Fire Of Heaven Book I Blood of Heaven

by Bill Myers

  Around and around they went, playing the justice system for every delay they could. Then one day, for whatever the reason, Coleman had suddenly had enough. He had fired his lawyers and refused any more appeals or hearings. Some thought he was trying for an insanity plea. (If you’re crazy enough to want to die, you’re obviously too crazy to die.) Others, like Steiner, thought he was up to something else. But whatever his plan, it had backfired. Now, unless the governor were suddenly to have a change of heart, unlikely in today’s political climate, Coleman would soon be killed by electrocution.

  Many states still executed with gas; a few even used firing squads and hanging. But more and more were turning to what was considered the most humane process: lethal injection. No pain. Just sleep. Too bad Missy couldn’t have gone that way. Fortunately for her, Nebraska was one of eleven states still using the archaic, sometimes painfully inefficient electric chair.

  Another song rose from the other side of the parking lot: “We Shall Overcome.” The old Negro spiritual they had used during the civil-rights days. The comparison of civil liberties with the liberties of a convicted murderer filled Steiner with rage. But as the hymn softly rose from the parking lot, Steiner almost caught himself smiling. Let them sing. Let them cry. Let them pray. Michael Coleman would soon be dead. Justice may not be swift, but at least in this case, it would be inevitable.

  “We’ve got a problem.”

  Murkoski turned from the door of hospital room 7 and looked into the hallway. It was Hendricks, the electrician he’d flown in from Genodyne. “What are you doing up here?” Murkoski asked. “You should be downstairs with the chair.”

  “We’ve got ourselves a major problem.”

  Murkoski frowned. They’d run through every possibility, every permutation, a dozen times. Not only had they recorded Coleman’s response earlier that week, but they had continued the fine-tuning by using a fifty-five-gallon drum of water (somewhat similar in resistance to a 180-pound male). The chair had been recalibrated and retested, leaving nothing, absolutely nothing, to chance.

  “What do you mean, problem?” Murkoski asked.

  “See for yourself.” Hendricks motioned toward Coleman, who was still standing at the window above the parking lot. “The man is as cool as a cucumber.”

  “Why shouldn’t he be? After what we put him through last week, this is old news.”

  “It may be old news, but if he’s this relaxed, it’s going to completely invalidate our GSR measurements.”

  Murkoski’s frown deepened.

  Hendricks continued. “In this relaxed state, his body’s resistance will be much higher than what we’ve calibrated the chair for.”

  “But you can change it, right?”

  “If you don’t mind guesswork. Here’s the problem: If we keep the current as is, with his higher resistance, we may not be able to knock him out, let alone stop his heart.”

  “And if you increase the current?”

  “We could go too far, and you’d have a real execution.”

  Murkoski nodded and felt a faint trace of coolness on his forehead. He’d just broken into a sweat. He forced himself to relax. The past few weeks had been hard but exhilarating. For the first time in his life, he felt as if he’d actually been able to use all of his mental capabilities. It was like playing several games of chess at once: securing state permissions, running security checks, producing bogus reports, monitoring Coleman’s physical and mental state, running the electrical tests — all this under intense secrecy and the mounting pressure from his investors.

  His decision was swift. “Increase it thirty percent.”

  “Thirty percent?” Hendricks whispered. “No, you’re overcompensating. That’s too much, you’ll kill him.”

  “Thirty percent,” Murkoski firmly repeated, then turned and headed for Coleman. Even though Hendricks was sure that the increase in voltage would be too much, Murkoski still wasn’t satisfied. He was used to winning at any cost, even if it meant stacking the deck. And he was about to add a few more aces to the game.

  He scowled. He hated working with people. Give him cold data, lab findings, clinical results, computer hypotheses. But introduce a human being into the mix, and suddenly the variables skyrocketed. Still, as with everything else in Murkoski’s life, he was sure that he could improvise and overcome any surprise.

  The most recent improvisation had been just last night. Everyone involved had agreed that, like the electrician, Ms. Irene Lacy, the county coroner, must also be replaced by someone from Genodyne. That replacement would be the one to hustle Coleman’s body into the ambulance, revive him, sign the false autopsy report, and supply a John Doe body from the morgue for cremation and burial. Everyone had agreed, that is, except Ms. Irene Lacy. She was in no mood for an unplanned, three-day weekend. And when pressed on the issue, she had become hostile.

  To smooth things over, Murkoski had invited her to dinner. Just the two of them. How could she refuse? After all, she was a single female, and he was the young and ever-so-good-looking Dr. Kenneth Murkoski. That she had agreed mostly out of curiosity had barely registered with him.

  Over the French onion soup, he had explained how sorry he was that he couldn’t divulge the details of this “matter of national security.” Lacy had been unimpressed, and over the baked salmon she had questioned the legality of his plan.

  He had been planning to wait until dessert to raise the monetary issue — ten thousand dollars tops — but decided early that there would be no point. He already knew her answer. Bullheaded, pragmatic, false sense of morality — people like that often said no and even feigned offense when someone tried to buy them. She might even try to file charges against him for bribery.

  Murkoski had no choice. When she rose and excused herself to the lady’s room, he reached into his finely tailored suit coat and removed a Visine bottle. Earlier that day, he had rinsed it and replaced its contents. Discreetly, he leaned over and measured out four drops of the new contents into her coffee. It would be undetectable, but the genetically altered botulism would multiply in her digestive tract until she was so sick she would be unable to go to work the following day.

  That had been his fallback plan. But, now that he had spent an hour with her in conversation, Murkoski held the Visine bottle in his hand and reconsidered. She was a strong woman. Determined. Four drops would be enough to make her sick, but a die-hard like Lacy might insist on showing up for work anyway.

  Murkoski reached over and poured another three drops, hesitated, and then added two more drops into her coffee. The cramps and nausea would be severe. Maybe lethal. Of course, the latter possibility wasn’t his preference, but he had to be certain. There was too much riding on this. Regardless of the outcome, the tests would show that she had simply contracted an extreme case of food poisioning.

  Murkoski felt little remorse as he watched her drink the coffee. It wasn’t his fault that she’d been so uncooperative.

  And now to the current problem of Coleman being too relaxed.

  The convicted killer stood near the window saying final good-byes to three of his friends who would also serve as witnesses. He had no living relatives, at least no one who cared. And it had been agreed upon that none of these friends would be told the truth. For in reality, they really were saying good-bye. The Michael Coleman they knew would soon be dead. Regardless of whether the chair worked as expected or not, in a matter of minutes, this Michael Coleman would no longer exist.

  On the other side of the room stood one of the prison physicians, a short, rotund man. Beside him, the remaining witnesses — four from the media and three from legal and law enforcement offices.

  Before Murkoski could reach Coleman, he was interrupted by John Hulls, one of the associate wardens. The actual warden had been “called away” on out-of-state business. Hulls had known that something was up for weeks, but he had been instructed to carry out the execution to the letter, no questions asked. Despite the recent changes in personnel and Murkoski’s f
ree-reining presence at all the proceedings, Hulls, the prison physician, and the guards had been instructed to run the execution by the book. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” he called. “May I have your attention? Excuse me, please.”

  The room settled down as Hulls unfolded a single piece of paper. “I have here the death warrant. I’m supposed to read it now.”

  The room grew even more quiet, and he began:

  “To: the Warden of the Nebraska State Penitentiary, Lincoln, Nebraska, from the Supreme Court of Nebraska.

  “Whereas, the Nebraska Supreme Court has released its opinion in this matter on January 2, directing the Clerk of the Supreme Court to issue her warrant, under the seal of this Court, to the Warden of the Nebraska State Penitentiary.

  “Now, therefore, you are hereby commanded to proceed on Friday, January 14, between the hours of 12:01 a.m. and 11:59 p.m. to carry said sentence of death by electrocution into execution by causing the passage of an electric current through the body of Michael Hutton Coleman, until dead, as provided by law.

  “You shall make return hereof of the manner of your execution to this warrant and of your doings thereon to the Clerk of the District Court of Douglas County, Nebraska.

  “Signed, Brenda J. Elliott, Clerk of the Supreme Court.”

  Associate Warden Hulls folded the piece of paper and in a much less official tone added, “It’s time to start wrapping up, folks. We’ll be needing you witnesses to follow your escort to the observation room while we make final preparations up here.”

  Murkoski waited as Coleman said his last good-byes to his friends. He was impressed by the tears filling the man’s eyes. Amazing. In just six weeks he, Kenneth Murkoski, had turned this killing machine into a compassionate, caring human being. And that was only the beginning. Regardless of whether the chair worked as planned or not, Pandora’s box had been opened, and the world would never be the same again.

  As Coleman finished his final set of hugs, Murkoski approached. “Excuse me, Mr. Coleman?”

  Coleman wiped the tears from his eyes and looked at him. Murkoski was careful not to meet his gaze. Lately, the way the man searched and probed people’s eyes, it was almost as if he knew what they were thinking. At this point, that would definitely be a disadvantage. He cleared his throat and continued. “I’m afraid we have a problem.”

  “A problem?”

  “It’s the power supply. There’s a major glitch.” He saw the rhythm of Coleman’s breathing change. A good sign.

  “What type of glitch?”

  “I don’t understand it all. It’s something to do with switching to another power company. As you know, the local carrier feels it’s bad publicity to be killing you with their juice, the same juice that goes on down the line and lights up somebody’s home. We had to transfer to another company. But when we did, well, somehow the resistance has changed. I don’t know the details, but now our readings are off.”

  He could feel Coleman’s eyes searching him, and he was certain the man knew that he was lying. But that was okay. The details didn’t matter, just as long as he thought he was being double-crossed, just as long as he thought he might actually die.

  “You gave me your word.” There was a faint trembling in Coleman’s voice. Mostly anger. Hopefully a little fear. Things were getting better by the minute.

  “Cole?” Associate Warden Hulls approached. “I’m afraid it’s time.”

  Coleman’s eyes darted to the associate warden, then to Murkoski, then back to the warden again. He was beginning to panic. “You gave me your word!” he repeated.

  Murkoski shrugged. “These things happen.” Then, turning, he headed for the door.

  “You gave me your word!”

  Murkoski said nothing. The past weeks of observing prison dynamics had taught him something about playing people.

  “Murkoski!”

  “Please, Mr. Coleman,” the associate warden said, trying to calm him.

  “Murkoski!”

  “Cole —”

  “You gave me your word!”

  Murkoski stepped outside and let the blue metal door slam behind him. He headed down the hall and descended the stairs to the basement. In the control room, he joined Hendricks and William Pederson, the other Genodyne employee, a good-natured Norwegian from their medical staff who would serve as the substitute assistant county coroner.

  The ancient transformer that filled most of the room looked like something from an old Frankenstein movie. It had been turned on at 11:15 and now hummed in ominous anticipation. Hendricks brooded over the machine as Pederson stood at the one-way glass, staring past the chair and into the witness room where the ten witnesses were nervously taking their seats. A guard at the door was discreetly offering them small paper bags, a precaution in case anyone got sick.

  “Everything on schedule?” Murkoski asked.

  Pederson nodded.

  Hendricks didn’t look up from his tinkering with the transformer. “I think you’re making a mistake,” was all he said.

  “If necessary, can you cut it from a thirty percent increase down to a fifteen?” Murkoski asked.

  “What’s the point of doing all these tests and rehearsals if we’re just going to keep guessing and shooting from the —”

  “Can you cut it down to fifteen percent?”

  Hendricks returned the curtness. “I can cut it any way you want it.”

  “Then do it.” Without waiting for a reply, Murkoski turned toward Pederson. “Where’s your stopwatch?”

  Pederson pointed to the sports watch on his wrist.

  “You’ve got six-and-a-half minutes.”

  Pederson nodded. “The ambulance is running. The defib is inside and charged. A backup is on standby.”

  “Good.”

  The elevator doors rattled open. Coleman, two guards, and the rotund prison doctor emerged. Once again Coleman’s head was jelled and he was perspiring. Not like last week, but far more than before Murkoski’s little lie. Murkoski refused to meet the convict’s eyes as they silently escorted Coleman past him and into the execution chamber.

  Murkoski and Hendricks joined Pederson at the one-way glass. The guards had closed the gold curtains between the death chamber and the witness room in case there was a struggle from Coleman. But he gave no resistance as they silently and efficiently strapped him in and buckled each of the nine buckles.

  Murkoski tried to swallow, but his mouth was bone-dry. “What do you think?”

  “What did you say to him?” Hendricks marveled. “He looks a lot worse.”

  “You think he’s nervous enough, then?”

  “I think even the fifteen percent could kill him now. Let me cut it back to —”

  “No,” Murkoski ordered. “Keep it as is.”

  “But —”

  “Keep it as is,” Murkoski repeated as he looked back out the window.

  When the final strap was buckled, they reopened the curtains. The first row of witnesses sat ten feet from the glass, the second just behind them. Each could clearly see that it was Michael Hutton Coleman who was about to be executed.

  Murkoski watched as Coleman looked each of the witnesses in the eye. The man seemed to be trying to comfort and encourage them. Murkoski was stunned. Coleman actually appeared more concerned over what they were about to experience than what he was about to face. Murkoski swore softly and gave an angry swipe at the sweat trickling down his own temples.

  “I strongly recommend we cut it back to what we had,” Hendricks said.

  Murkoski gave no answer but took a deep breath to steady himself. Through the glass he could hear the associate warden asking whether Coleman had any last words.

  “We might fry him,” Hendricks warned.

  Murkoski took another breath.

  “I’m serious. I know what I’m talking about.”

  Murkoski gave no answer.

  Pederson reached for his watch, preparing to start it.

  Coleman was saying something to the assist
ant warden, but Murkoski couldn’t hear.

  “Come on,” Hendricks insisted.

  The guards closed the curtains and quickly and efficiently attached the electrodes to Coleman’s head and his left calf. When these were secure, they finally placed the leather mask over his face — a crude affair with a V cut out for the nose. But it didn’t quite fit, and it flattened the cartilage against Coleman’s face. Most thought the mask served as a courtesy for the condemned, allowing them to face their final moment in privacy. Prison officials understood that it was to spare the witnesses from the condemned’s expression as 2,450 volts surged through his body.

  Hendricks crossed toward the rotary switch at the far end of the transformer. Murkoski felt the man’s eyes still on him. “He deserves a break,” Hendricks insisted. “After all he’s done for us, he deserves a break.”

  Murkoski continued wrestling with the pros and cons. If the current was too weak, the doctor, the guards, the associate warden, the media, the witnesses — somebody would suspect something was wrong. There would be questions that would have to be answered, questions that might expose either the experiment or Murkoski’s superiors.

  Too much current, and Coleman would be killed. They would have to start over from scratch.

  The curtains reopened and the associate warden stepped out of the execution chamber, closing the door behind him.

  “Come on,” Hendricks whispered harshly.

  Murkoski stared at the masked form, sitting on the other side of the glass, three feet away.

  The assistant warden appeared in the doorway and nodded to Hendricks. Hendricks saw him but did nothing as he stared at Murkoski’s back, waiting.