Unforgiving Shadows (A Brad Frame Mystery Book 1)

by Ray Flynt

  Tilting his head to the right, Wilkie showed no emotion as he stared toward the glass of the witness booth. Unlike the death chamber, which was bathed in fluorescent light, the witness observation room was dimly lit, and Brad wondered if Wilkie could see him. The condemned man’s eyes darted anxiously back and forth across the bank of witnesses, all of whom seemed to be holding their breath. Brad wanted the ordeal to end. Wished he had never come to the prison. It all felt surreal, like a nightmare from which he hoped he would soon awaken.

  As the prison’s physician entered the execution room, all others withdrew except for two guards, the chaplain, medical technician and the superintendent. One of the remaining guards closed and locked the door from the inside.

  The superintendent looked about the chamber, appeared to spot something on the floor and bent down to retrieve it. The wall below the windows obstructed Brad’s view, but when the warden stood up he could see it was a single sheet of paper. The superintendent glanced at it briefly before folding it and slipping it into his inside coat pocket.

  Dolewski surveyed the chamber one last time as if to see if all was in readiness, then spoke the words Brad thought might provide the explanation for his invitation. “Does the prisoner have any final words before sentence is carried out?”

  Wilkie remained impassive. His eyelids fluttered closed, and then he shook his head from side to side.

  Dolewski nodded to the technician who, under the watchful eye of the physician, inserted a needle into a vein in the condemned man's arm. Wilkie’s body tensed then relaxed. The technician extended the coil of intravenous tubing—conveying at first only a saline solution according to the briefing materials—and affixed the tube to the receptacle at the end of the needle now lodged in the prisoner's arm. The wires attached to his chest were connected to the heart monitor. The doctor inspected the intravenous line and pronounced it ready.

  Prison staff took their positions at the perimeter of the room, while the superintendent stood about three feet away from the prisoner. Prompted by a 3” by 5” card held in his left hand, Dolewski repeated the required words advising Wilkie that the death sentence was about to be carried out. The warden looked up from the card, and to unseen personnel behind the one-way mirror he said, “You may begin the execution.”

  The sound startled Brad—like the pop-whoosh a tire makes when it’s separated from the rim—and his body tensed. He recalled the briefing materials had reminded them that the execution used the latest mechanical process, buttons pushed, pre-measured poison sped on its way, starting with anesthesia.

  Seconds later, Frank Wilkie lay unconscious on the table.

  Witnesses watched in silence. Brad heard the noise again—the second chemical starting its journey. But he didn’t jump that time, and found himself questioning his own humanity, since it had only taken once for him to get used to the sound of an execution machine.

  Wilkie's breathing became more labored. Longer and longer intervals passed between the natural rising and falling of his chest. The wait seemed interminable. If lethal injection was intended to sanitize an execution, Brad thought, it didn't make it any easier to watch. A gunshot to the head would have been messy, but he would have been out of the stifling confines of the witness chamber a lot sooner.

  Brad couldn’t pretend he hadn’t thought about this moment many times during the last ten years—ever since he’d stood in court and offered a victim’s impact statement just before the judge pronounced sentence on Wilkie.

  Brad stared in Wilkie’s direction, but he wasn’t really looking at him. His mind drifted back to happier times: “Brad!” He heard his mother’s voice calling to him as he stood at the kitchen window. He pictured her shouldering a large blue canvas bag, wearing the floppy straw hat that she always used to shield the sun when gardening, and carrying a box. “Lucy and I are planting some flowers along the path,” she shouted. “We could use your help clearing out the underbrush.” Moments later he’d joined them in what she called her “secret garden.” She’d had Brad’s dad build a set of steps down the steep slope at the back of their Bryn Mawr home and clear a place for a wooden bench. In that secluded spot it felt like they were miles from anyone, in fact, looking back up the hill Brad couldn’t even see the roof of their house. “What are you staring at?” his sister Lucy had asked, as she sat cross-legged in the dirt sorting flower bulbs. “You can’t even tell there are houses around here,” he’d said. Brad smiled as he recalled his younger sister, her face smudged with dirt as she wiped a few strands of hair out of her eyes and glanced back toward their house to see what he was talking about. “What are you planting, Mom?” he had inquired. “I’ll give you three guesses,” she said, with a twinkle in her eyes. But he only needed one—Daffodils—her favorite flower.

  The steady alarm on the prisoner’s heart monitor shook Brad from his thoughts, and then he noticed the green flat line. An aide reached over and turned off the alarm, while the physician consulted his watch. The doctor extracted a stethoscope from his jacket pocket, hooked it on his ears, and listened to the prisoner’s chest. After several more agonizing minutes and a second check with the stethoscope, the doctor finally signaled that Wilkie was dead. The technician drew a sheet over the body. The door to the cubicle opened and witnesses were invited to leave.

  Nobody declined.

  Brad, closest to the door, hurried out of the room hoping to elude further inquiries from the media.

  11:35 p.m. Outside the prison the chilly temperature felt curiously refreshing after the longest half-hour Brad had ever spent, lending a tinge of reality to the evening, as did the presence, immediately outside, of an ambulance standing ready to remove Wilkie's body. For an instant, Brad thought he heard the muffled shouts of prisoners behind the cellblock walls. Maybe they were protesting—in vain—the loss of one of their comrades. The yellowish tint of the sodium vapor lighting in the prison compound made the fog appear eerie as it rolled in from the valley below.

  “Mr. Frame!” a voice shouted from behind.

  Brad cringed, then stopped and turned around.

  Chaplain George Haines had caught up with him just as he approached the exit gate.

  “Mr. Frame, I have something for you,” the Chaplain said. “Wilkie wanted me to give you this.”

  He thrust Wilkie's Bible into Brad’s hands.

  Chapter Two

  “I don't understand.” Brad grasped the Bible by the spine, noting the gilded lettering Placed by the Gideons.

  The chaplain, who had to run to catch up with him, gasped for air—signaling for patience with one finger held aloft. “I had specific instructions,” he said, in an accent Brad thought might have been from Mississippi. “Earlier this evening, I spent about an hour with Frank. Before I left, he showed me the Bible. He said, ‘There's somebody I want to have this. When it's over.’ He was very insistent. Then gave me your name. I asked how was I supposed to get the book to you, and he said he’d invited you and hoped you would come. Superintendent Dolewski pointed you out.”

  Brad leafed through a few pages of the Bible. A chill came over him. He wasn’t sure if it was from the cold March night or from handling the Bible, a personal possession of the man who had decimated his family. “Look,” Brad said, feeling agitated and waving the Bible in his hand, “could we go someplace to talk?”

  Chaplain Haines glanced back toward the wall, behind which the execution had taken place. “I suppose so. I'm through for the evening.” He pointed toward the main prison complex. “There's a vending machine over by the commissary, and a couple—”

  Brad cut him off. “Not here. Is there a place nearby where we can go?” He didn’t want to spend another minute on the grounds of the prison.

  The chaplain squinted and tucked his tongue into the corner of his mouth. “Emma's Tavern is open till 2 o'clock. It's just four miles up the road.” He pointed north.

  Brad nodded. “Emma's Tavern. I'll meet you there.”

  Once outside the prison Br
ad rushed to his car, unlocked the door, and slid behind the wheel. He laid the Bible on the passenger seat, then sank into the leather upholstery and leaned his head against the headrest, still shaken from the experience of watching a man die. Brad couldn’t understand why Wilkie wanted him to have the Bible. He turned on the ignition, jacked up the heat controls to take away the chill, and buckled his seatbelt. He closed his eyes and replayed the chaplain’s words, then his mind fast-forwarded over the events of the evening—the demonstrators, the confrontation with Paula Thompson, Wilkie led onto the lethal injection room gurney, and his mournful cry when the Bible flew from his hands. Brad’s eyes blinked open and he glanced at the Bible on the seat next to him.

  Brad fished his cell from the center console, and turned it on. He concluded she would still be awake, so he speed-dialed Sharon Porter, hoping she could help him sort things out. The call went into her voice mail, and he left a message: “Hi Sharon, it’s Brad.” Glancing at his watch, he said, “It’s just before midnight. The execution is over. But there’s a new development. The prison chaplain just handed me Wilkie’s Bible. I’m hoping to find out what that’s all about. I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Frame guided his car down the hill wanting to avoid another confrontation with demonstrators who were rapidly dispersing. Activists on both sides of the death penalty debate wandered down the road toward their cars in straggly lines, carrying placards, now held at their sides. One sign read: “Spare an innocent life.” Innocent, Brad thought, clearly that person had never experienced the pleasure of coming face-to-face with Frank Wilkie. Another sign hand-lettered in orange Day-Glo paint read: “Only God can take a life.” Brad wished Wilkie had seen that sign twelve years earlier.

  Television vans from all the major networks—their satellite dishes hoisted toward the sky—lined the road at the base of the hill. As Brad neared the intersection with the main highway, he recognized one of the reporters who had witnessed the execution, now bathed in video lights from the waist up, his Reeboks hidden from the camera’s view. A gaggle of demonstrators stood nearby seemingly mesmerized as they watched the reporter. Brad avoided further notoriety by turning his Mercedes left at the base of the hill and opening it up to cruising speed as he headed north toward Emma’s Tavern.

  A few miles later Brad noticed red neon lights on the right hand side of the road piercing the gathering fog. He slowed to confirm he’d arrived at Emma’s then dropped into second gear and turned onto the unpaved parking lot, swerving to dodge a few mud holes. He passed four pick-up trucks and a beat-up sedan before parking in a secluded spot between a tree and split rail fence. He grabbed Wilkie’s Bible, made sure the car was locked, and headed for the entrance.

  Emma’s had no claim to style. You’re still in Pennsylvania, Brad reminded himself. How different this part of the state seemed to him, and for an instant contemplated whether the roadside hangout had indoor plumbing. The tavern boasted a ten-stool bar, and seven tables with mismatched chairs crammed into a narrow space alongside a billiard table at the rear. The stale odor of beer—mingled with the smell of burnt popcorn—permeated the joint. Cigarette smoke haze hung in the air. Two men sat at the bar drinking beer and watching a Celtics-Lakers game, while two more played a game of pool.

  Brad noticed the others staring and realized his wool slacks and chocolate-colored turtleneck weren’t part of the usual dress code. He gravitated toward a gold-speckled Formica table in the corner, and watched as the bartender traipsed over to take his order. Lean of body and expression, his salt and pepper hair slicked back, the bartender sprouted a couple of day’s growth of beard.

  “What’ll-ya-have?” the bartender asked, pencil poised above a scratch pad.

  Brad studied the place mat, which doubled as the printed menu, and noticed a damp ring from the glass of a previous customer. “A western omelet.”

  “Kitchen closed at eleven.”

  “I'll just have an order of dry wheat toast.”

  “I told ya the kitchen closed at eleven,” the bartender grumbled.

  Brad knew he would test the limits with his next question. “Do you have any imported beers?”

  “Nope.” The bartender began tapping his pencil on the order pad.

  Brad glanced at the place mat again—hoping for inspiration—but only saw the wet ring. He frowned. “Just bring a pitcher of beer—your choice—and two glasses,” Brad said. “Someone will be joining me.”

  “Good enough.” The bartender ripped a copy of the order slip from his pad, and laid it face down on the edge of the table before ambling back to the bar.

  Brad propped his elbows on the table, put his chin in his hands, and took in the sights and smells of the tavern. It’d be a long time before Emma’s would earn four diamonds. He gave it three cockroaches. Brad felt a tap on his shoulder and heard the chaplain. “Is it alright if I join you? You look deep in thought.”

  “I was just wondering where Emma was,” Brad said, then gestured to the empty chair across from him.

  Chaplain Haines, still wearing his black shirt and gray coat but minus his clerical collar, sat down.

  “I wasn’t sure if you drank, but I ordered a pitcher of beer and two glasses,” Brad said.

  “It’s okay, I’m from a liberal denomination.” The Chaplain leaned closer, “Besides, I don’t have to worry about any of my parishioners finding me here.”

  They both laughed. A tense silence followed before Brad offered, “I’m sorry if I was curt back at the prison.”

  The Chaplain gave a wave of his hand. “That's okay. It's a terrible business.” He rolled his shoulders, as if trying to shake the tensions of the night.

  “Was this your first execution?” Brad asked.

  “My third. After the first one, I thought it might get easier,” he said, patting his chest and taking a deep breath. “So far it hasn't. The first time I was just plain scared. Now, I find myself conflicted about the death penalty and what purpose it serves.”

  Brad shrugged. “An eye for an eye,” he said matter-of-factly before sliding Wilkie’s Bible toward the middle of the table. “Tell me about this.”

  The chaplain glanced at the Bible then back at Brad, with an expression at once benevolent and penetrating. “Like I said, Frank asked me to give it to you.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “No. Just insisted I get the Bible to you.”

  The bartender arrived and deposited a water-spotted glass pitcher brimming with an amber liquid and two glasses. “This a friend of yours, George?” he asked.

  “Just doin' some business, Jack,” the chaplain replied.

  The bartender hung around the table, looking first at Chaplain Haines then Frame. Finally Brad said, “Run a tab.”

  Brad poured each of them a beer. “I never thought of Frank Wilkie as a religious man.”

  “The prospect of facing the Lord makes even the strongest man rethink his life,” the chaplain said. “Ever since they moved him up here for the execution I've been trying to get Frank to pray, but he wouldn't do it. Then about three weeks ago he asked if I could get him a Bible. I told him no problem—the prison gets them donated. I offered to read it with him. He said no, but every once in a while he asked for my help in understanding the words.”

  Interested in that detail, Brad leaned forward. “What words?”

  The chaplain rubbed the base of his neck as he thought for a few seconds. “Like Thessalonians. He wanted to know how to say it and what it meant. I explained they were a group of people the Apostle Paul had written a letter to.”

  The chaplain was long on details and short on answers, Brad thought as he took a sip from his glass, still not understanding why Wilkie wanted him to have the Bible.

  “Every time I saw him after that,” the chaplain continued, “he had his head in the Scriptures.”

  “I didn't know he could read,” Brad said, recalling that Wilkie’s attorney had argued illiteracy as a mitigating factor to keep his client from a de
ath sentence.

  The chaplain smiled. “I didn't say he was reading. In fact, I asked him questions, about the parables, and I could tell he didn't understand.”

  “Do you conduct services for the inmates on death row?” Brad asked, glancing at his watch and thinking about the long trip home.

  The chaplain shook his head. “Not really. We visit a couple times each week, providing spiritual counseling for those who want it. Death row isn't exactly a huge congregation. The State transports the prisoners here shortly before the scheduled execution date. They moved Frank up from Pittsburgh right after Thanksgiving, because his execution was originally scheduled for early last December. Then there was an unexpected stay.” The chaplain shrugged, “They just kept him here instead of sending him back like they usually did if an execution got postponed.”

  As the chaplain spoke Brad thumbed through the pages of the Bible. At the bottom of one page he spotted the word eddie scrawled in pencil, the name of Wilkie’s accomplice in the kidnapping and murder. “Did Frank Wilkie ask you for spiritual counseling?” Brad asked, just to keep the conversation going while he thought about the significance of the word Eddie popping up in Wilkie’s Bible.

  “He didn't even want to talk until a month ago. But by then he knew all his appeals had been exhausted. His attorney drove up to give him the bad news. Right after that visit, Wilkie asked me for the Bible.”

  The chaplain kept glancing over Brad’s shoulder.

  “Am I keeping you from something?” Brad asked.

  Chaplain Haines looked embarrassed. “No... I, ah... just tryin’ to see the score of the game. Looks like the Lakers are losing their edge.”

  Brad felt like he was losing his edge too, as he stared at the flyspecked wallpaper and frowned. “Who was Wilkie’s attorney?”