by C. M. Sutter
“I’m sure I know what you’re thinking right now, but you’d be wrong. There wasn’t a fight among inmates. Kevin hung himself a little over an hour ago in his cell. By the time he was discovered, it was too late to revive him. You have my deepest sympathy, Mr. Hadley.”
“How could he possibly hang himself?”
“Inmates can be very creative. We have a half dozen suicides a year.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better? I’m suing this prison for negligence!” Keith pounded the wall with his fist.
“I’m sorry, sir, but there is nothing that warrants negligence. We have our own staff of attorneys, and the only suits that ever see a financial award are when inmates kill other inmates. I assure you that didn’t happen. Kevin has been talking to our facility psychiatrist for the last two weeks and has been under the prison doctor’s care. He’s refused to take his antiseizure and antidepression medications. I think the ten-year anniversary of his incarceration was too much for him. I imagine it brought back memories of that gruesome day eleven years ago. Thinking back to the sight of your dead parents’ bodies might have affected his will to live.” The warden let out a deep sigh. “I’d be more than happy to set up an appointment with one of the doctors and a staff attorney if you’d like. They rotate work schedules on weekends too.”
“What am I supposed to do with my brother’s body?”
“You can arrange for Kevin’s remains to be delivered to any funeral home of your choice.”
“Set up those appointments for tomorrow, but right now I have to think. My phone number is on file with the guards. How do I get out of here? I feel like I’m suffocating.”
The warden turned and opened the inner door. “Elizabeth, please show Mr. Hadley down to the visitors’ entrance. Again, Mr. Hadley, you have our condolences, and I’ll have Elizabeth text you those appointment times as soon as they’re arranged.”
Keith was in disbelief as he pressed the gas pedal and peeled out of the prison’s parking lot. He didn’t know what to do. If he called the executor of the trust, he’d lose everything. If he didn’t, the prison would be compelled to inform the executor, anyway. It was their duty. Either way, Keith knew what Attorney Timothy Link would say, and he didn’t want to hear it. He pulled into the parking lot of the first liquor store he saw as he cruised the streets of Atmore. Inside, he grabbed a pint of whiskey, a pint of brandy, and a two-liter Coke. He headed to the cashier.
The fiftyish-looking bleached blonde gave him a wide smile. “Looks like somebody is going to party tonight. Need some company, hon? I get off in a half hour.”
Keith gave her a stare, thought about it for a moment too long, then smirked his response. “Not in the mood, and I’d be shitty company. Thanks, anyway.” He jerked his head at the bottles and tossed a bag of salted peanuts on the counter. “How about ringing those up?”
“Whatever. Your loss.”
“I’m sure it is.” He handed her a ten and a twenty, told her to keep the change, and walked out. With his booze and bottle of Coke on the passenger seat, Keith climbed in behind the wheel, fired up the engine, and headed down the street. He needed to find a motel for the night.
He slowed after the next set of lights. On his right stood a two-story outside-entrance motel that had definitely seen better days. The neon lights flashed only half the words—Atmo In—but what Keith cared about was the sign below that read Vacancy. He pulled in under the portico and parked next to the office.
He walked into the worn-out establishment. A two-year-old calendar hung on the wall behind the counter, looking as if it was designed to camouflage the large diagonal crack in the stucco. A musty odor combined with the smell of day-old trash stung Keith’s nose. His desire to turn around and leave was strong, but the desire to spend as little money as possible was even stronger. He reached out and dinged the bell on the counter. “Anyone here? I need a room for the night.”
A young man with dark greasy hair, a face reddened by pimples, and a pin reading “Mike” attached to his T-shirt came out from the back room. “What’s up, man? Room for one?”
“Yeah.” Keith pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Nice sign you have out there.”
Mike shrugged. “It’s been like that for five years. Most people know what it means.”
“Apparently. I assumed it stood for Atmore Inn.”
“You’d be correct.” With his elbows on the counter, Mike stared at Keith.
“Yeah, sure. How much?”
Mike tapped his pen on the surface. “Depends on how long you’re staying.”
“One night.”
“That will be thirty-seven bucks in advance. Cash or credit?”
“Credit.” Keith pulled out the card from his wallet and slid it across the counter. He gave Mike a threatening glare. “You better not have a skimmer on that machine.”
“Seriously, dude. This place doesn’t get enough business to justify buying an illegal skimmer. The BestStay Inn along the interstate might be a different story, though.”
Keith placed the credit card back in his wallet and pocketed the key. He returned to his car and drove to room seven. With the brown paper bag of booze in his left hand and the bottle of Coke under his arm, he fished for the key with his right hand and unlocked the door. He flicked on the light and crossed the threshold. He couldn’t hold back the groan as he entered the room. Keith slammed the door behind him and glanced around the sparsely furnished room. That same odor filled his nose. He grabbed a chair and pulled it away from the table then took a seat and, with his head buried in his hands, tried to think of his next move. Keith had no idea how to go forward. His secret windfall had been spent years ago on fast cars, drugs, and booze. Since then, he’d been living on the monthly trust fund allowance for being Kevin’s legal guardian. With Kevin’s death, that money would be gone for good. He remembered hearing about the clause when it was drawn up in his parents’ will years ago. Any money that remained in the account upon Kevin’s death would be donated to a special needs foundation. Kevin had been Keith’s cash cow for eleven years, and now that bovine was dead.
Keith cracked open the whiskey bottle, grabbed a cellophane-wrapped plastic cup from a stack in the room, and filled the cup halfway to the top. He added a splash of Coke, knocked it back, and filled the cup again.
Chapter 3
Keith woke to a throbbing headache and felt his heart beating in his temples. He pressed his palms against the sides of his face, hoping that would alleviate the pain. It didn’t.
I don’t have any damn aspirin, either. Maybe coffee will help.
The room spun as he sat upright on the side of the bed. He fisted his eyes as he waited it out. Carefully, he stood and shuffled to the coffeemaker that sat on the small countertop. He filled the carafe with water, slipped a prepackaged coffee pack in the filter, and poured the water into the reservoir. With the carafe on the warming plate, he stumbled to the table and took a seat.
His mind was filled with rage against the people who’d had an impact on Kevin’s sentencing.
It’s their fault. They convinced the jury that Kevin was a danger to society. If they would have gone with the mentally ill defense, he would have been put in a sanitarium on a hundred acres of manicured lawns for life. Instead, he was thrown in one of the most depressing, dangerous prisons in the country.
It was November first. That month’s check would slip through the cracks since nobody knew of Kevin’s death yet. Come December, though, Keith would be broke. He had the option of selling drugs as he had in the old days, and he still maintained some of that risky behavior, but at thirty-six, he figured his hustling days were over. He wasn’t as street savvy as he used to be, and the contacts he once had were long gone.
Somebody was going to take the blame—he’d make sure of it—and an idea bubbled up. He began an internet search of names.
A text came in at ten o’clock showing he had two appointments set up that day. The first, with the prison psychiatrist, was scheduled for elev
en thirty, and the second, with a prison attorney, was at one o’clock.
Keith gulped the tepid coffee and headed to the shower.
After dropping the room key in the slotted box outside the office door, Keith left Atmore. He reached the prison at eleven fifteen and was escorted to the psychiatric unit, where he took a seat in the pale-green waiting room. He had read that green was a calming color, and he assumed that was why the color had been chosen.
“Mr. Hadley?”
Keith snapped out of his head. “That’s me.”
“Dr. Gillman will see you now.”
Keith nodded and followed the receptionist down the hallway. She knocked on the solid wood door, and a voice from the other side said to enter.
“There you go, sir.” She pushed the door forward, and Keith walked through.
“Mr. Hadley.” The doctor stood and extended a hand over his desk. “I’m Dr. Gillman, the prison psychiatrist.”
“I assumed.”
“Please, have a seat.” The doctor pointed at the guest chair Keith stood next to. “I’m sure you have questions about the state of Kevin’s well-being since you last saw him.”
“That’s why I’m here.” Keith couldn’t help the snarky words that sprang from his mouth. He was bitter.
“Understood.” The doctor paged through a folder filled with papers. Kevin Hadley was typed on the tab. “Yes, here we go. Kevin began showing signs of distress about six weeks back. I assume, after going through his file last night, that the time frame was relevant.”
Keith crossed his right leg over his left and shifted in the chair. “To what?”
“A halfway point, so to speak, between two major events. His thirtieth birthday fell in July, and yesterday was the tenth anniversary of his incarceration here and the eleventh anniversary of the murders.”
“So there was so much sizzling in his head that he killed himself?”
The doctor sighed. “Unfortunately, it happens more than I care to admit. Inmates suffer from intense depression if they don’t have some type of extracurricular activity. Kevin never showed an interest in picking up a hobby, and he didn’t have friends.”
“That’s because he was an—”
“Antisocial?” The doctor smiled.
“Those weren’t exactly the words I was going to use, but sure, antisocial will do.”
“Kevin did suffer from antisocial disorder tendencies. It was part of his special needs makeup. He couldn’t help it.”
“So he kept his demons to himself?”
The doctor nodded. “I tried to help him. He was taking the mandatory meds for his seizures, but he also had been taking antidepressants since early September. He didn’t like the side effects, so he took himself off them. I explained how the side effects would diminish within a few months but—”
“But you couldn’t change his mind.”
“No, I couldn’t. I believe Kevin had his suicide planned for a while.”
Keith shifted again. “But I was on the visitation list for yesterday. He knew that, didn’t he?”
“Yes, but maybe he didn’t want you to see how his behavior had changed. Kevin recently spoke candidly to me about the night of the murders. He honestly has blocked out the entire night from the time he went to bed until he was jarred awake the next morning by the police standing over him in a room filled with blood-soaked clothes and a large butcher knife. He admits he must have snapped, but he doesn’t know why he would have.”
Keith rubbed his forehead. “It’s too late to ask him now.”
“Ask what?”
“Years back, when I still lived in the family house, Kevin and I watched horror movies all night long on Halloween. Our home was in the country, and our folks never took us trick-or-treating. We entertained ourselves in front of the TV with a bowl of popcorn. Maybe he was watching a slasher movie, went to bed, then actually reenacted the movie in his sleep.”
The doctor’s eyebrows rose. “Was he prone to sleepwalking?”
“All the time. I’m surprised nobody knew that. I just assumed—”
“Assumed what, Mr. Hadley?”
Keith shook his head. “It was chaotic the next day when I arrived from Madison. I guess nobody asked me, and of course, my folks were dead. They couldn’t speak about Kevin’s reoccurring episodes of sleepwalking.” Keith shrugged and let out a long breath. “There’s no chance that somebody else killed Kevin?”
“No there isn’t. He was alone in his cell and looked to be napping when the guard did his rounds. The next time the guard passed—two hours later—your brother had stood the bed vertically, taken off his shirt, and wrapped the sleeves through the bedframe then around his neck. He applied pressure by forcing himself into a squatting position until it strangled him. His death was absolutely self-inflicted, and I’m sorry for your loss.” The doctor tipped his wrist. “I believe you have another appointment?”
“Yeah, at one o’clock. What time is it?”
“It’s twelve forty-five.”
“Then I should go. Do you have any idea where the attorneys’ offices are? I’m supposed to meet with an Attorney Smyth.”
The doctor stood and escorted Keith to the door. “Of course. Take the hallway to your right and go down one flight of stairs. The prison attorneys have a large office on the second floor. Good luck to you, Mr. Hadley.”
Yeah, I’ll need it.
The next meeting took an hour. Attorney Smyth assured Keith he was welcome to consult with a private attorney, but since Keith was there, anyway, he was happy to speak with him. An open file folder sat on the desk, next to the attorney’s left hand.
“I’m sorry, but you don’t have a claim against the prison on Kevin’s behalf. The legal documents signed by you—Kevin’s next of kin, ten years ago—clearly state that our prison can’t be held negligent for a suicide. That’s especially true when a prisoner has a psychiatric file stating he has depression and was on medication for it. Kevin’s file also states that he willingly discontinued the medication against the psychiatrist’s advice.”
“I’d like to see where I signed that document.”
“Certainly.” The attorney turned the folder to face Keith. He pointed at the signature and date at the bottom of the page. “It’s right there, Mr. Hadley.”
Keith held up the sheet of paper. He recognized his signature on the bottom line. “But I don’t even remember signing this. I was under a lot of stress at the time.”
“Nevertheless, it is a legally binding document. The prison and state of Alabama are clear of any wrongdoing. I doubt if any attorney in the private sector would disagree with our conclusion.”
Holding back his anger, Keith rose and walked out. He knew the way to the visitors’ entrance after being escorted there yesterday. He left the prison, drove the ten-minute detour to I-65, and headed north. Once he reached the outskirts of Montgomery, an hour and a half into the drive, he realized he needed gas and hadn’t eaten a bite all day. Turning in to the Petro truck stop seemed like a good idea. He filled up the tank then parked near the restaurant’s door. As he walked in, he noticed a gift shop to his left and the restaurant hostess stand to his right. He entered the gift shop first.
He walked down each aisle, looking for paper, envelopes, and aspirin. With the three items in hand, he approached the counter.
“Do you sell stamps?”
“Right there.” The lady pointed behind Keith’s back. “See that machine? You can buy stamps there.”
Keith nodded his thanks. “Guess this is all I need, then.”
The clerk rang up his purchases and bagged the items. “Do you need singles for the stamp machine? It only takes dollar bills and doesn’t give back change.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Keith hooked the bag over his wrist and dropped four singles into the machine. That bought him eight stamps.
That should be plenty for now.
He took the bag to the car, pulled out the writing paper, and grabbed a pen from the glove box. Kei
th returned to the building and waited at the hostess stand.
“Table for one or would you like to sit at the counter?”
“A table sounds good.”
“Sure, right this way. Your waitress will be with you in a minute.”
Keith began a list of all the people who were to blame for Kevin’s untimely death. If it weren’t for their bad judgment about where to house his younger brother, Kevin would still be alive, and Keith would be financially set for years to come.
Now I have nothing, and they’re going to pay dearly.
He sipped his coffee as he jotted down names.
“Ready to order, sir?”
“Yeah, I’ll have the bacon cheeseburger and fries. Toss extra pickles on that burger and hold the onions.”
The waitress nodded. “More coffee?”
“Yeah, keep it coming.”
Keith searched the internet for addresses that matched the names and added them to his list. When it was complete, he’d written down the names of the primary people responsible on the top of the sheet and put a star next to their names. He had a total of six people who needed to pay for Kevin’s death.
The waitress carried two plates to the table. “Here’s your burger and a side of fries. Anything else?”
“Ketchup and mustard.” Keith tucked away the list and his phone. Before leaving the truck stop, he had one more thing to buy.
After the filling meal that would hold him over until later that night, Keith settled the bill and returned to the gift shop. Inside, he went to the second row, where a small selection of clothing was stacked on shelves.
Here we go.
He tried on several glove styles and sizes and opted for a thin pair of driving gloves. He didn’t care about warmth at that point, only convenience.
Back in the car, he pulled around to the far end of the oversized asphalt lot. He wouldn’t be bothered there, because only idling semis parked in that area. With his six-inch pocket knife, Keith cut through the plastic clip that held the gloves together. The knife—a keepsake he carried with him at all times, except when visiting the prison—was an eighteenth birthday gift from his parents. He kept it clean, oiled, and sharp. An opportunity to use it could pop up at any time. As the Boy Scout motto said, he was always prepared.
