by Neil Watson
Ozborn needed to work out a plan that would scare Oliver Markland off and get him wanting to take the next plane home. He’d devise something threatening. Something that would frighten Markland away, never to return. That shouldn’t be too difficult, thought Ozborn, as he recollected Markland’s appearance on TV. He looked kinda weedy, in his opinion.
As he clasped his mug of strong black coffee, watching the steam rise from it, he decided what he had to do. The old, disused timber sawmill at Flatrock Creek should be a sufficiently formidable place, he thought, to give Markland the message to put an end to his investigations, and get lost.
It had been a long time since Ozborn had been out to Flatrock—since the days he’d go there with his gun and let off steam. That was one of the ways he used to take control of his temper—setting up cans and bottles along the cross-timbers of the old building structure, walking a hundred paces, turning around and letting rip. Even if he said so himself, he was a respectably good shot, and watching the bottles explode their fragments of glass in the air usually calmed him down.
That’s what he’d do. No need for violence, not unless it was called for—just the mere hint of what could happen to Markland if he didn’t ‘capeesh’—Ozborn’s favourite word. He formulated an idea to lure Markland to Flatrock on the pretext that there was something related to Sandy Beach that he wanted to show him. Then, when they got there, a small demonstration of his shooting skills would follow, along with a few choice words—and that should be enough to persuade Markland to abandon this damned crazy Young Sherlock alter ego, period, and stay the hell away.
Ozborn was aware that his strategy to silence the boy was, perhaps, ill-conceived. He knew that he didn’t know enough about Markland to be certain he’d scare Young Sherlock back to England, but he didn’t care. An ill-conceived plan was better than no plan at all, and Ozborn was blinkered. A lesson needed to be taught.
He went on to think that he may even leave the boy there and make him walk back—it’s only sixteen miles or so, so it wouldn’t exactly kill him. Pleased with his plan, finishing off his coffee, he then gathered the necessary documents together to take to the vehicle office on Grandview Street. If he got that sorted nice and early, he could then get to The Old Parlor before midday and have time for a couple of Buds before his ‘special guest’ arrived.
***
Oliver Markland was nervous that morning. It was 9.37a.m., and in less than half an hour Siobhan would be meeting M.J. Emanuele. In less than two and a half hours he would be meeting the man who had some information for him. He thought back to the phone call he’d received from that man, and a shudder went through him as he replayed the caller’s gruff voice in his mind. But, would it be an important lead? Oliver felt compelled to follow it up.
On holiday in Florida, and now that he was here in the Midwest, everyone he’d met couldn’t have been nicer. But the man he was due to meet didn’t sound like that. In fact, he sounded the downright opposite, Oliver thought. Still, they were going to meet in a public place and there would be plenty of people around, so everything should be okay, shouldn’t it? He may even get there a little early, sit in a corner watching out for everyone entering the pub, or tavern, as they called them. He’d try to identify Mystery Caller from a distance, and if the guy looked too shifty, Oliver could simply slip out—or just stay sitting in the corner keeping his head down until the man got fed up with waiting and decided to leave.
But first, he wanted to speak to Siobhan and find out how she was. As if Siobhan had read his mind, she too was anxious to call Oliver, also feeling nervous about her imminent meeting with Emanuele. She had just pulled into the parking lot at Stateville Prison and, having made good time from her motel, she turned off the car’s engine. Before calling Oliver, she rummaged around in her handbag.
Although certain that she did have her notebook and biro, she just wanted to double-check. It would be so embarrassing if she wouldn’t be allowed to use her phone to record the interview, and then find that she didn’t even have the means to write an account of proceedings either. Relieved to find her pen and paper lurking at the bottom of her bag, she then checked that her phone had enough battery life. Siobhan saw that it was 87% charged, and was satisfied that it would be enough to last the whole interview, if its use were granted.
There wasn’t much time to speak to Oliver but she desperately wanted to hear his calming voice. “Hi. It’s me,” she said hurriedly as soon as Oliver picked up after only one ring.
“I’m glad you called,” Oliver replied. How was your evening? How was the drive? How was Hannah?”
Siobhan had completely forgotten about the previous evening’s meeting with Mrs. Toporofski, which had been a monumental waste of time, in her opinion. “Oh yes, I was just going to text you her pictures,” Siobhan white-lied, wanting to sound on the ball. “It was all pretty much nothing of interest, I’m sorry to say—I think she’s rather lost the plot. Just wants to be on TV. And she’s only got a few blurred photos of an old truck anyway. There are probably thousands of them on the road, all looking the same, but I’ll send the pics to you in a jiffy, no problem. Listen, I’d better go now. I just wanted to hear your voice and wish you luck at The Old Parlor. Gotta go now. See you later. Bye!”
Siobhan hung up and then quickly sent the pictures to Oliver, as promised, before getting out of the car and walking to the building’s reception area.
Before Oliver had a chance to say anything, he found he was staring at the red ‘CALL-END’ button on his iPhone. A second later, his phone bleeped, indicating that a text had come through. The time displayed told him that Siobhan only had a few minutes before her allotted meeting time, and he visualised her now going into the same reception area at Stateville that he himself had been inside a few days previously. He decided to look at Mrs. Toporofski’s pictures later.
Siobhan was approached by the man in uniform, and she was asked for her ID, nature of business, and name of whoever she was visiting. When she declared it was M.J. Emanuele that she’d come to see, the man’s eyes lit up. “Ah yes, Miss. He’s been expecting you. First it was gonna be Mr. Markland. It was he who came here the other day to make the appointment in person, right? But I see that you’re much prettier—and I guess that’ll be a nice surprise for ol’ M.J.” he joked.
Siobhan laughed apprehensively, but then realised she didn’t quite know what was funny. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“Well, he’s a bit of a ladies’ man, if you know what I mean, Ma’am? I’m sure it must be frowned upon in the Bible that he’s so fond of quoting, but we’ve been told to turn a blind eye to his habits, Ma’am, if you get the picture.”
“I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand,” Siobhan looked at the man quizzically. Then, as if it were an explanation, she was told that Emanuele had become a born-again Christian since his days in Joliet.
“To this day he’s been carrying a Bible around with him everywhere he goes,” chuckled the administration officer as he handed Siobhan an identity tag to hang around her neck. Siobhan still wondered what the man was talking about.
“Anyway, Ma’am, it’s a special day for our man today,” continued the officer. “We don’t think he’s had no visitor for years. Not the normal kind, that is. Plenty of lady visitors, you understand, but they don’t really count, do they? Anyways, the Governor says you can have full access—even visit his room if you want, just like the others. But don’t worry—we’ll be keeping an eye out for you, and besides, you’re not like one of them. We don’t ask no questions around here—we just do what we’re told, but we do know what’s what, if you know what ah mean. The word is that, in the past, he mixed with some pretty high-on up people in his days on the streets. Just his bad luck that he got caught. Just his good luck that he never got fried.”
Siobhan gulped, still none the wiser about what was being said to her. As she was being led through the security door, she wondered where she was being taken. Would she be going to sit at a table in a larg
e room with Emanuele? Would there be other prisoners present at the same time, meeting their own respective visitors? Or would it be like on the TV shows where she would have to sit in front of a glass screen with the inmate on the other side, talking through a round speakerphone?
Hoping she would be having a one-to-one conversation, with no physical barrier between them, she tensely followed the officer along a lengthy corridor. “He’ll be here until the day he dies,” said the officer, making conversation. “We guess that won’t be too long on account of his cancer. The drugs are looking after him well for the time being, but when the time comes, the truth is, we’ll all miss him. He’s as gentle as a soft pussycat nowadays—wouldn’t even swat a fly.”
Siobhan gulped harder, as they came to an empty, high-ceilinged, hall-like room. This whole situation was surreal, she thought. Seated at the desk in the middle of the room was an immaculately-dressed, bald man wearing smart, designer glasses. He was reading a book that he closed when Siobhan entered, and then stood up and outstretched his hand to greet her as she walked towards him, while he still held the book in the other. “Well, this is indeed a pleasure,” said the man in a most charming manner that took Siobhan completely by surprise. In fact, everything about the man took her by surprise—especially his voice, so mesmeric that she could quite easily have fallen into a trance just listening to it.
“Well, you are quite the picture, aren’t you?” Emanuele smiled. “Please take a seat and tell me what I can do for you,” he continued, ushering her to the chair on the other side of the desk, pulling it out ready. In doing so, he put the book down. As she expected, based on what the officer had told her, it was a Bible—but not the old-fashioned type she was used to seeing in churches, or her motel room the previous night. This was a modern, line-illustrated version for colouring in. Glancing at it, Siobhan almost wanted to find religion herself so that she could have a go. She loved those colouring books that had recently become so popular.
But it wasn’t just the Bible that caught her attention, as Emanuele pulled the chair from the desk. The middle finger of his left hand was missing. Embarrassed that she may be staring at it a little too long, she quickly turned her gaze away and sat down. “I see you’ve noticed my little injury,” remarked Emanuele. “I might show you how it’s coming along later. But first, let’s get down to business and talk about why you’re here. I asked Patrick in Administration to fill me in, but all he would tell me was that it’s something to do with Sherlock Holmes. Now there’s a good mystery for me.”
Siobhan tried to play things cool, but was struggling not to be constantly distracted by Emanuele’s hand—or the strange hushed way he spoke. She placed her handbag on the table and began rummaging through it. “Would you mind if I get my note pad?” she asked. “And if it doesn’t bother you too much, perhaps I could put my phone on to record our conversation, please?”
Her host was equally mesmerised by his young visitor’s big blue eyes. “Of course,” he replied. “Go ahead. As you wish.”
After Siobhan had made herself comfortable, she began explaining the whole story, as clearly and concisely as she could. At the point when she mentioned Oliver Markland, Emanuele’s expression was emotionless, but when she explained his ‘Young Sherlock’ persona, he became excited, and suddenly interrupted. “Ah, I see now! This is all about poor Yushi, isn’t it? I’ve been watching your boyfriend on the TV. Very good, isn’t he? If I’d have known, I would have come here better prepared. Never mind, we’ll just have to go back to my room, won’t we? Don’t look so alarmed, my girl, I won’t assassinate you! That’s all in the past now.” He giggled. Siobhan squirmed.
“Why do you think he’s my boyfriend?” Siobhan asked curiously.
“Come now!” Emanuele answered. “I’m right, aren’t I?” Siobhan blushed, not knowing what to say.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here,” suggested Emanuele. “I’d better tell the guard what we’re doing,” he continued, nodding towards the uniformed man sitting on a stool by the door, reading a newspaper. “Just going back to Headquarters, John. Taking my guest with me. I have something rather interesting to show her.” The guard stood up, and followed them out the door.
“Not the finger, surely, Mr. Emanuele?” the guard whispered out of Siobhan’s earshot as Emanuele went past. “You don’t want to distress the young lady, do you, Sir?”
Although she wasn’t able to hear what was being said, the scenario Siobhan found herself in was becoming a little too bizarre for her to absorb, and she wished Oliver were with her. Boyfriend, huh? She rather liked hearing that. But for now, she was ‘in for a penny, in for a pound’—another Oliver colloquialism that she loved hearing him say. So off she went, following the two men down a corridor, up some stairs and in through a door that the guard unlocked and held open for them while he stood aside as they entered. Emanuele held up his hand to halt the guard from following them. “A little privacy, please, John,” Emanuele said, mischievously.
“Alright, Sir. Ten minutes,” replied John, who proceeded to sit on one of the chairs outside the cell door.
Inside, Emanuele’s ‘room’ was nothing like Siobhan expected. The first thing she noticed was that it was carpeted. Nothing grand, but carpet, all the same. The bed looked comfortable, and apart from it being single-sized, it wasn’t too dissimilar to the one she’d slept in back at her motel. There were pictures on the wall, not the distasteful pictures of nudes with large breasts that she’d expected, but nature scenes that were as beautiful as they were calming. The modern, flat-screen TV was switched off, and the wooden desk was neat and tidy, pens and colouring pencils all laid out in a row in order of their shades.
An attractive, modern wardrobe and chest of drawers were in the far corner, next to the open window that let in a cool but pleasant winter breeze. Siobhan took a peek behind a brick-built screen jutting half way into the room that revealed a toilet, sink and shower, with a white plastic shelf above the sink that contained several toiletries, soaps and other bathroom items. She stepped back and her eyes scanned the row of classics on the bookshelf above the desk. All in all, it was a room in which Siobhan thought she could have stayed in quite comfortably, and she could hardly describe it as a prison cell.
Emanuele was proud of his surroundings and took delight in the expression of surprise shown on Siobhan’s face. “Not what you anticipated?” he asked. “It wasn’t like this in Joliet, you know,” he went on, as if that explained everything. She didn’t know what Emanuele must have done to receive this special treatment, but although she was curious about it, his accommodation wasn’t exactly what she’d come to ask him about.
“No, it’s not what I expected at all,” Siobhan answered, slowly and quietly, as her host reached up to the shelf and took down a different Bible—this one more traditional. The hand in which he held the book displayed his thumb and three remaining fingers more prominently than before, so much so that Siobhan stared even harder. Emanuele knew this, but wanted to save his best surprise till last. Siobhan was puzzled why another Bible was being brought out. It wasn’t long until it all became clear.
“As you know, I used to share a cell with Yushi,” began Emanuele. “Dear, charming boy he was. A bit mixed up, but a real sweetie. I had a lot of time for him, you see. Bipolar, I think they call it, these days. Right up until the day before he went to meet his maker, he’d been insisting his innocence for that terrible killing. That wasn’t very nice of him, was it? But I can’t really talk, can I?” continued Emanuele. “Then again, my many exterminations, as I like to call them, were just paid contracts. His was down to a deficiency of the mind.”
Damn! Thought Siobhan, as she suddenly realised she’d forgotten to turn on her phone recorder. Without asking again, she switched it on, and then looked at Emanuele, very confused. “What do you mean—‘that wasn’t very nice of him’? He didn’t do it, did he?” she added. “It was someone else, wasn’t it? So, you mean . . .” she carried on with her questions i
n quick succession, not giving Emanuele any chance to answer.
But Emanuele calmly held up his forefinger to his lips, and then opened the old Bible about half way through. Folded up and held between the pages was a piece of faded, yellowing paper that he took out and handed to his visitor.
As Siobhan unfolded the document and began to speed-read it, her jaw dropped.
While she was reading, Emanuele went over to the bathroom and took a look at one of the jars on the shelf, adjusting it so it was in a more prominent position. He then returned to sit on his bed while Siobhan continued examining the paper. To this day Emanuele hadn’t shown Yushi’s handwritten confession note to any other living soul. After all, no one until today had ever asked about it.
It began, addressed to ‘MJ’, with two powerful sentences: ‘I did it. I killed Sandy Beach’.
“Oh my God,” thought Siobhan. She read on, quickly skimming past some sections of the handwritten note. Legibility was a problem but she focused on a few key points:
‘I heard her call him by name – something like Mike, Mart or Mark . . . ’
‘One minute he was violently hitting her . . . ’
‘ . . . I “wasn’t a real man like Mark”.
I heard his name better that time . . . ‘
‘ . . . she deserved what she got . . . ‘
‘ . . . I smashed her head . . .
‘I guessed he’d be caught and would take the rap, while I was well away from there.’
Siobhan was so startled by what she was reading, she began hyperventilating. She desperately needed a drink of water, but also knew how important it was to get this note over to Oliver as quickly as possible.
“Can I have this?” she asked Emanuele.
He pondered a while, then shook his head. “I’m real sorry, Ma’am, but I really think I’d like to hang on to it, if it’s all the same,” he answered.
Siobhan was very disappointed, but asked another question: “Then could I photograph it, please?”
