchased just for the trial. Overall, he looked as dashing and trustworthy and GQ as ever. Maybe more so.

  A handsome, respectable-looking cannibalistic killer.

  I used to get shocked when I met people who commit the most appalling crimes—torturing and eviscerating their victims, eating or raping decaying corpses—because the offenders almost never look like you’d expect. Instead of looking like monsters, they look like Little League coaches and college professors and church elders and the guy who lives next door—because all too often that’s exactly who they are.

  Basque shifted his attention to Ralph. Offered him a wide
grin. “Special Agent Hawkins. I enjoyed your testimony last month. Very persuasive, I thought. And how is Brineesha? That’s her name, isn’t it? Pretty little thing. Taking good care of her, I hope?”

  Ralph’s face darkened. He stepped forward.

  “Not like this,” I urged him quietly, but I’m sure Basque and the officers heard me. “Not here.” I motioned to the two men escorting Basque. “Take him away.”

  One of them tugged at Basque’s arm, but he stood firm. After thirteen years of pumping iron all day, it was going to take both of them to move him. To make things worse, Ralph still blocked the doorway.

  I could feel the air tightening around us.

  “C’mon,” I said to Ralph, but he didn’t move. Neither did Basque or the officers.

  Basque eyed me again. A smooth, charming smile. “All these years I was so hoping you’d visit me in prison, Patrick. But there are so many cases to solve, I suppose? I read about a number of them in the journals. You’ve been a busy man.” He wet his lips. “Missed seeing you, though.”

  Ralph cracked his neck and said, “Yeah, it can get pretty lonely in there. I’m sure you found plenty of—”

  “Sometimes lonely, my burly friend, but never alone.” He met Ralph’s gaze. “Not with the good Lord by my side.”

  Oh, I’d almost forgotten. Seven months ago in prison, Richard Basque had found Jesus, just like so many convicts facing a parole hearing or a retrial seem to do. The prospect of freedom must be a rather strong incentive for getting right with God.

  Ralph’s eyes became iron. I put my hand on his shoulder to pull him back, but if Ralph wanted to do something to Basque I couldn’t imagine how I’d be able to stop him. The officers escorting Basque tensed as well. Everything was moving in the wrong direction. Basque let his dark liquid eyes drink in Ralph’s growing rage.