The Edge of Justice

by Clinton McKinzie

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  EARLY THAT EVENING I park my truck up high on the prairie. Although the road is paved, it's about the loneliest road I have ever come across. It leads from Laramie in a northeastern direction, angling toward the rocky hills that are the northern relatives of Vedauwoo. A few minutes before, I drove the road all the way to where it turned to dirt, twenty miles outside of town, up at the far end of a shallow limestone gorge called Roger's Canyon. Then I turned around and drove halfway back to this wide shoulder on the plain just before the canyon's entrance. Other than my Land Cruiser, the only traffic the road receives is quick crossings by a small herd of antelope and two jackrabbits.

  NPR's All Things Considered is on the radio. There's a report from Laramie on the national program, mentioning that tomorrow the Knapp brothers will be sentenced for the sensational race-bias murder of University of Wyoming student Kimberly Lee. The death penalty is anticipated. And there's a brief mention about County Attorney Nathan Karge and how he's expected to assume the office of Wyoming governor immediately after the election, just weeks away now. The current governor, the announcer states, does not intend to remain in office during the traditional lame-duck period. I grimace, rolling down the windows to let the early-evening breeze cool the truck while I wait. Jones had told me that Deputy Sheriff David Knight often trains on this road at about this hour.

  Ever since McGee collapsed I've been trying to think of a way to delay the sentencing without him. I could go to the court myself tomorrow, hope the judge will be willing to hear me out, and hope there is some way I can explain to her that she should postpone the sentencing or declare a mistrial based on a few similarities between Kimberly Lee's murder and those of Kate Danning and Sierra Calloway. A drug connection, a climbing connection, and some pink cord. But there are a number of problems with that plan. The evidence is flimsy at best, I'm suspended as a peace officer, and I'll have absolutely no credibility as the subject of a renewed multiple murder investigation. Karge will be aware of that—undoubtedly he engineered it—and will be sure to point it out.

  During my hour and a half of driving, the exhaustion almost overtook me—I was tempted to just hang it up and let things take the course that more powerful people than I have directed. But the anger keeps returning. I'm enraged by the arrogance of these people. At Nathan Karge for thinking he can send innocent men to the death chamber in order to protect his family and his ambitions, for thinking he can shut me up and intimidate me by having my superiors suspend me and reraise the specter of murder charges. And at Heller's arrogance, for believing that he'll be protected in pursuing his thrills because he has made an accessory out of the County Attorney's own son. Then, when I think of Oso, my fingers grip the steering wheel as if I could crush it.

  It has been just a little over two hours since I left Rebecca in the hallway of Cheyenne's large hospital. She was crying while she tapped away on her laptop computer with Kleenex awkwardly balled in both palms. Writing the story, she said, doing what she can. We both know it isn't ready for publication—there aren't enough hard facts, and there might never be unless I can find them. Her paper will want evidence in the form of affidavits and arrest warrants before they'll risk publishing a story critical of Wyoming law enforcement, from the future governor and current Attorney General to the Albany County Sheriff's Office. And tomorrow will be too late, when any investigation into the Lee case will be subverted and dismissed once the Knapps are sentenced and Nathan Karge takes up the reins of the governor's office.

  Before I left the hospital a doctor spoke to us. McGee suffered a heart attack, he said, and was in critical condition. We could see for ourselves through the Critical Care Unit's small window that a respirator had been shoved down his throat and tubes were leaching drugs into his once powerful body. A hard life of stress, rich foods, potent liquor, and smoking had finally caught up to him. They were unsure if he would make it, the doctor told us. As unstable as his condition was one thing was certain: he wouldn't make court in the morning to delay the Knapps' sentencing. And I now lack both the official authority and the credibility to try to take his place.

  Like Rebecca, I'm doing what I can to see that the wrong men aren't sentenced to death for a crime they didn't commit. Now, though, I can't write the necessary affidavits to get arrest warrants for Billy Heller and Bradley Karge. I'm suspended, under investigation for three supposed murders committed a year and a half ago. My options are to simply accept it—to step aside and wait for Sheriff McKittrick of Laramie County and the sergeant up in the Big Horns to get their own warrants, which could take weeks or even months—or to somehow learn enough about the Lee murder to convince the judge to delay the sentencing despite my discredited status. So I wait for Knight, hoping to penetrate the conscience of one of the junior officers involved in the arrest of the Knapps.

  I managed to keep my badge, though. At least I still have the illusion of some authority. In the confusion created by McGee's collapse, when court security officers and paramedics rushed around us shouting, the Assistant Attorney General had slunk away, forgetting to take with him the symbol of the power I had held just minutes before. Perhaps it'll make a nice souvenir, I think. And I have Cecelia's .32 as well. My own office-issued gun is still in the custody of the Albany County sheriff as evidence.

  I rise up in my seat as I catch sight of something moving on the road, coming fast out of Laramie. I turn off the radio and watch the figure approach, pedaling hard, wearing a colorful racing jersey and tights. When the figure is within a mile of me, I open the door and step out of the truck. I don't close the door, but simply stand by it at the edge of the road. The cyclist draws closer and I recognize the young, serious features, despite the helmet low on his forehead and the dark wraparound sunglasses. It's Knight.

  I wave at him, then lean against my truck and wait, admiring the speed and grace with which the rookie deputy moves his bicycle. Powerful, circular strokes are delivered pistonlike by legs that are tan, muscular, and hairless. Incongruously, the arms that grip the handlebars are thin and still. Knight approaches fast, not slowing his pace at all. He doesn't even raise his fingers in greeting. And he doesn't touch the brakes.

  I shout an obscenity as Knight rides by as if he hadn't seen me standing all alone on the empty prairie. I'm not going to fuck around anymore.

  I hop into the driver's seat, twist the key, and spin the truck's rear in a fishtail across the dirt shoulder and onto the asphalt. Swinging into the left lane and starting to pass Knight, I ease the truck back over to the right, touching the brakes just a little. I hear a banging sound. In the right-side mirror I see Knight furiously slamming his fist against the truck's rear panel. Then he's off the road and into the dirt and sand. He launches into the air as if thrown by a horse, his skinny racing tires having sunk too deep in the soft earth.

  I swerve back to the left and press the brakes hard so that I slow to almost a stop. I pull in front of where Knight lies half on the dirt, half in some dry brush. He's holding his elbow across his chest and rocking back and forth. Cursing. His helmet is sideways on his head. I step out of the truck and pick up the wraparound sunglasses that are crumpled at my feet. I walk over and hold them out to Knight.

  “You asshole!” the younger man shouts, jerking the sunglasses from my hand.

  “You break anything?”

  “I easily could have! Are you fucking nuts?”

  “Listen, Knight, I need you to talk to me. This whole town, the whole state, is screwing with me and I need some straight answers.”

  “No way, Burns, I'm not talking to you about shit!”

  I say nothing. I want to kick the young man in the head, beat the answers out of him. But I won't do it. I won't become like Willis and Bender. “Okay then, just listen to me. Get in the truck with me for ten minutes.”

  “Or else what?” Knight asks, twisting his arm to look at the lines of blood running down. They're already beginning to coagulate.

  “Or else you're goi
ng to have a long walk back to town.” I point at the bent front wheel of Knight's bicycle. Several spokes stick straight out like a porcupine's quills.

  Knight looks at it almost sadly. He says, with most of the anger gone from his voice, “I can't be seen talking to you. I can't be seen listening to you.”

  “You won't.”

  I pick up the bicycle and put it through the open rear window of my truck. I hold the passenger door open for Knight and push my briefcase out of the way onto the floor. Knight looks up at me from where he's sitting on the dirt for a long moment without moving. I can see the wheels turning, a decision being reached. I imagine it's a decision far larger than simply whether to listen and maybe tell a few secrets. It will be a career-changing, possibly even a life-changing, conclusion, one that for a religious man could tip the balances between heaven and hell.

  “Fuck it,” Knight finally says as he pushes himself off the ground. “I'm quitting anyway. I'm going to go to Europe to race, try to get sponsored.” He steps up into the truck.

  I drive him up into Roger's Canyon. We bounce over a dirt trail into a cluster of dusty pines where I park. Taking the briefcase up from near Knight's feet, I pull out the various envelopes of photographs. I pinch open the metal stays on the one marked “Lee” and slide the photos out.

  “You've seen these before, right? Kimberly Lee.”

  Knight doesn't reply, but looks at the first photo I hold before him.

  “Note the marks on her wrists. Thin ligature marks. On her neck too, but deeper, where they cut off her air. Now look at this.” I pass another photo. “Here are the cords you guys took off her. Pink with flecks of purple, soft nylon core. Remember? About five millimeters in diameter. This particular color and type is sold in only one place in Wyoming I can find. Up in Buffalo, where a lady remembers selling it to Billy Heller and Bradley Karge. Sold them a bunch of it. And look at the knots that were used. You're a Wyoming boy, aren't you, Knight? Fish, hunt, work outdoors?” Knight nods. “Have you ever seen a knot like that?” Knight shakes his head, then again when I ask if he's ever done any rock climbing. “That's called a prusik knot, used by climbers to ascend ropes. It can move one way but it clamps down the other. I can't think of any other use for it. Except maybe slowly strangling someone.

  “Anyway,” I continue, “you were in on the arrest of the Knapps for Kimberly's murder. You were there when you guys found the cut-off skin from her breast in the cab of their truck, the broken crank pipe with prints near Lee's body, and when one of the Knapps supposedly told Bender that the bitch had it coming, right?” Knight doesn't move; he just stares at the photos.

  I take them back from him and open another envelope. This one's marked “K. Danning.” I pass Knight a picture from the autopsy, a close-up of her face and neck. The color drains from his face and he looks a little ill as I point at it. “Look at that, that red line there across her throat. Not as deep as Kimberly Lee's, but just about as wide and it goes all the way around too. I don't have a close-up of her wrists, but look at this”—I pass another photo—“I think I can see another line there, on her left wrist. What about you?” Again Knight doesn't respond. “Your county coroner happened to throw away a cord he found around Kate's neck. There was also a contusion on the back of her head, one she couldn't have gotten from falling off a ledge because, remember, you told me she landed on her face. Someone hit her with something before she fell; hit her hard enough to fracture her skull.

  “Now keep in mind that when Kate Danning died the Knapp boys were in jail, in the middle of their murder trial. I found a bottle up above the cliff Kate fell off. It had hair and blood on it, Kate's type, with DNA matches still pending, and Bradley Karge's fingerprints. His dad's too, by the way. What amazes me is those marks, so similar to Kimberly Lee's, and the fact that both girls were climbers and drug users who associated with Brad and Billy Heller. Some coincidences, huh?”

  I open the third thick envelope. “Now check this out. Another young girl, climber, drug user, associate of Brad's and Billy's. Her name was Sierra Calloway until she was murdered Monday night. Look, her arms are behind her back, tied with that same pink cord. Same prusik knot as Kimberly Lee's. Now look at her neck. Same thing, right?” Now Knight gives the smallest of nods. “And those Knapp boys still in jail, now awaiting sentencing.

  “There's been a fourth murder too. A kid named Chris Braddock, a good friend of both Billy's and Brad's. Kind of a hanger-on. He died in a fall while climbing with Brad and Billy in the Big Horns just two or three days ago. I found the body. Brad and Billy disappeared after they came looking for me and shot my dog.

  “So now I have a hard time believing the Knapps killed all these people, since they were in jail for all three of them, and what I'm seeing, at least with the girls, is some sort of sex-thrill MO that exactly matches the murder of Lee. Now you and I both can see that it's pretty unlikely the Knapps even did Lee. But you were there for their arrest. What I want to know is how did the crank pipe with the Knapps' prints get into Lee's house? And how did that piece of her breast get into their truck?”

  Knight sits silently, staring at the pines through the windshield without seeing them. I wait for a while, letting the pressure build, then ask quietly, “How come you became a cop, David?”

  He just keeps staring and says nothing.

  “Let me tell you about me then. I became a cop for three reasons. One, I thought it would be fun and exciting, getting to carry a gun and a badge and all. Two, I was pissed off about the drugs that ruined my brother's life and stole his future from him. And three, I wanted to do the right thing. I wanted to catch the cheaters—the people who don't follow the rules.

  “I don't know your background—I don't know if you had a brother who got hooked or a relative who was murdered. But I'd be willing to bet that one and three apply to you too. I bet you like the power and authority and I bet you want to do the right thing. And so when you and the others found Kimberly Lee dead, then the Knapps opened fire on you in the middle of the night and there was a pretty good chance they were the perps, you thought the right thing was to make sure there was enough evidence to put them away permanently. You've seen that the courts all too often let bad guys go on technicalities, or just because a jury has their heads up their asses, so you think you'll improve the odds a little with some manufactured evidence.

  “But David, I think you can see now that it was the wrong thing. The wrong guys are going to be put to death just so no one's embarrassed and Nathan Karge gets to move on to the governor's mansion, taking your sheriff with him. I'm asking you now to do the right thing.”

  I let him sit. I'm confident the decision the young deputy will make will be the right one. I can read it on his face. I can see it in his distressed eyes. After a while, Knight finally speaks.

  “Let's go for a walk.”

  I nod and we both get out of the car.

  “Are you recording this?”

  I shake my head and say no.

  Knight looks at me skeptically. So I peel off my suit jacket and lay it on the seat. Then I untuck my shirt and lift it high on my chest. I drop my pants to my knees and turn slowly around before tucking my shirt back into my pants.

  “C'mon,” I say, and we walk up the dirt trail.

  “When Kimberly's body was found, I was one of the first ones there. I didn't see any crank pipe. Then, after the shoot-out with those fucking Knapp brothers, I went back as they were bagging up her body. The pipe was there, broken on the floor, almost underneath a couch. It was bright blue glass with a stem that looked like a flower. I realized I'd seen it before. I took it off one of the brothers when I arrested him a few months earlier, on a possession charge. I placed it into evidence. That case was eventually plea-bargained down to ten days plus probation, but the pipe stayed in evidence—to be destroyed, far as I knew. I told the sheriff I'd seen that pipe before. I told him as they were putting that girl in the bag. He didn't say anything, he just winked at me. After a little wh
ile that Nazi Sergeant Bender came over to me and told me I'd never seen that pipe before, to forget it.”

  “What about the girl's breast, found in the cab of the Knapps' truck? And the supposed confession?”

  “I don't know about that. All I can tell you is that somebody had cut it off her when they killed her. But anyone could have put it in the truck.”

  “And the statement, that one of the Knapps supposedly made to Bender, that the chink bitch had it coming, that rape's all they're good for?”

  “I don't know about that either. It might be bullshit, it might not. Those guys are racists. Someone could have told them the girl was dead and what happened to her. It was the sort of thing those fuckers would say. But I wasn't there for that.”

  That supposed confession was the cornerstone of Karge's case. It was the only piece of evidence that wasn't considered “circumstantial.” Even though scientific proof such as fingerprints and DNA evidence is the most trustworthy and damning evidence there is, juries have been conditioned to treat it as suspect and instead weigh more heavily words people claim to have heard and things they claim to have seen.

  “So you never considered that someone might be setting those boys up?”

  Knight looks away, pained. “No,” he says. “All I knew about for sure was the pipe. But there was enough evidence even without it, as far as I knew. It was just the cherry on top. That shit they wrote in blood on the walls, the racist stuff we found in their trailer, that they started shooting when cops just knocked on their door to question them. I thought they probably did it. I was sure they did it.”

  I stop and look at the young cop. I don't believe him. And Knight knows it too, the way he won't meet my eyes. He suspected all along there was a frame taking place, but he had said nothing. He was a part of it. By his silence, he played a role of sorts in the killings of another three young people. I feel sick again. It wasn't an intent to do harm that kept Knight silent. It was worse. Cowardice. Complacency. That resulted in three more murders.