by Neil Watson
Oliver quickly and stealthily ran to the stairs at the far end of the corridor, away from where he could hear the man’s boots coming, keeping himself as close to the cell walls as possible to avoid being seen. He just managed to catch a glimpse of one of the men in a security uniform, and he waited until the guard had reached the end and disappeared down the corridor, out of sight. “Good”, thought Oliver. “If I can’t see him, he can’t see me.” Still clutching his key, Oliver made his next move, leaping with hardly a sound down the steps two at a time to the floor below. With speed and agility on his side, he continued down to the second level, and then to the safety of the ground floor.
Running as quickly as he could, his sense of direction enabled him to retrace his steps back to the doorway through which he’d entered, and it was luckily still open. He escaped through it to the bright sunlight outside, where there were a number of people walking, some towards the official main entrance, and some in the direction of the parking area. Without drawing undue attention to himself, he slowed his pace to blend in, and joined those people returning to their cars.
By the time Oliver reached his own silver Hyundai, he thought he was going to be sick. Hand shaking, he fumbled around in his pocket for the central locking remote key, and pressed the button. Combined with the welcoming blip-blip sound, the door became unlocked and, once sitting within the confines of the driver’s seat, he felt like he could at last breathe again. Letting out a huge sigh of relief, he rested his head back, and hesitated before starting the engine.
Oliver was able to remember exactly what he’d read on the wall of the cell. But still, before driving off, he flicked through his phone’s photo library to the most recent picture, and stared at the image he’d captured. The scratched surface had read: ‘ASK MJ. YY. 6.14.96’. He racked his brain, trying to figure out the meaning.
He studied the letters and numbers. Could ‘YY’ be Yushi’s initials? That was surely likely. And what about the numbers? Of course! They could be a date perhaps, written the American way with the month first. The 14th of June 1996.
With all his recent research still so fresh, Oliver immediately recognised that particular date’s significance as being the day of Yakamoto’s execution. And what did ‘ASK MJ’ mean? Could it be an instruction by Yushi to ‘ask MJ’ about something? But who could MJ have been? he puzzled.
He leant behind and grabbed his satchel off the rear seat, lifting it over to occupy the space next to him, and began rifling through the file full of papers, trying to find something—anything—that might give him some clue. He came to the recorded list of all occupants in the cell since 1950—Hoffman, Ryan, Trudeau, and so on, glancing quickly at all the names.
And there it was, in black and white! Emanuele’s initials were ‘M’ and ‘J’. Oliver tapped his iPhone and went on to E.J. Gold’s web page and clicked on the link against Emanuele’s name to refresh his memory. Mark John Emanuele, known as ‘The Assassin’, had been sentenced to life imprisonment in 1977. If ‘life’ meant ‘life’, then presumably he would have been transferred to Stateville when Joliet had ceased operating as a working prison in 2002.
Straight away, despite his tiredness from all the excitement so far, Oliver knew for sure that he must now go ahead with his planned second prison visit of the day. It was, according to his satnav, only six miles across Des Plaines River to Stateville. Exiting the main gates of old Joliet prison, he headed west to the place where, he hoped beyond hope, Emanuele was still residing.
Concentrating hard, Oliver drove along without any music so that he could think. Would he actually be able to meet Emanuele, he wondered? And if he were to be allowed, would Emanuele still remember Yushi from such a long time ago? And even if he could recollect his old cellmate, would he understand what Yushi had meant by ‘Ask MJ’? That was always assuming the letters ‘M’ and ‘J’ meant this guy Emanuele. But Oliver had a suspicion they did.
Fifteen minutes later, Oliver pulled up at the entrance to Stateville Prison, apprehensive and nervous. “Come on,” he lectured himself. “Rise to the challenge. Pull yourself together and get on with it!”
Unlike Joliet, this was a fully-functioning prison, with all the appropriate security in place. It was by now mid-afternoon, and Oliver was feeling very weary. Nonetheless, he had a real sense of purpose when he entered the administration office and walked over to the reception area. He decided to adopt a bold approach and come straight to the point in a forthright and assertive manner, somewhat out of character.
“Can I help you, Sir?” asked a rather overweight official in uniform, getting up from behind his desk and blocking Oliver’s movements any further.
“My name is Oliver Markland. I’m over from England, writing for the Terre Haute and Indianapolis Daily Times, as well as the East Anglian Chronicle in Britain, and I’m researching an inmate by the name of Mark John Emanuele. Would it be possible to tell me whether he is here, and if I could interview him, please?” Oliver had noticed that as soon as he’d mentioned the name Emanuele, the security man had raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“All the way from England, huh? You mean ol’ M.J.–‘The Assassin’, as we like to call him?” asked the man in authority as he loomed over Oliver, but hardly letting Oliver get a word in to reply. “My, oh my! Man, of course M.J. is here. But he ain’t had nobody of any importance pay him a visit in years! And I should know, man—I’ve been here longer than he has, so I’d say I’m more of a prisoner than him! He’s sure better off than me. Man! Is he in for a surprise when I tell him he got a visitor from Great Britain, that’ll be for sure! He’s lived here since Joliet closed down, and I guess he’ll be here until the day he dies. By rights, they say he should have fried years ago, but rumour is he had connections in high places. Nowadays, he’s a tame pussycat who found the light in Jesus.”
“Fantastic!” exclaimed Oliver, hardly believing his ears. But then, the security officer continued with some less positive news. “But, I’m sorry Sir, visiting day was the day before yesterday. You’ll have to come back next week now. Monday morning at ten. But there’s still no guarantee he’ll see you, although between you and me I doubt he’ll turn down the chance to show someone the finger. Come over here, and I’ll take down your details and register you. Name and address please? Plainfield, huh? Well, I’ll need to inform M.J. of your intention to meet him, but you can phone before you make the journey just to be sure it’s okay.”
Feeling overcome with tiredness, what with the security man’s non-stop monologue, Oliver now just wanted to get back in his car and drive home to Plainfield before the Friday evening rush hour became too heavy. Disappointed that he’d have to make a return trip, he was nonetheless delighted to have had such a positive outcome. He gladly gave the man his full details, said goodbye and left the building.
It wasn’t until he was halfway home, this time with the radio blaring at near full volume, that he wondered what on earth the comment about ‘the finger’ could have meant? Oliver knew the normal meaning of ‘giving the finger’, but why would Emanuele want to show ‘the finger’, especially to someone he’d never met before? No matter, Oliver thought—he’d hopefully find out next week. What now excited him even more was tomorrow’s appointment with the TV crew outside Sandy Beach’s old house. And oh yes, he also remembered he’d be meeting the beautiful Siobhan as well—another reason to get excited!
CHAPTER 29
(FRIDAY, 19TH JANUARY, 2018)
Bungled Arrest
T here had been gap of sixteen years since Katie Copeland had last worked on a forensics case. Back in 2001, she found that while constantly searching for minute clues in the goriest of places, the aftermath of homicides and suicides had become too stressful, and her general happiness was being affected. After she had discussed this with her husband Paul, they both agreed that he was by then earning enough to support them both and their two children, and it was time for Katie to tender her resignation. After twenty years in the job, she’d become
too weary, and she no longer had the same passion for the career that had begun in 1981.
Since retiring, Katie had been contentedly getting on with what she described as a normal family life, bringing up the children and making a home. Back then, Issey had been ten and Max only six, and Katie enjoyed spending increased time with them and also taking more of an active role in their school’s PTA. Her former job hadn’t completely been forgotten, and she liked to keep abreast of developments that occurred in the world of forensics, especially in the field of DNA, the area that had always fascinated her. DNA science had come on in leaps and bounds since first being used in mainstream crime detection in the late 1980s, and she’d begun to feel a yearning, when family circumstances would allow, to return once more to work, in some capacity at least. With Max backpacking his way across the Far East, and Issey working in Pennsylvania as a media account manager at Hershey’s Chocolate World, Katie was ready.
Not wanting to return to the pressures of a full-time job, even if, at her age, there had been a vacancy, Katie had decided to try her hand at working freelance. She’d offered her extensive knowledge and expertise to Police forces to help them catch some of the ‘bad guys’, and she’d been welcomed back with open arms. Her phone never stopped ringing.
It was the best of both worlds for Katie—she’d be invited to join an investigation team, without any obligation to do so. She could pick and choose which cases she thought would be interesting, and turn down the ones she didn’t fancy. When submitting her hourly-rated invoices, she soon found that her income was at least triple what it used to be. And she was also allowed access to all the lab and data facilities just as if she were still on the Police payroll.
Being the fastidious person to the nth degree that she was, Katie had always kept a comprehensive file on every single crime she’d worked on, initially in hard copy, even right back to her first cases since graduating in 1980. During her self-imposed retirement period, her ‘hobby’ had been to transfer all her old case files to digital. She also scanned every relevant photograph as well, and updated the files with any subsequent news reports that she came across. She didn’t know why, but she supposed it was ‘just in case’ one day it would come in useful. Paul knew it was simply a symptom of her being an obsessive-compulsive person. Everything in his wife’s life had to be in order. Everything neat and tidy. Everything in its place. That was how Katie liked to live, and he didn’t mind at all. He loved her whatever.
Katie had spent most of the morning clearing up after a rather lively dinner party held the previous evening at home. By the afternoon, she was worn out and feeling a little the worse for wear, probably on account of the large bottle of exceedingly delicious caramel vodka that one of her friends had brought for her to try. Only now, after finally putting away the last stack of plates from the dishwasher, did she allow herself to put her feet up and relax.
Ogling the lifestyles of major celebrities, Katie idly flicked through the latest issue of Star Life and Style magazine, while, for the time being, setting aside the Terre Haute Daily Times on the coffee table, with the intention of reading it after dinner that evening. For now though, gazing casually at glossy magazine pictures was about all she was able to manage. Maybe the hair of the dog would help tame her mild headache, so she poured herself just a small glass of white wine. Illogically, it did the trick.
By the time Paul had come home from work, Katie’s one glass had already led to one or two more, and she was now in no mood to cook a meal, even if she’d been capable. “So, I guess I should order a Dominos?” suggested her sympathetic and kind husband. “Do you want your usual?” he asked. Katie nodded, half asleep, but roused by the anticipation of her favourite meatball pizza with extra onion topping being delivered by the man on his motorbike.
An hour later, cosy in her pyjamas, and pizza devoured, Katie could hardly keep her eyes open, and announced she’d be going to bed. “You get some rest, darling”, Paul smiled, affectionately. “You just can’t handle these heavy nights anymore, can you? Go and get some beauty sleep and I’ll join you later after I’ve watched the game,” he suggested. While his wife dragged herself upstairs, Paul tidied away the cardboard pizza cartons and then settled down in his favourite armchair to watch the Dodgers compete against the Boston Red Sox on TV. He smiled at how his wife, usually so full of beans, had clearly overdone it the previous evening.
Enjoying a little ‘me-time’ to himself during the sponsors’ announcements, he casually turned the pages of the newspaper that was in front of him. When he reached page 51, the article about the Bike Radio Murder caught his attention. Wasn’t that a case that his wife had been involved with ages ago? It had been a big deal at the time, and he was sure he remembered Katie mentioning it on various occasions as being one of the first cases she’d ever led.
Knowing how she liked to update her files, he tore out the article before throwing the rest of the newspaper in the bin, and would show it to her later if she was still awake. Fat chance of that now, he thought, and he was right. By the time he went up to join her in the bedroom, the only responses he got were snores. He smiled with affection yet again at how, every time he ever dared bring up the subject of her loud snoring, his wife denied any responsibility for creating such a din.
***
When Marc Ozborn woke up, he struggled to recognise his surroundings. He’d spent a most uncomfortable night in the Terre Haute police station, lying on a cold, hard bench with only one grey blanket and a single pillow on which to rest his head, awaiting a decision that would determine his fate. He would either be cautioned for drink-driving, or he would be charged. If charged, as this was now his third offence, it was more than likely he’d be serving a custodial sentence.
Very fortunately for Ozborn, the newly-recruited police officer had bungled his arrest procedure, resulting in the evidence against Ozborn becoming technically null and void. Without this fact being disclosed to him, Ozborn was offered as his one final chance, the opportunity to attend a three-day workshop, relating to alcoholism and the dangers of driving under the influence. Ozborn, thinking that he had to choose between either accepting the workshop or being charged, didn’t take long to make his decision, even though he had little intention of attending the first workshop on the following Sunday morning.
He was released without charge and told to attend the local Community Center at 2.00p.m. the following day. Before leaving the police precinct, he needed to sign for the return of all his personal belongings taken off him at the time of being taken into custody. The releasing officer placed a metal box on the desk in front of Ozborn and proceeded to call out its contents while simultaneously checking them off his list, one by one.
“Timex watch with cracked glass, one brown wallet containing $17, one set of keys, one torn and crumpled newspaper page,” at which point, out of curiosity, the officer uncrumpled it and looked at both sides. “One side with an advertisement for Travers Nissan Dealership, and this an article about the Bike Radio Murder. Hmm, I remember that one. It was big news at the time. Sign here, Mr. Ozborn, and let’s hope we don’t see you here again in the near future.”
Ozborn did what he was told and signed the document that was placed in front of him, put the wallet in his back pocket, clipped the watch clasp around his wrist, grabbed the bunch of keys and selected the one for his truck. He’d forgotten all about the newspaper cutting, or why he had it. He was just about to screw it up and chuck it in the bin, but the officer’s words reminded him of how he’d tried to read it last night in his drunken stupor, and had kept it for when sober.
Once out of the door and walking towards his truck, he glanced down at the piece of paper in his hand. When inside the cab he sat there and fully read it before driving off to his trailer. After such a bad night, all he now wanted was to get his head down and catch up with some sleep, but what he’d read didn’t exactly help to calm him. In fact, his mind churned. His first, and, for him, common, reaction was anger. But there was a
second reaction. He had to admit to feeling quite unsettled. As he drove, mulling over the contents of the article, he wondered whether he’d actually get any sleep at all.
After believing that, for so many years, he’d gotten away with a murder that he must surely have committed, the last thing he wanted was some young kid playing detective and stirring up a hornets’ nest now. Glancing down while driving, he scanned the article for the kid’s name. This guy Oliver Markland shouldn’t be interfering in business that needn’t concern him, he thought.
Ozborn decided that, for the time being, his best course of action would be to do nothing. He’d keep his ears open and nose to the ground, and hope for no further developments. With any luck, this idiot ‘Young Sherlock’ guy would get no responses to his ridiculous appeal, give up and go back to where he came from, and that would be the end of it.
So engrossed in his thoughts when he turned into the trailer park, Ozborn hardly noticed the car parked in front of his door and almost crashed right into it, causing a look of great alarm on the faces of its occupants. “Shit!” Ozborn shouted, once he recognised the car as belonging to Melody and Stephen from the previous day, and having completely forgotten they were due back today. He really was in no mood for a friendly discussion. He stormed out of his pickup, went up to the closed window of the car and banged his hand hard against it. Blaise-Pascal, the little dog sitting quietly and contentedly on the rear seat, yelped in fright.
“I don’t have the money,” Ozborn shouted. “Something came up. I’ll have it tomorrow evening. Come back then. Now, get lost.” His voice was so loud with rage that the nearby sleeping dogs began barking.
Stephen lowered his window and began protesting. “But you said . . .”
