Heart of a Killer

by David Rosenfelt

  We won, at least that round. The court found a compelling public interest in the case being heard immediately, and ordered the lower court to do just that. They took two paragraphs to make the point that they were not rendering an opinion on the merits of the case itself; they were simply affirming our right to be heard, and heard quickly.

  Actually, the court distinguished between our lawsuit and the underlying issue. Since a lawsuit could naturally involve damages to the state if it lost, they were entitled to sufficient time to prepare. The court could not fairly reverse that, though they encouraged the lower court to move rapidly.

  It was in the matter of judging whether the Corrections Department made the right decision in the first place that the court insisted on an almost immediate resolution, and that was the area we would have to focus on. The lawsuit could be handled later, and the sad truth was that the potential damages would hinge on whether Karen, and Sheryl, lived or died.

  I turned on the phone and started answering the calls, which came in rapid succession. I basically said the same thing to each reporter: “We are happy the court ruled the way it did, and Sheryl Harrison looks forward to her day in court. The system works, and it will continue to do so. The net result, we hope and expect, will be that an innocent young girl’s life will be saved.”

  Then I went outside and tried to pretend I was still a normal, noncelebrity human being by going outside and walking to the supermarket. The media was waiting for me, and walked along with me every step of the way, with me waxing eloquent about the court’s ruling.

  It was a simple, three-block walk, but it felt like a victory lap.

  Karen learned the news from her grandmother. As much as she dreaded the conversation, Terry decided that she couldn’t wait any longer. Karen, though still hospitalized, was feeling stronger and was certainly more alert. That meant she wanted to watch television, and wanted the remote control in her hand.

  It also meant that she wanted to talk on the phone, and text with her friends. It was the way of the fourteen-year-old, and therefore it was well beyond Terry’s ability to control the flow of information.

  So Terry told her that they needed to have a very serious conversation, and she laid it out, straight and direct, the way they always talked. The only shading of the truth was Terry’s saying that Karen’s mother wanted to do this “if necessary.”

  “How do I get her to change her mind?” was the first thing Karen asked.

  “The best way is for you to get better.” Karen was not fully aware that she was dying, or that the chances of finding another heart were as remote as they really were. “It’s a backup plan,” Terry said. “But the way the media is, they build up the story, you know? Just stay strong and healthy, and all this will go away.”

  After a while, Karen started to sob. They were soft, quiet sobs, which reflected not an anger but an unspeakable sadness. Terry held her as she cried, and they cried together. It wasn’t the first time, and Terry hoped it wouldn’t be the last.

  When there was no crying left, Karen said, “Grandma, I can’t let that happen.”

  “Then stay strong.”

  “It’s my heart that doesn’t work, not hers. I can’t let her die. I can’t kill her.”

  “You would not be doing anything to her, Karen. It would be her choice, and her joy.”

  “Would you do it? For her?” Karen asked.

  “Would I give my daughter my heart? Is that what you’re asking?”

  “Yes.”

  She smiled. “In a heartbeat.”

  “I’m serious,” Karen said.

  Terry nodded. “So am I. I would do it for her, and I would do it for you. And my mother would have done it for me. That’s the way we’re wired, sweetheart. You’ll know what I mean when you have a child, and a grandchild.”

  “But how could I live, knowing she did that?”

  “The same way I live, knowing that my daughter is in prison for something she did not do.”

  Terry regretted the words as soon as they came out of her mouth. She had never said them before; it was a solemn oath to Sheryl, that she now had broken.

  “What do you mean? She didn’t kill him?”

  “No, in my heart I can’t let myself believe that she did.”

  It was a deception; Terry knew that, but it was the only way she knew to cover her mistake. And it worked; Karen didn’t press her on it anymore.

  “We live one day at a time, sweetheart. And before you know it, it’s tomorrow. And if that isn’t any better, the good news is that there’s another day coming right after that.”

  She hugged her granddaughter closer. “We just need to keep those days coming.”

  The fake ID in Charlie Harrison’s wallet was in the name of William Beverly. It was a Pennsylvania license, with an address in King of Prussia.

  Novack assumed that it was a fake name and address, as most fabricated IDs are. But with a very short time on the computer, and one phone call, Novack learned otherwise, and he was able to gather a good deal of information on the real William Beverly.

  Beverly was thirty-five years old at the time of Charlie’s murder, which made him two years younger than Charlie. He worked for a major clothing manufacturer as a salesman, which put him on the road almost constantly.

  It didn’t take much more digging to learn that Beverly had lived in King of Prussia all his life. He went to Penn State for two years, but dropped out to earn money soon after his parents died in a car accident. That left just William and his brother, James, who was two years older than William.

  At first nothing seemed unusual or particularly relevant to the Harrison case, except of course for the fact that Beverly’s driver’s license was in the dead guy’s wallet.

  But then something else caught Novack’s eye, and his cop’s instinct alarm instantly went off. James Beverly was dead, the result of mistakenly taking two incompatible drugs. And according to the public records, he died two weeks before Charlie Harrison.

  There was obviously more to be gained by digging further on the computer, but Novack was a street guy, and he felt that this was the time to be on the street. In this case the street was Carbondale Road in King of Prussia, specifically number 241, William Beverly’s address, as indicated on the ID in Charlie Harrison’s wallet.

  Novack made the normally two-hour drive in an hour and forty, and with the help of his GPS found the house easily enough. It was on a hill near the top of a private road. There were three houses on the hill, and their mailboxes were at the bottom of the road.

  There were two cars in the driveway of number 241, and that, plus music coming from inside the house, made it obvious that someone was home. It was rap or hip-hop or something; Novack wasn’t sure which, but it didn’t matter, since he hated them both.

  Novack rang the bell, and the door was opened by a teenage boy, probably fifteen years old.

  “I’m looking for William Beverly,” Novack said, talking loudly to be heard above the annoying music.

  “Who? Beverly? Never heard of her.”

  “William Beverly. Is anybody else home?”

  “Just my mother. But she’s busy.”

  Novack took out his badge and held it up. “Get her.”

  The young man did just that, and within thirty seconds had fetched his mother, a beleaguered-looking woman who turned off the music as soon as she entered the room, earning Novack’s undying gratitude.

  He identified himself as a policeman, and said that he was looking for William Beverly.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t think I know the name,” she said. “Who is he?”

  “He used to live here,” Novack said. “As recently as six years ago.”

  “No, sir. I’ve lived here for fourteen.”

  Additional questions from Novack got him nothing more than that, so he went to the other two houses on the hill. The family living in the nearest house had only lived there three months; they were renting. But they had never heard of William Beverly.
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br />   The family in the other house had lived there close to forever; the woman Novack spoke with was in her fifties and she grew up there. She said quite definitively that no family named Beverly had ever lived on that street, or in that neighborhood.

  Next stop for Novack was Finley Fashions, the dress manufacturer for whom Beverly worked. Their office was in downtown King of Prussia, and it was a small one. Their actual manufacturing was done in Vietnam, and their materials came from Thailand. With their salesmen spending most of their time on the road, there was no reason to have a lot of employees in their local office.

  Novack’s questions at Finley brought the same response as in Beverly’s home neighborhood. The manager, a woman named Hilda Stenowitz, clearly thought Novack’s arrival was incredibly exciting, and she tried her hardest to be helpful.

  Even though she had been in that office for fourteen years and would certainly know Beverly if he had worked there, she dutifully went to the files to check. The process took about ten minutes, and Novack was impatient, since by now he knew what the result would be.

  “Never had an employee by that name,” she said.

  Novack nodded, thanked her, and left. His next stop was city hall, where the physical documents in the records department confirmed that no one named William or James Beverly ever lived in King of Prussia, or for that matter, anywhere in Montgomery County.

  Novack had the drive home to try and make sense out of all this. The fact that Harrison’s fake ID was of a fake person with a fake address wouldn’t ordinarily be much of a surprise.

  What was apparently inexplicable was the fact that cyber records had shown Beverly to be very real. Novack’s online search before his trip confirmed Beverly’s address, listed his employer, and gave him a fairly full history.

  He would dig into it more, as well as everything related to James, William’s brother. Maybe he’d discover that there was a rational explanation for all of this, and that everything was as the online information made it seem.

  Or maybe William Beverly, real or not, was the reason that Charlie Harrison had his throat slit.

  Captain Larry Whitaker’s mind was wandering. Daydreaming in this fashion while working is generally frowned upon in the pilot community, though it’s understood that they all do it. Especially when flying runs like Southern Air Flight 3278, Atlanta–Charlotte, as Whitaker was doing for the fifth time that week.

  At fifty-two years old, Whitaker found his daydreams during that particular flight involved looking ahead three years, to retirement age, when his pension would kick in. His two kids were long out of the house, doing well on their own, and he and wife, Ginny, wanted to travel.

  Atlanta to Charlotte was not in their travel plans.

  The weather was perfect on that particular day, and once Whitaker settled the Regional jet in at 31,000 feet, the plane could pretty much fly itself. In fact, since it had made this particular run more than Whitaker, he wouldn’t be surprised if the onboard computers could reach Charlotte, land on their own, thank the fifty-five passengers, and unload the luggage.

  That day was coming, but Whitaker was thankful he wouldn’t be around to see it.

  Flight 3278 was about fifty-five minutes from Charlotte, close to entering the domain of Charlotte air traffic control. The controller who would be bringing it in to its uneventful landing would be Denise Weber, herself just finishing fourteen years on the job.

  It was approaching 2:00 P.M., a comparatively slow time of the day, and Denise was having a cup of coffee to keep her alert. She did this because everybody else did, not because she had ever been able to discern any such effect from caffeine. The truth was, she could drink a gallon of it at night and go right to sleep.

  A moment later, Denise got more of a jolt than the coffee could have ever provided. Her phone rang, flashing red at the same time. It was the emergency line, and in all her time on the job it had only rung twice before.

  She picked it up on the first ring. “Weber.”

  “I think there’s something wrong with one of your airplanes.” It was a little girl’s voice; Denise thought she couldn’t be more than five years old. She had absolutely no way of knowing that a grown man, Nolan Murray, was actually doing the speaking, with his voice going through a synthesizer to change it to the sound of a little girl.

  “Who is this?” Denise asked.

  “Tammy.”

  “Tammy, how did you get this number?”

  “I don’t know, I just have it.”

  “Well, you’re not supposed to call it. You could get in trouble.” Denise’s voice had gone from reflecting her worry to one of amusement. This would be even funnier, if it didn’t mean she would have to write a lengthy report about it.

  “But there’s something wrong with your plane.” The little girl’s voice was insistent.

  “What plane?

  “Flight three two seven eight.”

  “How do you—” she started, but was interrupted by a message coming in from one of the airplanes.

  “This is Southern three two seven eight,” said Larry Whitaker. “We have an onboard problem; request technical assistance.”

  Denise tried to process this information. How could this little girl know that? Where was she calling from? “What’s the issue, three two seven eight?”

  “Onboard computer is preventing our descent. We’re actually gaining altitude.”

  Denise pressed a button, which would alert her supervisor to a looming emergency. “Roger, Southern, will get you assistance.”

  She then turned her attention to the little girl on the phone. “Tammy, how did you know there is something wrong on that plane?”

  “Because I am controlling their computers, silly. I’m making it go up, up, instead of down.”

  “How can you do that?” Denise asked. It was getting more bewildering by the moment.

  “Easy.” Nolan was getting a lot of enjoyment out of this, but that was not why he was doing it. He felt that the people he was talking to would find it somehow more disconcerting, more terrifying, to have a conversation of this deadly importance with a voice that sounded like a little girl.

  Whitaker then came in through Denise’s headset, more urgency in his voice, reporting that they were at thirty-five thousand feet and rising. “Request immediate assistance.”

  “Tammy, what are you doing?”

  “I’m making the plane go up until you give me a million dollars.”

  The words sent a cold chill through Denise; however this caller sounded, there was nothing childish or funny about what was going on. At that moment the supervisor, Ray Pierce, arrived. From the moment Denise had buzzed into him, he had been monitoring what was going on, though had no more explanation for it than Denise did.

  Pierce became the person talking to Whitaker, and they patched in Southern Airlines’ top technical person. “Thirty-nine thousand,” Whitaker reported. He was clearly very upset, since it had only taken a couple of minutes to gain seven thousand feet, and the plane could likely not survive about fifty-five thousand.

  Denise continued to talk to “Tammy.” “Tammy, you have to stop this. We’ll give you a million dollars, but you have to let the plane land.” She realized how ridiculous she sounded, but the facts were dictating her response.

  “But I want the money first.” The voice was that of a petulant child.

  “I don’t have a million dollars, but I’ll get it for you. I promise.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Tammy said. “Show me.”

  “How can I do that?”

  “Put it on television. Nickelodeon.”

  The passengers on the Southern flight were starting to notice the problem. At a time when the plane should have been starting its descent, it was clearly climbing. The captain hadn’t yet said anything, but the flight attendant announced that air traffic control was adjusting their altitude because of traffic in the Charlotte area, and that there was nothing to worry about.

  The strain in her voic
e said otherwise.

  Whitaker, meanwhile, was trying to control his own panic. He had no control of his aircraft at all; he might as well have been sitting back in coach. The computers were in command, and they were either out of control, frozen, or being run from an external source.

  And the altitude was forty-six thousand feet.

  “Tammy, please, let me talk to someone else,” Denise pleaded. Security had arrived and they were telling her what to say, though no one had been through anything like this before. “The person that is doing this.”

  “I’m the only one here,” the little girl’s voice said, “and you didn’t give me my money.”

  “It takes time, okay?” She was still talking in that gentle, singsongy way that adults talk to small children, which was incongruous and bizarre in this situation. “Stop hurting the plane, and you’ll get your money. I promise.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Tammy said. “I’m not talking anymore.”

  The oxygen masks came down a few seconds later, sending the passengers into a near panic. They had noticed some trouble breathing moments before, and hungrily grabbed the masks, as the flight attendant came on again and offered both instructions and confident words.

  No one believed her.

  “Fifty-two thousand feet,” said Whitaker. He kept trying to take control of the aircraft, but it was completely unresponsive.

  Both Whitaker and the people on the ground knew what was going to happen very soon. The plane would not break apart, nor would the pressure differential inside the aircraft become so pronounced as to harm the people on board. And the oxygen masks would continue to function and let them breathe.

  Before any of that could happen, the air outside would become too thin to support the aircraft, and it would stall and begin a plunge toward the ground. In normal circumstances, the pilot could then attempt to restart it and come out of the dive, and often would be successful in doing so.

  This case was different, though. There was no way to know if the aircraft shutting down would have the effect of restoring control to the pilot; that could only be determined in the moment. And that moment would be terrifying.