I Scarce Can Die (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 5)

by Michael Wallace

  “I don’t know about psychic,” Clarence said. “But a wrongful conviction — or in Maria’s case, a wrongful execution, since she never had a trial — leaves a lot of hurt in its wake. There’s the innocent person who was put to death, and there’s the victim who never got justice. If there’s such a thing as restless spirits, those two would qualify.”

  “What about Barney McManus?” Gloria said. “Benkelman never got any justice for killing him.”

  “Actually,” Melissa said, “he may have in a way.”

  Everyone looked at her.

  “I was fascinated by Maria’s story after hearing Gordon tell it, and a month ago I asked one of our instructors who specializes in San Francisco history how hard it would be to look up Benkelman. He showed me how, and after a couple of afternoons noodling through old newspapers, I found it. It turns out Benkelman was stabbed to death in an alley on the Barbary Coast on May 22, 1854.”

  Gordon whistled. “Two years to the day after McManus was killed.”

  Melissa nodded. “And they never found the man who did it.”

  “Could have been a woman,” Carla said.

  “Now I’m embarrassed,” Len said. “I should have thought to look into that. Miss McConnell, would you let me know where I could confirm the information?

  “Certainly.”

  “But I have been having second thoughts,” Len said. “I wonder if it’s fair to Benkelman to put out this story, based on only one source, especially since he can’t defend himself. Do any of you have any thoughts on that?”

  After a brief silence, Elizabeth spoke first.

  “I think it’s a valuable contribution to the historical record, and as long as you’re clear on your sourcing, scholars can take the evidence into account.”

  “And Maria needs to be cleared,” Carla said.

  “Publish and be damned,” Gordon said.

  “Be damned, perhaps, but free from legal cares,” Pope said. “A dead man can’t sue for libel. And this one’s been dead a long time.”

  Another brief silence.

  “What’s taking them so long?” Nell said. “I think they just don’t want to let Gary go.”

  “There may be a bit of that,” Scott said, “but they have to be really careful to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s in a case like this. The last thing anybody wants is to spring someone from state prison by mistake.”

  “The mistake was putting him in in the first place,” Nell said.

  Scott shrugged. Gordon’s cell phone rang, and he began walking across the parking lot to a more isolated spot as he took it out of his pocket. Elizabeth seized the opportunity to tug gently on Melissa’s sleeve. The two of them moved apart from the group, and Elizabeth spoke in a low voice.

  “I’ve been wanting to get you alone,” she said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, but Gordon proposed last night.”

  “Oh, Elizabeth,” she said, giving her a hug. “That’s wonderful. You’ll be so happy.”

  “I asked him for a couple of days to think about it.”

  “What?”

  “I want to be sure he’s ready. He just turned 40 in March, and part of me wonders if he’s asking just because he thinks he should, and not because he really wants to marry me.”

  “Girl, you are seriously over-intellectualizing this. He wouldn’t ask if he didn’t want to. Shut down that brain and listen to your heart. What’s it telling you?”

  “He’s coming back.”

  Gordon was walking toward the group, holding his phone above his head.

  “Gary’s coming out in three to five minutes,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  THERE WAS NO POINT in trying to get in front of the media horde at the bottom of the courthouse steps, so the group joined about two dozen other townspeople and county employees in the crowd directly behind. As they were walking across the parking lot, Peter held Gordon back.

  “Well?” he asked. “Are congratulations in order?”

  “A bit premature. She wanted a bit of time to think about it.” He paused for several seconds. “It wasn’t what I expected.”

  “You probably took her by surprise, Gordon. If it’s any consolation, all five of my wives said yes right away, and they all lived to regret it. Maybe it’s not such a bad thing that she wants to be sure. She’ll come around. Don’t worry.”

  Gary Baxter’s release and media statement were being handled by Terence Donovan, a volunteer attorney with NGNC, who had done this several times before. He had called Gordon with the heads-up.

  Shortly after the group arrived at the courthouse steps, two sheriff’s deputies (one of them the court bailiff) came out the front door, walked down the steps, and took up a position near the corner of the building, about 30 feet to the group’s right as it faced the courthouse. By arrangement, Melissa and Clarence went over and stood with them.

  A minute later, a tall, distinguished-looking man in an expensive gray pinstripe suit walked out of the courthouse. Next to him was a tall, undistinguished-looking man. Gary Baxter’s hair had begun to thin since his mug shot was taken that September night in 1996, and his complexion was stunningly pale. His arms and shoulders were tensed toward the center of his body, as if he were trying to present a low profile and be prepared to defend an attack. He wore a pair of baggy khakis, a blue work shirt and a navy blazer. His eyes blinked, as if unaccustomed even to the dim sunlight of this day.

  There was a momentary hush when the two appeared, then the reporters began shouting out questions. Donovan raised his hand.

  “I hope you’ll understand,” he said, “that Mr. Baxter has been through an ordeal that no man should have to endure. He’s spent more than two years in state prison for a crime he didn’t commit, and he needs to get his bearings in the real world. He’s going to make a brief statement, but, understandably, doesn’t feel up to answering questions right now. After his statement, he will go back into the town from which he was so unjustly removed,” he nodded to his left, “and the two sheriff’s deputies are here to see that his wishes are respected. I, on the other hand, will stay here and answer questions for as long as you want to ask them, and I’m sure you’ll all go away from here with the information you need for your stories. Gary.”

  Gary Baxter took a step forward, reached into his inside coat pocket, and took out a sheet of paper. It looked as if it had been ripped from a cheap three-hole notebook. But however humble his notes, he read them in a soft voice that carried dignity and conviction.

  “I’m lucky beyond belief to be walking out of here a free man today. A year ago, I couldn’t have imagined this, and I am grateful and thankful for all the people who helped. For the people in the community who stood by me and believed in my innocence. For my trial attorney, Brad Pope, who worked to keep the case alive. For the people at Not Guilty Northern California, who took an interest in my case and developed the evidence to exonerate me. I also want to say I hold no hard feelings toward the legal system or the jury that convicted me. They acted on the facts they had, and I understand that. All I want at this point is to quietly live out the rest of my life as a productive, law-abiding citizen. Thank you and God bless you.”

  As he began to fold the paper, Melissa ran up from the side, took his arm in hers, and led him down and to his left, in the direction of the deputies. Nell was watching the event with a look of powerful emotion and longing on her face, her Chevy Blazer parked around the corner, ready for a getaway. As soon as Gary passed the deputies, she began walking toward them. When she reached them, Melissa said “Yes,” and they let Nell through, followed by Gordon, Peter, Elizabeth, Scott Burroughs and Pope. Gary had turned around 20 feet behind the deputies, and the instant Nell passed them, she broke into a run and threw her arms around him.

  “Oh, God. Oh, God. Gary. I can’t believe you’re back.”

  He was holding her in his arms. “Nell,” was all he said. Finally, he became aware of the other people. He let go of her
, whispered something in her ear and walked over to them.

  “Mr. Pope,” he said. “Thank you for everything.

  “Don’t thank me,” Pope said. “We know now that I should have gotten you off.”

  Gary paused for a few seconds. “Yeah,” he finally said. “But we didn’t know it then, did we?”

  Pope quickly introduced him to Gordon and the others.

  “Mr. Gordon,” Gary said. “I understand I owe you a lot. I wanted to thank you in my talk, but they said you didn’t want to be mentioned.”

  “It’s your day, Gary. I wish you all the best as you move on from here.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I had a lot of time to think in prison, and things are going to be different now. Did you hear that Mr. Harrison offered me a job at the lumber yard?”

  “No, I hadn’t heard.”

  “Starting a week from Monday. And after more than two years without a drink, I think I’m a lot more clear-headed. I should be able to control it now.”

  “Gary,” Nell said, grabbing his arm from behind. “I think we should go now, before one of the reporters decides to follow us. I’ll be making pork chops for dinner.”

  He hugged her. “You’re wonderful, Nell. Thanks for letting me stay at your place until I get my bearings. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “We go back a long way, Gary,” she murmured.

  “A long way.”

  They said final goodbyes and walked to the Blazer hand in hand. She got behind the wheel and backed it out without looking. The others watched the vehicle as it turned right from the parking lot and went downhill to where Main Street turned right into the heart of Dutchtown.

  When the Blazer was out of sight, Scott Burroughs walked over to a planter box that had some small stones surrounding the small tree in it. He picked up one an inch and a half in diameter, held it in his hand for 15 seconds, then turned, cocked his arm, and hurled it with all the velocity he could muster at an old pine tree that stood at the entrance to the courthouse parking lot.

  The rock ricocheted off the tree and began bouncing down an empty Main Street, following the path of the Blazer. When it came to a stop, he turned, and without a word, walked into the courthouse through an employee entrance.

  “Can’t say I blame him,” Peter finally said.

  “Yeah,” Pope said, “but at least Gary is in a good position. Just between us and the pine tree, the county’s about ready to agree to a settlement for wrongful arrest and conviction. That was the reason the ‘no hard feelings’ line was in his talk. No sense ruffling feathers at this point. He’ll be starting his new life with some advantages he didn’t have before. Let’s hope he makes the most of it.”

  “Speaking of his new life,” Elizabeth said, “I was intrigued by his comment that he thought he could control his drinking now. Peter, I’m curious about what you have to say to that. Will he be able to drink again and do it normally?”

  Peter considered for half a minute before answering.

  “If he’s a real alcoholic, as the evidence suggests, and he takes even one drink, it’ll probably be a month or less before he’s drinking as much as he did before — if not more. And in that case, he’ll most likely go down the rabbit hole again, and this time he’ll drag Nell down with him.” He paused.

  “But aside from that, they’ll live happily ever after.”

  Author’s Note

  This book is dedicated in the spirit of Dorothy L. Sayers and J.S. Le Fanu.

  DOROTHY L. SAYERS (1893-1957) was one of the most highly regarded authors of the Golden Age of mystery. Her principal character, Lord Peter Wimsey, was, like Quill Gordon, a gentleman detective and fly fisherman (see The Five Red Herrings), and like Gordon in this book, came to the aid of people falsely accused of murder. Twice, actually, in Clouds of Witness and Strong Poison. Lord Peter’s family crest bore the motto, “As my Whimsy takes me,” a philosophy I attempted to follow while inventing the historical background stories in this book.

  J.S. (Joseph Thomas Sheridan) LE FANU (1814-1873) was an Irish author of Gothic novels and stories, often involving ghosts and the supernatural. He created the character of Dr. Hesselius, ghost hunter, who figured prominently in the story “The Familiar,” referred to and borrowed from in this book. His best known novel was Uncle Silas, and his short story “Carmilla” is the best lesbian vampire tale of the Victorian era.

  With regard to the show business references in the book, readers wanting to know more about The Philadelphia Story would be well advised to rent or stream the 1940 film version, directed by George Cukor and starring Katharine Hepburn, Cary Grant and James Stewart. The two songs performed by Carla at The Rope’s End can be found on YouTube by searching “Marlene Dietrich, See What the Boys in the Back Room Will Have,” and “Marilyn Monroe, Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.”

  Two final notes: First, I expect there might be some pushback from readers who question whether law enforcement investigators could really be as terminally clueless as the ones depicted herein. Thankfully, the answer is no in the overwhelming majority of cases and jurisdictions. However, the history of real-life wrongful convictions is rife with instances of investigators who locked in on one suspect early and glossed over significant evidence that pointed to another perpetrator. This story is no more implausible than real life in that respect. Second, in the interest of avoiding what Joe Bob Briggs used to refer to as “too much explanation getting in the way of the story,” I have taken some minor liberties in the depiction of legal and police procedure. I hope forgiving readers will remember this is a work of fiction.

  Acknowledgements

  Even in the internet age, expert help makes a difference. I am grateful to Linda Starr of the Northern California Innocence Project for taking the time to do a long interview on wrongful convictions. And retired police chief Terry Medina was, as always, helpful on matters of police procedure. If this book has any errors in those areas, the mistakes are mine, not the source’s.

  Thanks to the many people who helped along the way, including my editors, Lauren and Dan Wilkins, and Deborah Karas, who does such a good job of realizing the cover designs. I appreciate the input of a number of friends and family who commented on cover options, including Linda, Nick, Kathe, Paul, Debby, Greg, Ed, Dulcie, and John.

  About the Author

  MICHAEL WALLACE is a native Californian and graduate of UC-Santa Cruz. In his long professional career, he has been editor of a daily newspaper and principal in a consulting business specializing in public relations and publications. He is a former Rotary Club president, an avid fly fisherman, and a lifelong fan of mystery novels. He and his wife, Linda, live on the Central California coast.