by Tim Green
This, however, was a different story. They were accusing him and he didn't know if he did or didn't do it. He didn't think he did, but they were telling him that it happened that way sometimes. They were telling him they could get him some help, but he had to help them first. He wanted to help, and he wanted some help himself, mainly a quart of Yukon or a bag of reefer. What they said was starting to make sense.
Caleb heard the tinkling of keys and then the rattle of the lock. He looked up to see a tall, hard-looking trooper wearing a big pistol.
"Get up," the trooper said.
Caleb did, and followed him. He knew where he was headed and he knew who would be there. Calebs limbs trembled and he swatted at his back where it seemed little crawlies were running up and down his spine. He ducked through a doorway and entered a small boxlike room.
Major Slaughter looked up at Caleb Voles through his big yellow-tinted glasses. Slaughter had three cups of coffee in his system and was determined to get a confession. It was now or never. He knew that the long arm of the Constitution could reach even as far as Belle Glade when it came to protecting criminals like the one before him now Actually, Slaughter had no beef with the Constitution itself. He loved America. It was the countless Amendments and Supreme Court rulings that sickened him. The Constitution was fine in the beginning. The way Slaughter figured, if it needed anything different, God would have made it that way in the first place.
The major knew he had to indict the piece of white trash in front of him in a hurry. Or let him go. He'd delayed due process long enough in his attempt to get a confession. If he let it go any longer, Voles might walk on a technicality. Slaughter knew he was lucky to have gotten two days. Most criminals were smart enough to start crowing about a lawyer after about the first twelve hours. Voles was too dumb for that. He hadn't even blinked when they read him his Miranda. Once he went from being an arrested suspect to an indicted criminal, a lawyer would have to become involved whether Caleb asked for him or not, and Slaughter had never known a lawyer to advise his client to plead guilty. Lawyers were trash, too. In fact, the major knew for certain that it was lawyers who were responsible for fiddling with the Constitution in the first place, giving criminals far too much protection.
The major stared hard at Caleb, until he began to squirm. The rain still beat heavily on the roof above their heads. Slaughter pushed a typed-out confession across the table toward his prisoner. A clear plastic Bic pen was on top of the paper. Caleb could see that its back end had been gnawed, like a carrot in a gerbil cage, he thought.
"I want you to know something, boy," Slaughter began. "If you sign this, I'm not going to let them execute you. I'm going to make sure they put you in one of them loony jails with all the other crazies. It's not so bad there, Caleb. Kind of like a hotel, some people say . . . But if you don't sign this, Caleb, and admit what we already know you did ... I promise you, boy, you're going to be sitting in the electric chair."
Slaughter let his words sink in. Caleb started to shake, just a little, but it gave the major confidence.
"I've got to tell you, son," he said in a low, almost compassionate voice, his head tilted down so Caleb could see the major's eyes clearly for the first time, peeping over the top of the glasses, "when they strap you in there, they have to shave your head because heat from the charge melts your flesh. If they left your hair on, they say you'd go up like a match.
"They stick a hunk of rubber in your mouth to keep your teeth from shattering like old jelly jars," the major continued. "But the worst thing, I guess, is your eyes . . . They have to tape right over them, because when that electricity goes burning through your body, it blasts your eyeballs out of your head like a couple of champagne corks. Imagine that? They come busting right out of your head . . ."
Slaughter pursed his thick lips, wrinkling the expanse of skin under his chin, and shook his head in sad amazement.
"The tape keeps them from shooting across the room," he explained, "but I guess the blood comes shooting out of those eyeholes like geysers. Shit! I'd hate to have to watch you burn and bust apart at the seams like that, Caleb. I don't think you even remember what you did! I think one of them hotel jobbies for the crazies is where you should be. They drug you up like hell in there and I guess you just kind of float around, peaceful-like, I guess."
Caleb Voles tucked one foot up under his leg, biting his knee. He ran a yellow bone-thin hand over his face before forcing it through his thick tangled hair. He was shaking now. He was blubbering, too.
"Shit," Slaughter said, shaking his head sadly, "the state attorney cant wait to electrocute you. He wants your ass in that chair so bad . . .
"Well," he said, rising from his seat and reaching across the table to take the confession back, "I told him I wanted one last chance to save you before I turned you over to the court. I got no say in the matter once that happens. It's okay, Caleb. Maybe if I'd done those things I'd want to die, too. It's just such a damn ugly way to go! I can't imagine what it would feel like to have my head start burning up and my eyeballs exploding, choking on that big hunk of rubber . . ."
"No!" Caleb shrieked, jumping forward and grabbing for the sheet of paper and the pen that were now just out of his reach.
"No, please," he begged, looking up into the major's eyes. "Please, let me sign it."
The major watched without even a hint of a smile as Caleb Voles tried to scratch out a legible version of his name. Slaughter had no intention of intervening in the prosecution of Voles. That Caleb was freely confessing to the crime was proof positive of his guilt. Slaughter knew for a fact that he himself would never think of confessing to something he hadn't done, no matter what was promised to him. As far as the major was concerned, the confession added weight to the notion that the human garbage in front of him should be snuffed out as prescribed by law. He'd get the location of the bodies later. He already had the heads, and for now, those and a confession were all he needed.
When Caleb finished, the major yanked the confession from his hand and examined it. Satisfied he had what he needed, he turned without another word and left the room. Caleb looked after him in horror. This was not what he'd expected at all. The major should have said something reassuring. Caleb was filled with a terrible dread that what he'd just done was wrong. But, as had been the case throughout his miserable life, it was too late to change it. There was no sense in even hoping that things would come out all right. They never had. They never would. Caleb stared down at the mangled ballpoint pen that the major had left with him in his hasty departure and waited for the guard to take him back to his cell.
Chapter 26
The state attorneys offices for Palm Beach County were located in a relatively new building, a top-heavy, monolithic structure located near the courthouse. Chris Pelo thought that only a building bought and paid for by the government could turn out so drab and ungainly Out front was an ascetic-looking pond with a single fountain that shot up from the middle of the murky water with all the fanfare of a forgotten garden hose. The parking lots were out back. On Friday morning there were a dozen empty visitor spots right up close, and Chris wheeled in between two yellow lines with precision.
Mark Berryhills office was on the top floor of the building, affording him a less-than-magnificent view of the neighboring industrial district, the interstate, some power lines, and swampy vegetation. Berryhill was a young man, especially for such an important post. He had numerous diplomas and credentials, and his father had been the state attorney in Palm Beach for many years. Berryhill was a blond man of medium height with handsome chiseled features. The style and fit of his off-the-rack blue suit didnt quite match his athletic frame. Madison supposed he would have been more at ease in a sweat suit. Berryhill's large desk was covered with papers and files, all neatly arranged. Studio portraits of his wife and children lined his office bookshelves. Madison thought it was a good sign that the photos were placed in front of the political and legal memorabilia that inevitably clutters the office
of any man involved in public life.
"Can I get you some coffee?" the state attorney asked, thank you," Madison said. Chris nodded as well.
"How do you take it?"
"Black," said Madison.
"Me, too," said Chris.
Berryhill nodded and left the office to get it himself. Another good sign. Still, Madison remained alert. She'd seen too many things to be lulled into complacency by good manners and an affable smile.
"Thank you for seeing me so soon," Madison said when they were all seated around a small conference table in one corner of the office.
"No problem," Berryhill said, taking a swallow from his own mug. "This is a very big case. I know your reputation, Ms. McCall, and I want to work with you as well as I can. As you probably know already, the state of Florida is one of the better places to have committed a crime."
"Or to be unjustly accused of having done so," Madison interjected pleasandy.
Berryhill stopped and seemed to smile despite himself. "Yes, that, too," he said. "Either way you look at it, I'm compelled to give you any and all discovery material I have: physical evidence, police reports, statements. . ."
The state attorney missed a beat.
"I see by your expression that you know all this. I didn't mean to lecture you."
"That's quite all right," Madison replied. "I appreciate your candor. I know from my local counsel that you have a reputation for being tough, but a straight-shooter, and a decent person as well.
"Even if you are on the wrong side of the aisle," Madison added. "I'd like to convince you not to go through with the indictment. It will mean a lot of very bad publicity for my client."
"Not go through?" Berryhill said, raising his blond eyebrows. "I've got the grand jury convening this afternoon. I've got your client in a vise, Ms. McCall. That's out of the question. With all due respect, this indictment is a slam dunk . . .
"Mel Rosen is your local guy?" Berryhill said, changing course.
"Yes."
"Good man, too," he said.
"Yes, he is," Madison agreed.
"Well," the prosecutor began, lifting the top page of a legal pad that rested on the table in front of him, "here's what I've got, Ms. McCall. Evan Chase was an Olympic swimmer. He swam every day along the beach where he lived. The medical examiner found extensive contusions on Chase's leg. Evidently he was pulled beneath the surface and held there until he drowned. Because Chase was such a strong swimmer, we believe that only a strong man using oxygen tanks could have accomplished this.
"I've also got Luther Zorn having an affair with the wife," he continued. "They both admitted it. I've got Luther at the scene of the murder. He denied it in his first interview with the police, but Vivian Chase saw him outside the house on the beach. After searching Charlene King's house, his girlfriend, we found the scuba gear we're pretty sure he used. Now, Charlene King herself seems to have disappeared and we don't know what's going on there, but before she did, she spoke to an investigator and confirmed that Luther was at her house the night before the murder. She also said he left her house no later than four A. M., which gave him more than enough time to get to the murder scene. When Luther was asked about this, he contradicted Charlene King and Vivian Chase. You'll get a copy of the videotape as well as a transcript of all the interviews. It's a lie, Ms. McCall. He was there, he had the gear, he had the motive, he lied to the police.
"Something else," Berryhill added. "The police found a necklace that belonged to Charlene King in Luther's car on the day he was arrested. She hasn't been seen since. I hope he didn't do anything to her when he found out she had talked to the police . . ."
Madison was jolted by the prosecutor s revelations, but she was conditioned to conceal her emotions. She quickly devised some rationalizations for the circumstances Berryhill described.
"You don't really have all that much, Mr. Berryhill," Madison said dismissively, scratching something into a pad of her own as she spoke. She wanted to float her ideas to see how Berryhill would respond. "Charlene King is a nonissue. She was Luther's girlfriend and a necklace in his car is easily explained. As far as anyone knows, she's hiding somewhere, unharmed. Everything else is circumstantial as well. The scuba gear means nothing. There are thousands of people with scuba gear. There's no way to prove it was even his. It wasn't in his house that you found it. By the way, please call me Madison."
"It was his house. He owns it. Charlene and her son just live there. Luther has a key. The suit is Luther's size, an unusually large size," Mark Berryhill said. "It had been used within the past two weeks. It was still wet."
"Has Vivian Chase indicted Luther in any other way?" Madison asked, outwardly unfazed by another blow to her defense.
"She told the police that Luther had spoken vaguely about how it would be good if her husband was out of the picture." Berryhill nodded. "She believed Luther had big plans."
"I think it was Vivian Chase who had the big plans, Mark," Madison interjected. "You better check her out before you go too much further with your grand jury. I think she may be lying about the whole thing. Luther could have left Charlene's house for any reason. Vivian is the only person putting Luther at the scene of the crime, and she has more of a motive for wanting her husband dead than Luther.
"Luther isn't in love with Vivian Chase," Madison speculated. "She's just another plaything for him. Otherwise, what was he doing at Charlene King's house in the first place?"
Berryhill seemed to consider this, but it was really something else he was thinking of.
"I'm sorry," he said, flipping his pages back toward the front of his pad. "I didn't mean to omit the parking ticket."
"Parking ticket?" Madison said with a scowl.
"fes, a park ranger ticket," Berryhill said, finding it in his notes. "Luther Zorn's car was parked in the north lot at MacCarther National Park. The citation was for overnight parking. It was issued at six-fifty-three. The lot doesn't open until seven. You'll get a copy of the ticket along with the other material. Luther Zorn was there, Ms. McCall."
Madison blinked. She relied on every ounce of self-control to keep from showing the turmoil she felt. Luther Zorn had lied to her, extensively. It was the one thing she could not accept. The only time Madison had withdrawn from a case had been when her client lied to her. When she discovered the truth, she was put in the untenable situation of having to break her code of ethics and perpetuate the lie herself, or destroy her client's case. She had chosen instead to withdraw. It was never pretty when an attorney withdrew from a client. In that case it was three days before the trial. Dropping Luther at this point wouldn't be nearly as harmful.
"His car was there," Madison corrected him calmly. "That doesn't mean Luther was there."
Berryhill shrugged. "Well, it certainly corroborates Vivian Chase's story in my mind, but that's arguable. That's your job, after all, to argue."
Madison was steaming, but she comforted herself with the notion that it might not be her job for long.
Major Slaughter made the evening news on ABC in Tampa and Fox in West Palm Beach. It was a very big day, the biggest of his life. He had cracked the brutal murders of three as-yet-unidentified people. He solved the crime within days of arriving on the scene. The people of Florida were much safer knowing that law enforcement officers like the major were out there, bringing criminals down with the swiftness and certainty of a lion running down a gazelle.
It wasn't until the next morning that Caleb Voles was discovered in his cell. His pasty-looking corpse was drained of almost all its blood. Fortunately, the big news was Caleb's capture and confession, not his subsequent suicide. The network news trucks wouldn't be making the long trip to Belle Glade twice in two days to fuss over a dead murderer. That was good for the major, because it was certainly a mistake to have allowed a man who was so obviously unbalanced to keep a Bic pen. Its plastic casing, splintered the right way, left Caleb with a cutting edge sharp enough and durable enough to sever a vein in each of his wrists.
He'd lain down in the dark to bleed to death. No one knew or suspected that the worst part of the whole thing for Caleb was that he was still conscious when the rats began to slink out of their holes to feast on the sticky crimson pool forming beneath him on the concrete floor.
The majors minor oversight regarding the pen in no way dampened his own spirits. He had to wonder at all the fuss people made over solving murders in the first place. It seemed pretty straightforward to him, and he hoped that in the future, when law enforcement people around the state had problems getting to the bottom of certain cases, they would think of him as a resource. He was a natural sleuth. Almost everyone who worked for him and with him seemed to agree.
The major was in full uniform, his polished black boots resting on the low windowsill, idly watching through the slits in his blinds as the coroner and his assistant loaded Caleb Voless body into the back of their black station wagon. Voless tall angular frame didnt want to fit into the back, even though the seat was down. Because the body was so stiff, the two men struggled for some time. The major whistled while he watched. That was how Emmit Stone found him, back turned, his feet on the window, whistling.
"Thank you for seeing me, Major," Emmit said hesitantly, removing his broad-brimmed hat.
"No problem, Sheriff," Slaughter said over his shoulder, watching as the coroner s car finally swung out of the parking lot and onto the boulevard. He could afford to be magnanimous. He felt a little sorry for the young sheriff, knowing how inadequate he must feel. He probably wouldn't have taken time out of his busy day to see Emmit, but he was curious about the purpose of the visit.
"I ... I know this is going to sound a little strange to you, Major," Emmit began, creasing his eyes with worry, "but despite whats happened, I don't think Caleb Voles was the man who killed those people."
The major swung his head back over his shoulder to look at Emmit Stone, standing there in his office, with his drab chocolate uniform and his shiny brass star and one of the stupidest expressions of hope on his face that the major had ever seen.
