“Not at the expense of your life,” Ettrick protested. “Look. I’ll say what I’ve done anyway. I will find a way to abort the trial!”
“You will not!” R.D. flexed his fingers and winced. “It would ruin your career.”
“You think I care?”
“No. But I do. I’m not letting a corrupt gorilla like Scharges get to the top over a genuinely decent man.” He fixed Ettrick with a steely stare. “I’ve finally got the chance to be the catalyst for something good. Don’t you dare take away my moment of glory.”
“Stop being so fucking flippant. They’ll execute you.”
“I’m not being flippant,” R.D. countered. “They serve porridge for lunch here, pal. I may be Scottish but even I can’t take that. I’d rather die.”
“Nice try.” The detective managed a wry grin. “But you’ve always had an incredible lust for life and I refuse to believe this place has stripped you of that.”
“Och, I threw myself at life the way an aging stripper throws herself at an eligible bachelor,” R.D. shot back. “It wasn’t lust. It was desperation.”
“Even so, I...”
“I’m making my big speech. Don’t interrupt.”
“Sorry.”
“I suppose Clancy and I were kindred spirits, in a way. Absolutely fucked up and desperate to hide it. Both of us with an ugly alter ego buried deep inside. The difference was, I set hers free and tried to tame mine. Beat the monster down and let it eat away at me, until the only thing I could feel was the lash of my own whip. Can’t remember the last time I experienced actual joy, Ettrick. That’s why I need constant distraction and a different type of Jell-O every Tuesday just won’t cut it.”
R.D. gestured at the wire topped walls.
“I’ve been in a cage of my own making for years. It just got smaller.”
He rested sticky hands on his lap. Put on his most practiced face.
“I lost my wife and the use of my legs. Killed my son and my best friend. Destroyed everyone I ever cared about. You think I can bear to spend the rest of my days in this place, endlessly replaying the mistakes I made?”
He dug another cigarette from his pocket.
“Keep quiet and let me have my day in court. If they send me to the chair, so be it. This place will drive me mad anyway.” He put the Winston defiantly in his mouth.
“Death will be an awfully big Adventure.”
“Aint that a line from Peter Pan?”
“Doesn’t make it any less accurate.”
“Are you just saying this to make me feel better?” Ettrick leaned over his friend and peered into his eyes. “Is this one last lie?”
“I’m a psychologist.” R.D. folded his arms. “I never lie in a professional capacity.”
“I... eh…” The detective backed off and shifted from foot to foot. “I’m… going to leave before my heart breaks.”
“You do that.” R.D. gave him a brisk salute. “Look after your son, Ettrick. Maybe you can tell him the truth someday.”
“That’ll be a difficult conversation. But he deserves to know.”
“So long. Go. Go on. Get out of here.”
“Thank you.”
The detective put his broken sunglasses back on. Fished out his own lighter and placed it in the inmate’s knee before he left.
Ettrick looked back only once. He was fifty yards away but could still see through the gate to the lawn.
R.D. was wheeling himself jauntily across the garden, lit cigarette hanging from his lips. He seemed to be making some sort of horse noise out the side of his mouth. Little smoke rings drifted into the air, a train gathering speed. He seemed absurdly happy in an insane way.
But Ettrick was the suspicious type. That’s why he was such a good cop.
R.D.’s soliloquy seemed too prepared. Was he trying to alleviate the guilt of the man who betrayed him and atone for his mistakes? Could he really be that noble when it counted?
Or… was he determined to go to trial for another reason?
The detective stopped dead.
Ettrick and Scharges had been so desperate to exact revenge on R.D., they had rushed into formulating the scenario that would damn him. Neither had waited to consider just how the psychologist might defend himself. Painting Clancy as an unstable ex-mental patient, fixated on the man who supposedly cured her was credible enough. But they’d neglected to offer any real proof R.D. ever returned her affections.
After all, facts could be interpreted in different ways. And R.D. was a master of manipulation.
Ettrick thought hard. Stitched the details together to see what kind of picture they formed.
R.D. would grow out his severe crew-cut to give his face a softer, less menacing look. Put on the light sweater with a shirt and a lamb’s wool tie. Give the appearance of a kindly, confused boffin.
On the stand, he would blend both fake and real stories to devastating effect. He’d relate how he found the note and realised Clancy had killed Maggie. That he chased her to East Texas, unaware Beck’s body was in his trunk. He’d cry, describing how Justin attacked and seriously injured him, while trying to protect the wife he was crazy about. R.D would sob that he’d panicked, overcome by agony and simply kept firing. Use the concussion trick to explain why he couldn’t remember what had happened until after he’d been incarcerated. Maybe throw in a bit of Post-Traumatic Stress to drive the point home.
Look relieved that he’d finally been allowed to tell his side of the story.
Slowly Scharges’ case would fall apart, as inconsistencies mounted. Justin’s ‘friend’ would eventually be identified as some missing hitcher. But why would R.D. and Clancy pick up a hitcher and murder her, if they already planned to fake Clancy’s death, using Beck as the corpse? If Clancy was so obsessed with R.D., why didn’t she help him escape the fire? If her murder spree was motivated by jealously, why kill Madison, when it was Meike who was his ex-lover? In the end, there would be too many unanswered questions to convict him.
So he’d get off. Triumph over the police department. The media would make him famous once more and he’d get sympathy as a victim. Scharges would be thoroughly discredited, while Ettrick was lauded for catching another mass murderer.
The detective whistled softly. He’d make police commissioner for sure, Like R.D. said, and wouldn’t be tortured by the thought that he’d sent a man to death row for crimes he didn’t commit. And R.D. would open his practice again with a whole new client list.
Was it all a coincidence? Or could it possibly be the psychologist… planned things to turn out that way?
Ettrick shook his head wearily. The fact was, with Madison dead, he no longer cared. The one man who never stopped digging for the truth had finally had enough. The idea that R.D was guilty of a far closer sin was something he’d never prove and was too painful to even consider.
Christ, he thought. Who the fuck was R.D. Slaither? Dr Jekyll or Mr. Hyde? A decent man who kept screwing things up, or a monster who was able to hide his true nature better than Clancy ever could?
That was the problem with the old bastard. You just never fucking knew.
The detective got into his car. Leather seats radiated a hot suffocating smell mingled with gasoline. He rolled down the window and threw his sunglasses into the passenger side. He turned on the ignition and the wipers scythed across the streaky grime.
Ettrick switched them off. Rested his head for a second on the steering wheel.
Then he drove home to his son.
END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jan-Andrew Henderson (J.A. Henderson) is the author of 26 teenage, YA, adult and non-fiction books. Published in the UK, USA, Germany and the Czech Republic, he has been shortlisted for twelve literary awards and is the winner of the Doncaster Book Prize and the Royal Mail Award.
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www.janandrewhenderson.com
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