by John Grisham
A doctor interrupted them. He explained that Boyette was stable and resting. His vital signs were near normal. They had X-rayed his head and confirmed the presence of an egg-size tumor. The hospital needed to contact a family member, and Keith tried to describe what little he knew about Boyette's relatives. "There's a brother in prison in Illinois, that's all I know," Keith said.
"Well," the doctor said, scratching his jaw, "how long do you want us to keep him?"
"How long should he be kept?"
"Overnight, but beyond that I'm not sure what we can do for him."
"He doesn't belong to me, Doc," Keith said. "I'm just driving him around."
"And this is part of the very long story?"
Both Giles and Weshler nodded. Keith suggested the doctor contact the doctors at St. Francis Hospital in Topeka, and perhaps the little group could devise a plan for dealing with Travis Boyette.
"Where is he now?" Weshler asked.
"He's in a small ward on the third floor," the doctor said.
"Could we see him?"
"Not now, he needs to rest."
"Then could we station ourselves outside the ward," Giles said. "We anticipate this man being charged with murder, and we have orders to secure him."
"He's not going anywhere."
Weshler bristled at this, and the doctor sensed the futility of arguing. "Follow me," he said. As they began to walk away, Keith said, "Hey, fellas, I'm free to go, right?"
Weshler looked at Giles, and Giles studied Weshler, then both looked at the doctor. Weshler said, "Sure, why not?"
"He's all yours," Keith said, already backing away. He left through the ER entrance and jogged to his car in a nearby parking garage. He found $6 in his dwindling cash reserves, paid the attendant, and gunned the Subaru onto the street. Free at last, he said to himself. It was exhilarating to glance over at the empty seat and know that he, with luck, would never again be near Travis Boyette.
Weshler and Giles were given folding chairs and took their positions in the hallway by the door to Ward 8. They called their supervisor and reported on Boyette's status. They found some magazines and began killing time. Through the door, there were six beds, each separated by flimsy curtains, all occupied by people suffering from serious afflictions. At the far end, there was a large window that overlooked a vacant lot, and next to the window was a door the janitors used on occasion.
The doctor returned, spoke to the troopers, then stepped inside for a quick check on Boyette. When he pulled the curtain by bed 4, he froze in disbelief.
The IVs were dangling. The bed was neatly made with a black walking cane across it. Boyette was gone.
CHAPTER 32
Robbie Flak and his little team stood by and watched the circus for two hours. Not long after the sheriff arrived and saw that there was indeed a grave site, Roop's Mountain attracted every cop within fifty miles. Local deputies, state troopers, the county coroner, investigators from the Missouri State Highway Patrol, and, finally, a crime scene expert. Radios squawked, men yelled, a helicopter hovered overhead. When the news arrived that Boyette had vanished, cops cursed his name as if they had known him forever. Robbie called Keith's cell phone and passed along the news. Keith explained what had happened at the hospital. He could not imagine Boyette being physically able to go far. They agreed that he would be caught, and soon.
By 2:00 p.m., Robbie was tired of the scene. He had told his story and answered a thousand questions from the investigators, there was nothing left to do. They had found Nicole Yarber, and they were ready to return to Slone and face a multitude of issues. Bryan Day had enough footage for a miniseries, but would be forced to sit on it for a few hours. Robbie informed the sheriff that they were leaving. The caravan, minus the Subaru, worked its way through the traffic until it was back on the highway and headed south. Carlos e-mailed dozens of photographs to the office, as well as the video. A presentation was being put together.
"Can we talk?" Martha Handler asked after a few minutes on the road.
"No," Robbie answered.
"You talked to the police, what's next?"
"They will keep the remains in the toolbox and move it all to a satellite crime lab in Joplin. They will do what they do, and we'll see."
"What will they look for?"
"Well, first they will attempt to identify the body using dental records. That should be easy, probably take a few hours. We may hear something tonight."
"They have her dental records?"
"I gave them a set. Before Donte's trial, the prosecution dumped several boxes of discovery on us a week before we picked the jury. Not surprisingly, the prosecution screwed up, and in one file there was a set of X-rays of Nicole's teeth. Several sets were floating around during the initial days of the search, and Koffee had one. He inadvertently gave it to us. It was no big deal because her dental records were not an issue at trial. As we know, there was no dead body. A year later, I sent the file back to Koffee, but I made a copy for myself. Who knows what you'll need one day?"
"Did he know you kept a copy?"
"I don't remember, but I doubt it. It's no big deal."
"There's no violation of privacy here?"
"Of course not. Whose privacy? Nicole's?"
Martha scribbled notes as her tape recorder ran on. Robbie closed his eyes and tried not to frown.
"What else will they look for?" she asked.
Robbie frowned but did not open his eyes. "Cause of death in a strangulation case is impossible after nine years. They'll look for DNA evidence, maybe in dried blood or hair. Nothing else--semen, skin, saliva, earwax, sweat--none of it holds up after this long in a decomposing corpse."
"Does DNA matter? I mean, we know who killed her."
"We do, but I would love to have the DNA proof. If we get it, then this will be the first case in U.S. history in which we know by DNA evidence that the wrong man has been executed. There are a dozen or so cases where we strongly suspect the state killed the wrong guy, but none with clear biological proof. Would you like a drink? I need a drink."
"No."
"A drink, Carlos?"
"Sure. I'll take a beer."
"Aaron?"
"Driving, Boss."
"Just joking."
Robbie pulled two beers out of the fridge and handed one to Carlos. After a long drink from the bottle, he closed his eyes again.
"What are you thinking?" Martha asked.
"Boyette, Travis Boyette. We came so close, and if he had just given us twenty-four hours, we could have saved Donte. Now we just deal with the aftermath."
"What happens to Boyette?"
"They'll indict him for murder here in Missouri. If he lives long enough, they'll prosecute him."
"Will he be prosecuted in Texas?"
"Of course not. They will never, ever admit they killed the wrong guy. Koffee, Kerber, Judge Vivian Grale, the jurors, the appellate judges, the governor--none of those responsible for this travesty will ever admit fault. Watch 'em run. Watch 'em point fingers. Maybe they won't deny their mistakes, but they damned sure won't admit them. I suspect they will just keep quiet, hunker down, ride out the storm."
"Can they?"
Another pull on the bottle. Robbie smiled at the beer and licked his lips. "No cop has ever been indicted for a wrongful conviction. Kerber should go to jail. Koffee should too. They are directly responsible for Donte's conviction, but Koffee controls the grand jury. He's in charge of the system. So, criminal prosecutions are unlikely, unless, of course, I can convince the Justice Department to investigate. I will certainly try. And we still have the civil courts."
"Lawsuits?"
"Oh yes, lots of them. I'll sue everybody. Can't wait."
"Thought you were moving to Vermont."
"I may have to put that on hold. I'm not quite finished here."
------
The Slone Municipal School Board met in an emergency session at 2:00 Friday afternoon. The only item on the agenda was the game. Longview
was scheduled to arrive at 5:00 p.m. for a 7:30 p.m. kickoff. The school officials and coaches in Longview were worried about the safety of their players and fans, and with good reason. The unrest in Slone was now routinely being referred to as a "race riot," a sensational description that was as inaccurate as it was catchy.
There had been a constant flow of threatening phone calls to the Slone Police Department and the school. If they tried to play the game, there would be trouble, and lots of it. The chief of police, Joe Radford, pleaded with the board to cancel the game, or somehow postpone it. A crowd of five thousand people, almost all of whom would be white, would provide too enticing a target for those wanting trouble. And just as troubling was the prospect of all the empty and unprotected homes of the fans during the game. The football coach admitted he really didn't want to play either. The kids were too distracted, not to mention the fact that his best players, the twenty-eight black ones, were boycotting. His star tailback, Trey Glover, was still in jail. Both teams had six wins and two losses and were eligible for the state play-offs. The coach knew he had no chance with an all-white team. But a forfeit was a loss, and this perplexed him and everybody else in the room.
The principal described the burned-out press box, the tension of the past two days, the canceled classes, and the phone threats his office had received throughout the day. He was exhausted and jumpy and practically begged the board to cancel.
A honcho from the National Guard reluctantly attended the meeting. He thought it was possible to secure the stadium area and play the game without incident. But he shared the chief's concerns about what might happen in the rest of the town for the three hours. When pressed, he admitted that the safest route was to cancel.
The board members squirmed and fretted and passed notes. While they routinely grappled with budgets and curriculum and discipline and dozens of important issues, they had never been faced with something as momentous as canceling a high school football game. They stood for election every four years, and the prospect of alienating the voters weighed heavily. If they voted to cancel and Slone was forced to forfeit, they would be seen as caving in to the boycotters and troublemakers. If they voted to play and people got hurt in an ugly incident, their opponents would lay blame on them.
A compromise was suggested, seized upon, and quickly gained momentum. A flurry of phone calls were made, and the compromise became a reality. The game would not be played that night in Slone; rather, it would be played the following day at an undisclosed site in a nearby town. Longview agreed. Their coach knew of the boycott and smelled blood. The location of the neutral site would be kept secret until two hours before kickoff. Both teams would drive about an hour, play the game without spectators, and the show would go on. The compromise pleased everyone but the head coach. He gamely gritted his teeth and predicted a win. What else could he do?
------
Throughout the morning and into the afternoon, the train station had been a magnet for reporters. It was the last place Boyette had been seen, and he was in demand. His chilling confession had been on the nonstop cable loop for almost a full day now, but his past had caught up with him. His colorful criminal record was in play, his credibility in serious question. Experts of all stripes were on the air, proffering opinions about his background, his profile, his motives. One windbag flat out called him a liar and went on and on about how "these creeps" want their fifteen minutes of fame and enjoy tormenting the families of victims. A former Texas prosecutor opined as to the fairness of the Drumm trial and appeals and assured those listening that all was well with the system. Boyette was obviously a nut job.
As the saga wore on, it lost some of its shock value. Boyette wasn't around anymore to add details, or to defend himself. And neither was Robbie Flak. The reporters knew that Flak's car was not at the office. Where was he?
Inside the station, Sammie Thomas, Bonnie, and Fanta adopted a siege mentality and tried to work. It was impossible. The phones rang and rang, and every hour or so one of the ruder reporters would almost make it to the front door before being accosted by one of the security guards. With time, the mob began to understand that Boyette wasn't there, and neither was Robbie.
Out of boredom, the reporters left and drove around Slone looking for a fire or a fight. To get to the bottom of things, they interviewed guardsmen as they walked the streets, and they filmed and re-filmed the burned-out churches and buildings. They talked to angry young blacks outside of pool halls and honky-tonks, and they stuck microphones into pickup trucks for priceless comments from white vigilantes. Bored again, they returned to the train station and waited on some word from Boyette. Where the hell was he?
By late afternoon, a crowd was beginning to assemble in Washington Park. News of this development spread through the media, and off they went. Their presence attracted more young blacks, and soon the rap was booming and fireworks were popping. It was Friday night--payday, beer day, the start of the weekend, time to blow off some steam.
The tension was rising.
------
Some forty hours after leaving the parsonage with an unwanted passenger, Keith returned to it, alone. When he turned off the ignition, he sat in the car for a moment to get his bearings. Dana was waiting at the kitchen door with a hug and a kiss and a very pleasant "You look tired."
"I'm fine," he said. "Just need a good night's sleep. Where are the boys?"
The boys were at the table eating ravioli. They jumped at their father as if he'd been gone for a month. Clay, the oldest, was dressed in his soccer uniform, ready for a game. After a long hug, the family sat down and finished dinner.
In the bedroom, Keith dressed after a quick shower as Dana sat on the bed and watched him. She was saying, "Not a word from anyone around here. I've talked to Matthew a few times. We're watching the news and spending hours online. Your name has not been mentioned anywhere. A thousand photos, but no sign of you. The church thinks you were called away on some emergency, so no suspicions there. We might get lucky."
"What's the latest from Slone?"
"Not much. They postponed the football game tonight, and that was reported as urgently as a major plane crash."
"No news from Missouri?"
"Not a word."
"It'll blow up soon enough. I can't imagine the shock waves when they announce they have found the body of Nicole Yarber. The town will explode."
"When will it happen?"
"I don't know. I'm not sure what Robbie's plans are."
"Robbie? You sound like you're old friends."
"We are. I met him yesterday, but we have traveled a long way together."
"I'm proud of you, Keith. What you did was crazy, but it was also courageous."
"I don't feel brave. I'm not sure what I feel right now. More shock than anything else. I think I'm still numb. It was a rather unique adventure, but we failed."
"You tried."
Keith pulled on a sweater, tucked in his shirttail, and said, "I just hope they catch Boyette. What if he finds another victim?"
"Come on, Keith, he's a dying man."
"But he left his cane behind, Dana. Can you explain that? I've been around the guy for five days--seems like a year--and he had trouble walking without the cane. Why would he leave it behind?"
"Maybe he thought he would be easier to spot with a cane."
Keith pulled his belt tight and buckled it. "He was fixated on you, Dana. He mentioned you several times, something like, 'That cute little wife of yours.' "
"I'm not worried about Travis Boyette. He'd be a fool to come back to Topeka."
"He's done dumber things. Look at all the arrests."
"We need to go. The game is at 6:30."
"I can't wait. I need something to distract me. Do we have a bottle of Communion wine around here?"
"I think so."
"Good. I need a drink. Let's go watch a little soccer, then we'll spend the rest of the night debriefing."
"I want to hear everything."
; CHAPTER 33
The meeting was arranged by Judge Elias Henry, and while he did not have the authority to order people around on a Friday night, his powers of persuasion were more than enough. Paul Koffee and Drew Kerber arrived in the judge's chambers promptly at 8:00 p.m. Joe Radford followed them in, and the three sat together on one side of the judge's worktable. Robbie had been there for thirty minutes, along with Carlos, and the atmosphere was already toxic. There were no greetings, no handshakes, no pleasantries. A moment later Mayor Rooney arrived and sat by himself, away from the table.
Judge Henry, as always in a dark suit, white shirt, and orange tie, began solemnly. "Everyone is here. Mr. Flak has some information."
Robbie was seated directly across from Kerber, Koffee, and Radford, all three still and subdued as if waiting for a death sentence. Robbie started by saying, "We left Slone this morning around five and drove to Newton County, Missouri. Travis Boyette was with us. The trip took just under six hours. With Boyette giving directions, we worked our way through a remote section of the county, along back roads, then dirt trails, then to a place known locally as Roop's Mountain. Secluded, remote, overgrown. Boyette struggled to remember it at times, but eventually led us to the place where he claims he buried Nicole Yarber." Robbie nodded at Carlos, who punched a key on his laptop. At the far end of the room, on a whiteboard, a photo of the overgrown clearing appeared. Robbie continued, "We found the site and began to dig." The next photo was of Aaron Rey and Fred Pryor with shovels. "When Boyette was here in Slone in the fall of 1998, he worked for a company called R. S. McGuire and Sons out of Fort Smith. He kept a large metal box, one that was once used for hydraulic tools, in the back of his truck, and he used it to bury her." Next photo: the top of the orange toolbox. "The soil was not hard, and within ten, maybe fifteen minutes we found this." Next photo: the top half of the toolbox with "R. S. McGuire and Sons" stenciled on it. "As you can see, the toolbox opened from the top with a latch to the side. The latch was secured by a combination lock, which Boyette claimed he bought at a hardware store in Springdale, Arkansas. Boyette remembered the combination and unlocked it." Next photo: Boyette kneeling at the grave, handling the lock. The color drained from Koffee's face, and Kerber had perspiration on his forehead. "When we opened the box, this is what we found." Next photo: the skeleton. "Before we opened it, Boyette told us there would be a wad of clothing next to her head." Next photo: the clothing next to the skull. "He also told us that rolled up in the clothing we would find Nicole's driver's license and a credit card. He was right." Next photo: a close-up of the MasterCard, also stained but with her name easily readable. "Boyette told us he killed her by choking her with her black leather belt with a silver buckle." Next photo: a length of black leather, partially decomposed, but with the silver buckle. "I have a complete set of these photos for you boys to take home and look at all night. At this point, we called the sheriff of Newton County and surrendered the site." Next photo: the sheriff and three of his deputies gawking at the skeletal remains. "The site was soon crawling with police and investigators, and the decision was made to leave her remains in the box and take it to the satellite crime lab there in Joplin. That's where it is now. I gave the authorities a copy of Nicole's dental X-rays, a copy of the same set you boys inadvertently handed over when you were playing games with discovery before the trial. I have talked to the crime lab, and the case has priority. They expect to finish the preliminary identification tonight. We are expecting a phone call any moment. They will examine everything in the toolbox and hopefully find evidence for DNA testing. This is a long shot, but DNA is not crucial. It's pretty clear who was buried in the box, and there's no doubt who did the killing. Boyette has a lethal brain tumor--that's one reason he came forward--and he's subject to violent seizures. He collapsed at the site and was taken to a hospital in Joplin. Somehow, he managed to leave the hospital without being detected, and as of now no one knows where he is. He's considered a suspect, but he was not under arrest when he disappeared."
