Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

by Patterson, James

“You Army?”I asked,“ I thought they took you guys to the stockade at Fort Bragg.”

  He smiled at me. “Ain't no stockade at Bragg, man. Tell you something else. I was in here when they brought. Sergeant Cooper in. He was nuts that night. They printed him down here, then took him upstairs. Man was a psycho killer for sure that night.”

  I just listened. I was trying to figure out who the man was, and why he was talking to me about Ellis Cooper.

  “I'm going to tell you something for your own good. Everybody around here knows he did those women. He was a well-known freak.”

  The man blew out concentrated rings of smoke, then he pushed himself off the floor and shuffled away. I wondered what in hell was going on. Had somebody arranged the fight at the bar? The whole thing tonight? Who was the guy who had come over to talk to me? To give me advice for my own good?

  A short while later, a guard came and took him away. He glanced my way as he was leaving. Then Sampson and I got to spend the night in the crowded, foul-smelling holding cell. We took turns sleeping.

  In the morning, I heard someone call our names.

  “Cross. Sampson.” One of the guards had opened the door to the holding cell. He was trying to wave away the stink. “Cross. Sampson.”

  Sampson and I pushed ourselves stiffly up off the floor. “Right here. Where you left us last night,” I said.

  We were led back upstairs and taken to the front lobby, where we got the day's very first surprise. Captain Jacobs from CID was waiting there. “You all sleep well? ”he asked.

  “That was a setup,” I said to him. “The fight, the arrest. Did you know about it beforehand?”

  “You can go now,” he said. That's what you should do. Get your stuff and go home, Detectives. Do yourselves a big favor while you still can. You're wasting time on a dead man's errands."

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The awful strangeness and frustration continued the day I got back to Washington. If anything, it got even worse. An e-mail was waiting for me in my office at home. The message was from someone who identified himself as Toot Soldier'. Everything about it was troubling and impossible for me to comprehend at this point.

  It began: For Detective Alex Cross,

  Your general interest: The Pentagon is currently taking steps to prevent some of the more than one thousand deaths each year in the 'peacetime Army'. The deaths come from car crashes, suicides and murders. In each of the past three years, at least eighty Army soldiers have been murdered.

  Specifics to think about, Detective: An Army pilot named Thomas Hoff stationed at Fort Drum near Watertown, New York, was convicted of the slaying of a homosexual enlisted man on post. The convicted man claimed his innocence right up until the moment of his execution. In his defense, Hoff wasn't actually stationed at Drum until three months after the murder was committed. He had visited a friend at Hood prior to the murder, however. His prints were found at the murder scene. Hoffs service record was clean before his conviction for murder. He had been a 'model soldier' until the supposed murder.

  Another case for your consideration, Detective. An Army barber, known by his friends as “Bangs', was convicted of murdering three prostitutes -outside Fort Campbell in Kentucky. Santo Marinacci had no criminal record before the killings. His pregnant wife testified that he was home with her on the night of the murders. Marinacci was convicted because of fingerprints and DNA found at the murder scene, and also because the murder weapon, a survival knife, was discovered in his garage. Marinacci swore the knife was planted there. ”For God's sake, he's a barber," his wife called out during the eventual execution of her husband. Santo Marinacci claimed he was innocent and had been framed up to the moment that he died.

  Foot Soldier

  I read Foot Soldier's e-mail over again, then I called Sampson at home. I read him the message. He didn't know what to make of it either. He said he'd contact Ellis Cooper as soon as he hung up with me. We both wondered if Cooper might be behind the strange note.

  For the rest of the day, I couldn't get the disturbing message out of my head. Information had been passed to me that someone thought was important. No conclusions were reached. Foot Soldier had left that up to me. What was I supposed to make of the murders at Fort Drum and Fort Campbell? The possible frame-up?

  That night I took a break for a few hours. I watched

  Damon's basketball team play a league game at St. Anthony's. Damon scored sixteen points, and he was as smooth an outside shooter as some high school kids. I think he knew it, but he wanted to hear my opinion of his play.

  “You had a real good game, Damon,” I told him. “Scored points, but didn't forget about the rest of your team. Played tough ”d“ on Number Eleven.”

  Damon grinned, even though he tried to hold it back. I had given the right answer. “Yeah, he's the high scorer in the league. But not tonight.”

  After we talked, Damon took off with some of his team-mates, Ramon, Ervin, Kenyon. That was a new one, but I knew I better get used to it.

  When I got home, I couldn't stop thinking about Ellis Cooper and the e-mail that had come for me about other murders by Army personnel. According to Sampson, Cooper swore he didn't have anything to do with it. Who then? Someone at Fort Bragg? A friend of Cooper's?

  That night in bed I couldn't stop thinking about the damn note.

  Innocent men might have been executed.

  Sergeant Cooper wasn't the first.

  This has happened before.

  Who the hell was Foot Soldier?

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Twenty- Eight

  I desperately needed to see someone at the Army Court of Criminal Appeals, and the FBI helped me get an appointment with the right person.

  The court and its administrative offices were located in a bland-looking commercial building in Arlington. It was considerably nicer inside the building, kind of like a dignified and reserved corporate legal office. Other than the fact that most of the men and women wore uniforms, the normal touches of military culture weren't much in evidence.

  Sampson and I were there to see Lt. General Shelly Borislow, and we were brought to her office by an aide. It was a lengthy walk lots of long hallways, typical of government buildings all over the Washington area.

  General Borislow was waiting for us when we finally arrived. She stood ramrod straight, and was obviously physically fit. A handsome woman, probably in her late forties.

  “Thanks for seeing us,” Sampson said, and shook

  General Borislow's hand. I had the feeling that he wanted to handle the meeting, maybe because he had more experience with the Army than I did, but possibly because Ellis Cooper's time was running out.

  “I read the transcript of the trial last night,” General Borislow said as we sat around a glass-topped coffee table. “I also went through the CID notes from Captain Jacobs. And Sergeant Cooper's records. I'm pretty much up to speed. Now, what can I do for you, gentlemen?” I was pleased that the general was the one to bring up gender.

  “I have some questions. If you don't mind, General?” Sampson said. He leaned forward so that his elbows rested on his thighs. His eyes were steady on General Borislow, who was just as focused on Sampson.

  Ask any questions you wish. I don't have another meeting until ten. That gives us about twenty minutes to talk, but you can have more time if you need it. The Army has nothing to hide in this matter, I can tell you that much."

  Sampson still held Borislow's eyes. “Detective Cross and I have worked hundreds of homicide scenes, General. Some things about this one bother us a lot.”

  “What, specifically?”

  Sampson hesitated, then he went on. “Before I get into what bothers us, I was wondering if anything about the trial or the investigation bothered you?”

  General Shelly Borislow stayed in perfect control. A few things, actually. I suppose it could' be construed as a little too pat that Sergeant Cooper held on to th
e murder weapon. It was a valuable souvenir, though, from his years in Vietnam. And a souvenir from the murders themselves."

  “You're aware that Sergeant Cooper's apartment was broken into a day or two before the murders? We saw signs of the break-in and Cooper confirmed it. The knife could have been taken then,” Sampson said.

  Borislow nodded. “That's certainly possible, Detective. But isn't it also possible that the sergeant created the impression that there had been a break-in at his apartment? That's what CID concluded.”

  “A boy from the neighborhood saw three men in Tanya Jackson's yard around the time of the murders.”

  “The boy could have seen men in the yard. That's true. He also may have seen shadows from trees. It was a dark night, and windy. The boy is ten years old. He gave conflicting accounts of the night to police officers. As I said, Detective, I studied the case thoroughly.”

  “Blood that didn't match the murdered women's, or Sergeant Cooper's, was found at the homicide scene.”

  General Borislow's demeanor didn't change. “The judge in the case made the call not to allow that into evidence. If I had been the judge, I would have permitted the jury to hear about the blood. We'll never know about it now.”

  “Sergeant Cooper's military record before the murders was nearly perfect,” said Sampson.

  “He had an excellent record. The Army is well aware of that. It's one of the things that makes this such a tragedy.”

  Sampson sighed. He sensed he wasn't getting anywhere. I did too. “General, one more question and then we'll leave. We won't even take our allotted time.”

  Borislow didn't blink. “Go ahead with your question.”

  “It puzzles me that the Army made no real effort to come to Sergeant Cooper's defense. Not before or during the trial. Obviously, the Army isn't going to try and help him now. Why is that?”

  General Borislow nodded at the question, and pursed her lips before she answered it. “Detective Sampson, we appreciate the fact that Ellis Cooper is your friend, and that you've remained loyal to him. We admire that, actually. But your question is easy to answer. The Army, from top to bottom, believes that Sergeant Cooper is guilty of three horrific, cold-blooded murders. We have no intention of helping a murderer go free. I'm afraid that I'm convinced Cooper is a murderer too. I won't be supporting an appeal. I'm sorry that I don't have better news for you.”

  After our meeting, Sampson and I were escorted back through the labyrinth of hallways by General Borislow's aide. We were both silent as we walked the long walk to the main lobby.

  Once we had left the building and gone outside, he turned to me. “What do you think?”

  “I think the Army is hiding something,” I said. “And we don't have much time to find out what it is.”

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The following morning, Thomas Starkey got a clear picture of just how far things had gone for him. The clarifying incident took place less than two miles from his house in North Carolina.

  He had stopped at the local strip mall for copies of USA Today and the Rocky Mount Telegram, plus some raisin cinnamon bagels from the NY Style deli. It was raining hard that morning and he stood with the newspapers and warm bagels under the overhang at the mall, waiting for the downpour to slow.

  When it finally did, he started to wade through deep puddles toward his Suburban. As he did so, he spotted a couple sloshing toward him across the parking lot. They had just gotten out of an old blue pickup and they'd left the headlights on.

  “Hi, excuse me. Left your lights on,” Starkey called as they came forward. The woman turned to look. The man didn't. Instead, he started to talk, and it was clear he had a speech impediment. "Wir frum San Cros head'n La'nce.

  Forgath muh wuhlet n'mah pantz..."

  The woman cut in. “I'm awful sorry to bother you. We're from Sandy Cross goin' to Laurence,” she said. “So embarrassing. My brother left his wallet in his other pants. We don't even have money for gas to get back home.”

  “Kin you hep's?”asked the sputtering male.

  Starkey got the whole thing immediately. They'd left the goddamn truck lights on so he could be the one to make the first verbal contact, not them. The man's speech impediment was a fake and that's what really did it to him. His son Hank was autistic. Now these two shit heels were using a fake handicap as part of their cheap con to get money.

  Swiftly, Starkey had his handgun out. He wasn't sure himself what was going to happen next. All he knew was that he was really pissed off. Jesus, he was steamed.

  “Get on your knees, both of you,” he yelled, and thrust the gun into the male's unshaven, miserable excuse for a face. “Now you apologize, and you better talk right or I'll shoot you dead in this fucking parking lot.”

  He struck the kneeling man in the forehead with the barrel of his gun.

  “Jesus, I'm sorry. We're both sorry, mister. We jus' wanted a few bucks. Don't shoot! Please don't shoot us. We're good Christians.”

  “You both stay on your goddamn knees,” Starkey said. “You stay right there, and I don't want to see you around here again. Ever, ever.”

  He put his gun back in his jacket as he stomped off toward his car. He got to the Suburban and thanked God his teenage daughter was listening to rock music and not watching what was going on in the parking lot. Melanie was off in her own little world as usual.

  “Let's skedaddle home,” Starkey said as he scrunched down into the front seat. “And Mel, could you turn that damn music up?”

  That was when his daughter looked up and spotted the couple kneeling in the lot. “What's the matter with those two?” she asked her father. “They're like, kneeling in the rain.”

  Starkey finally managed a thin smile. “Guess they just been saved, and now they're thanking the Lord,” he said.

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Thirty

  On a cold day in early October, Sampson and I made the six-hour trip by car back to Central Prison in Raleigh. We talked very little on the ride down. The clock had run out on Ellis Cooper.

  Two days earlier, Cooper had been officially informed of his execution date by North Carolina's Department of Corrections. Then he had been moved to the prison's death watch area. Things were proceeding in an orderly, and deadly fashion.

  Sampson and I had been authorized by the Division of Prisons to visit Sergeant Cooper. When we arrived at Central Prison, about a dozen protesters were out in the parking areas. Most were women and they sang gentle folk songs that harked back to the Sixties or even earlier. Three or four held up signs condemning capital punishment.

  We hurried inside the prison and could still hear the mournful hymns beyond the heavy stone and mortar walls.

  The death watch area at Central had four cells lined up side by side and opened to a day room with a TV and shower. Ellis Cooper was the only prisoner on death watch at that time. Two corrections officers were stationed outside his cell twenty-four hours a day. They were respectful and courteous when we arrived.

  Ellis Cooper looked up as we entered the area and seemed glad to see us. He smiled and raised his hand in greeting.

  “Hello, Ellis,” Sampson said in a quiet voice as we took chairs outside the cell. “Well, we're back. Empty-handed, but we're back.”

  Cooper sat on a small stool on the other side of the bars. The legs of the stool were screwed into the floor. The cell itself was immaculately clean, and sparsely furnished with a bed, sink, toilet and a wall-mounted writing table. The scene was depressing and desperate.

  “Thank you for coming, John and Alex. Thanks for everything that you've done for me.”

  Tried to do,“ said Sampson. Tried and failed. Fucked up is all we did.”

  Cooper shook his head. “Just wasn't in the cards this time. Deck was stacked against us. Not your fault. Not anybody's,” he muttered. “Anyway, it's good to see the two of you. I was praying you'd come. Yeah, I'm praying now,”

  Sa
mpson and I knew that vigorous legal efforts were still proceeding to try to stop the execution, but there didn't seem much reason to talk about it. Not unless Cooper chose to bring it up, and he didn't. He seemed strangely at peace to me, the most relaxed I'd seen him.

  His salt-and-pepper hair was cut short and his prison coveralls were neat and looked freshly pressed.

  He smiled again. “Like a nice hotel in here, I know. Luxury hotel. Four stars, five diamonds, whatever signifies the finest. These two gentlemen take good care of me. Best I could expect under the circumstances. They think I'm guilty of the three murders, but they're pleasant all the same.”

  Then Cooper leaned into the steel bars and got as close as he could to Sampson. This is important for me to say, John. I know you did your best, and I hope you know that too. But like I said, the deck against me was stacked so goddamn high. I don't know who wanted me to die, but somebody sure did."

  He looked directly at Sampson. “John, I have no reason in the world to lie to you. Not now, not here on death watch. I didn't murder those women.”

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Twenty-four hours earlier, Sampson and I had signed an agreement to be searched before we entered the execution room. Now, at one o'clock in the morning, sixteen men and three women were led into the small viewing room inside the prison. One of the men was General Stephen Bowen from Bragg. He'd kept his promise to be there. The US Army's only representative.

  At twenty minutes past one in the morning, the black drapes to the execution chamber were opened for the witnesses. I didn't want to be there; I didn't need to see another execution to know how I felt about them. On the order of the prison warden, the lethal injection executioner approached Cooper. I heard Sampson take in a breath beside me. I couldn't imagine what it would be like for him to watch his friend die like this.