The Knight pbf-3

by Steven James

  “Yes.” He nodded gently. “Because protecting the innocent matters more than anything else.”

  He turned his head and gazed at me. Despite his age, his eyes were as piercingly observant and incisive as ever, and this time he cut straight to the point. “Do you believe Richard Basque is guilty of those murders?”

  There was no question in my mind. “Yes, he is. And probably more that we don’t know about.”

  “I’ve reviewed the case, as you know. And I am convinced of it as well.”

  We came to the airport exit. Calvin took it.

  A thought.

  No, it couldn’t be.

  But maybe it was.

  “Calvin, you loaded the gun, didn’t you?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry to disappoint you. There must be someone else out there thinking the same things as I am.”

  Maybe I shouldn’t have believed him, but I did. After all, someone else had killed Heather and Chris and had left the taunting message in the mine. So then, Calvin’s comments could mean only one thing: “You don’t think I should have stopped Sikora.”

  He was quick with a reply. “No, no. I’m not questioning anything you did. I think you did the noble thing, the heroic thing.”

  “But not the right thing?”

  “If you hadn’t reacted as swiftly as you did, two people would be dead instead of one. They would not have taken Mr. Sikora alive, you know that.”

  I noticed he hadn’t answered my question. “But if you’re not questioning what I did, what are you doing?”

  “Explaining myself.”

  He stopped the car in front of Terminal 1.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Calvin let the car idle. “For more than five decades I have told the truth and then watched as people whom I knew to be killers and rapists and pedophiles were set free.” His fingers shook slightly. He laid them on the steering wheel, probably so that I wouldn’t notice. But I did.

  “And they molested again,” he said. “They raped again, they murdered again. So many lives have been destroyed because I trusted that if I related the facts, justice would be carried out. But it wasn’t. And now, the suffering of the innocent weighs heavily upon my conscience.”

  He looked at me, a gray fire burning in his eyes, a single terrible teardrop trailing down his cheek. “Perhaps I could have done more to help them.”

  “But perhaps not.”

  “True,” he acknowledged. “But either way, it is too late to change what has been done. We can only change what is and what will be.”

  A police officer approached the car. We either had to move or I needed to grab my suitcase and head to the ticket counter. I could have identified myself as a federal agent, but my wallet was in my computer bag in the trunk and I didn’t want to mess with all that. I just wanted to finish this conversation. “You’re no longer sure you did the right thing by telling the truth all these years.”

  Calvin stared out the window at the rain. His silence was all the answer I needed.

  I remembered his hypothetical question regarding the rapist: “If you shade the truth in your testimony toward his guilt, he will be convicted. What would you do?”

  Truth and justice always wrestle against each other in our courts. For all these years I’d chosen the side of truth. So had Calvin. Maybe we’d chosen the wrong side.

  “Promise me,” Mr. Sikora had said.

  “I promise,” I’d told him.

  I could feel something shifting inside of me. The confidence I’d always had in the justice system suddenly seemed overly naive and optimistic.

  “Do you believe Basque will kill again if he is set free?” Calvin asked.

  “Yes.”

  “As do I.”

  The officer rapped a knuckle against the glass. I held up a finger to tell him to give me a moment, then I asked Calvin, “You’re going to do something, aren’t you?”

  Silence.

  “What is it? What are you going to do?”

  He folded his hands on the top of the steering wheel. “I’m going to watch carefully.” His words were decisive. Firm. “And see what happens next.”

  I searched for what to say. The officer pounded on the door and began to demand I step outside, which I finally did. He pointed to Calvin. “He needs to move along.”

  I exited the car, and Calvin rolled down his window. “I’ll call you,” I said.

  “Yes, do. Ring me.”

  Then I retrieved my bags and watched as Calvin drove away, the taillights of his car glimmering off the wet pavement. A blurry, distorted reflection.

  The officer was still standing beside me, and when I didn’t move he said, “Is everything all right?”

  No. It’s not. It might never be.

  “Yes,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”

  Then I entered the terminal, wondering if I should have just let Sikora kill Richard Basque, or if maybe I should have helped him aim the gun. Calvin’s words stalked me as I made my way through the concourse: “I’m going to watch carefully and see what happens next.”

  Well, so would I.

  17

  Baptist Memorial HospitalDenver, Colorado7:51 p.m. Mountain Time

  Disguised and dressed as a custodian, Giovanni passed through the lower level of Baptist Memorial Hospital toward the morgue. He carried a black waterproof duffel bag and was careful to avoid the hallways that had security cameras.

  His flight had arrived nearly an hour ago, which had given him plenty of time to get ready.

  Now, he picked the lock to the morgue, entered the room, and shut the door behind him. Set down his duffel bag. Unzipped it.

  Then, he headed to the cold storage area where the recent arrivals were kept.

  Giovanni had never served time for murder, which was a bit surprising, considering how many of them he’d committed.

  And considering he’d even confessed to one.

  But no crimes, not even that first one, appeared on his record because he was only eleven when he confessed to it and the court system decided that he was too young to understand his actions, that he was just a boy and so.

  And so.

  And so.

  Instead of serving time in jail, he’d spent six months at a special hospital and then attended a boarding school and met with a counselor three times a week to talk about his feelings.

  But neither his counselor nor any of his lawyers or the judges or court-appointed advocates had ever understood that he really had known what he was doing when he killed his grandmother two days before his twelfth birthday. He’d known very well. And even now, all these years later, everything was still fresh in his mind.

  He unlatched the metal door that led to the cadavers and felt the sweep of cool air brush across his face, his arms, as he stepped inside. Just a few degrees colder than the mine-cool enough to store the bodies for a few days, not cold enough to freeze them solid.

  He was responsible for eight deaths during the last week, or possibly seven, if the priest was still alive, so he recognized several of the bodies in the cold storage area, but he noted their presence without any emotion or even satisfaction. They’d only been characters in the epic story he was telling, nothing more.

  Giovanni wheeled the gurney containing the corpse of Travis Nash into the examination and autopsy room and shut the freezer door.

  A white sheet covered the corpse and he slid it aside, revealing the naked, clay-like body of the man he’d killed twelve hours ago by what had appeared to everyone to be a heart attack. No autopsy had been ordered.

  Giovanni realized that if he were going to stick literally to the plot, he would have needed to find a way to have Travis’s wife dig up his body and slice off his head with a knife, but burial practices had changed quite a bit since the fourteenth century, and, considering Travis’s cremation was scheduled for the following morning, taking his body from the morgue was as close to disinterment as possible.

  Since his death earlier in the
day, Travis Nash’s blood would have pooled in his body cavity, so there wouldn’t be much of a mess, just a little seepage.

  He unzipped his duffel bag, took out the crosscut saw that he’d used on Brigitte and the governor, placed the blade against the cold, bloated neck of Mr. Nash, and set to work.

  Giovanni remembered the night his grandmother died.

  He could still see her standing in the kitchen, bent over the sink, her frail fingers scrubbing the dishes, scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing, and her soft, papery voice asking him to please put the glasses in the cupboard next to the plates and if he enjoyed the summer with her and was he ready to go back to his father next Tuesday, and then reminding him not to forget his copy of The Canterbury Tales that he’d been reading all summer because she’d seen it on the porch earlier in the day.

  She was wearing a white apron with a picture of a faded bouquet of lilies embroidered on the front, and there were yellow stains of chicken broth beside the flowers from the times she’d wiped her fingers across the apron while she was cooking.

  Yes, he remembered it all: the quiet Kansas breeze blowing through the open window above the sink, the sound of crickets chirping in the dewy shadows outside, the smell of his grandmother’s old-lady perfume mixing with the lemon-scented dishwashing liquid, and the fading smell of the chicken dumpling soup that she’d made from scratch for him because it was his favorite.

  Yes, and he remembered the knife resting patiently on the counter beside her.

  And his grandmother’s voice again, “Please make sure those glasses are dry before you put them away, dear. You know how they’ll just pick up germs if they’re still wet.”

  “And did his grandmother yell at the boy? Verbally abuse him?”

  “Not to my knowledge, Your Honor.”

  “What about his home life with his father? Was he neglected in any way?”

  “He appears to have had a normal, stable upbringing, Your Honor. His mother died while giving birth, but there is no sign of physical or mental abuse whatsoever from his other family members.”

  The knife handle looked so shiny and smooth and inviting.

  He remembered that. And he remembered wrapping his fingers around it and picking it up and feeling its steady, balanced weight.

  He rotated it so that the kitchen light could slant and dance along the blade, where it glistened, glistened, glistened, and then lingered for a moment before sliding off the edge and disappearing into the air around him.

  The knife felt right at home in his hand.

  Yes, he remembered.

  And then his grandmother turned and saw him holding it, and she wiped her hands on her apron and asked what he was doing and would he please put down the knife because knives are dangerous and not to be handled carelessly and he should know that, a boy his age.

  And he remembered how glad he was that she’d turned around because he hadn’t really wanted to push the knife into her back and this way he could watch her face when it happened.

  “Your Honor, the boy is too young to understand his actions. There’s no precedent for a child under fourteen years of age being convicted of first-degree murder. He’s a deeply troubled young man who needs psychological help. He should be offered counseling, not incarceration.”

  Everything was clear.

  When his grandmother saw that he wasn’t going to put down the knife, she took a hesitant step backward, pressing herself against the sink. She was still holding the dishrag, and soapy water was dripping from it and forming a small uneven puddle at her feet on the checkered linoleum floor.

  He remembered that, even after all these years.

  Giovanni finished with Travis’s neck and set the blond, curly haired head in a plastic bag, then wrapped it carefully in a large white linen sheet and placed it in the duffel bag.

  It took him only a moment to wash up and then change into the doctor’s scrubs he’d brought with him. He stuffed the custodian’s clothes into the duffel, covered the body again, and rolled it into the freezer.

  Kelsey would be arriving in less than ten minutes.

  Good.

  He went to the sink to rinse off the saw and prepare the needle.

  For some reason, as Giovanni stepped toward his grandmother, the crickets stopped chirping. Maybe they knew. Maybe somehow they could tell what was about to happen.

  His grandmother’s eyes grew large, and then she dropped the dishrag and tried to push him away, but he was strong for his age, stronger than she was, and she didn’t slow him down. Not at all.

  Giovanni had cut steak; he knew that cutting meat wasn’t easy, and that his grandmother’s body would have meat on it, that everyone’s does, so he expected that it would be difficult to push the knife into her belly, expected that there would be more resistance, but it was much easier than he thought it would be. Quite easy, as a matter of fact. And pulling it out was even easier than pushing it in because it was slick and shiny with blood and other juices that he didn’t recognize.

  She didn’t scream or cry out, just coughed slightly. A moist cough, and she trembled a little, and then leaned more of her weight against the counter beside the sink, and then sank to the floor.

  Giovanni bent over her, and every time he pushed the knife in, it became easier and easier, especially after she stopped quivering so much. And it was quieter then too, after she stopped making those awkward sounds in the back of her throat.

  Giovanni heard a knock at the morgue’s door, and then, wearing the somber, empathetic expression of a concerned doctor, he opened it and found Kelsey Nash in the hallway.

  He told her how sorry he was for her loss and apologized for having to call her in so late like this, but then explained that he needed to ask her a few questions about her husband, now, tonight, before the cremation, because it might help clear up some questions that had come up concerning the circumstances of her husband’s death.

  Kelsey wiped away a stray tear but didn’t enter the morgue.

  He added that the police feared that Travis might have possibly been murdered, and that once again he was terribly sorry about the whole ordeal, but that this would only take a minute and then no one would be bothering her again.

  And at last she stepped hesitantly into the room.

  As Giovanni returned the knife to the counter he heard the crickets slowly resume their chirping. And he liked that. Liked that the world outside was still normal, that, really, nothing much had changed.

  Except for his grandmother, who lay motionless in a widening pool of warm blood that was beginning to find the grooves in the linoleum and make straight, bright lines on the kitchen floor as it spread away from her.

  That was something he liked to think about. The red lines traveling away from her like the streaks of sunlight he would make when he drew a sun in the corner of his papers at school.

  He watched the blood slide through the grooves in the shiny floor, watched the sunlight escape from the body of his grandmother.

  “Giovanni, did your father ever touch you?”

  “Touch me?”

  “Yes. In a bad place. In a place where your swimming suit covers?

  On your buttocks or-”

  “Is that a bad place?”

  “No, no. It’s just-maybe a coach or someone? Did Coach Simons ever touch you there? Or your grandmother?”

  “In the bad place?”

  “Where your suit covers.”

  “No. Uh-uh. No one. Just good places. Just nice hugs. Nothing in the bad place.”

  Giovanni motioned toward the freezer. “His body is right over here, ma’am.”

  Kelsey looked so fragile and shattered by her husband’s recent death. She took one step, paused.

  “I know how difficult this must be for you.” He put a compassionate hand on her shoulder so that she wouldn’t be afraid. “I promise you, I’ll make this as painless as possible.”

  And with his left hand, he slid the hypodermic needle from his pocket.

  He l
eaned over so he could look into his grandmother’s eyes. They seemed so odd, staring up at the kitchen light without blinking, and they were so round and glossy that they looked like oversized marbles that might roll out of her head at any moment.

  “What was it like, Grandma?” His voice sounded large and strong and manly in the empty kitchen. He liked the grown-up sound of his voice, and he repeated the question, even though he knew she wasn’t going to answer him. Not anymore.

  He watched those glassy eyes for a while, wondering if maybe they would blink, because, even though he was only eleven, he’d heard that sometimes things like that happen. Really, they do. Sometimes people move after they’re dead. Reflexes.

  But no. Not his grandmother. Even though he waited until the blood stopped spreading and began to grow dark and angry-looking, even then, his grandmother didn’t blink.

  He placed a finger lightly against the drying blood and found that it had turned sticky and thick and did not feel at all like the warm, soft rays of sunlight that had been landing on his face all summer.

  It smelled coppery and warm.

  And he liked how it felt on his skin.

  Giovanni lowered Kelsey gently to the floor.

  The muscle relaxant made her limp but left her conscious, and he could see her eyes moving, telling him that she was aware of what was going on. Her lips whispered silent syllables. Words that never formed.

  He wheeled her husband’s corpse out of the freezer, removed the sheet that covered it.

  “Officially, you’re supposed to die of grief,” he said. She lay motionless, except for her eyes, her lips, and her chest: her eyes, alert and tracking him, her lips, quivering slightly, her chest rising and falling, rising and falling with each breath. He wondered what it would be like to be conscious but unable to move, able only to anticipate what was about to happen. He wondered if she would be able to cry anymore. He wasn’t sure.

  Tenderly, he slid one hand under her back and the other beneath her legs so that he could lift her without hurting her.

  “I tried to think of a better way to do this, but I couldn’t come up with one.” He set her on the gurney beside the headless corpse. “I guess you could call this the next best thing.”