Terminal Justice: Mystery and Suspense Crime Thriller

by Lyle Howard

  Gabe sat up in his bed, his elbow accidentally pushing the switch that turned on the overhead television. The local morning news was on, but both men ignored it. “You can still travel, Bennett. The doctors didn’t say you couldn’t.”

  The old man leaned both hands on the sink. From behind, Gabe could see his shoulders sag with resignation. “But they advised against it.”

  “Hey, we’re not gonna let those pill jockeys tell us how we can spend the rest of our lives, are we?” Gabe interrupted. “If you want to pack up and see the world, then why the hell don’t you?”

  Chase carried his sundry kit over to his bed. The small bag only weighed a few ounces, but he walked like it weighed a ton. “You’re forgetting that I’ve already seen most of the world. Besides,” he said, running his fingers through his soft thicket of silver hair, “starting next week, they want me to check in for a weekly treatment, so I guess it’s time to say adios to the silver mane!”

  Not only were they stealing the old man’s freedom, they were also depriving him of his dignity. The worst part was Chase knew Gabe was a younger version of himself. He would be going through the same treatments and loss of pride a few months from now.

  On the television, the newscast was interrupted by a special bulletin, providing a much needed distraction for both men. A young reporter stood on the steps of the Miami Beach City Hall, trying to keep her long blonde hair from blowing out of control in the cool, blustery wind. “The press liaison for Mayor Nathan Waxman has just announced that the mayor will be granting his first press conference since being exonerated on the charge of homicide in the shotgun death of his wife, Dorothy. This will be the first interview the mayor has given since retreating into seclusion with family and friends to celebrate his acquittal. As you undoubtedly know, the jury of seven men and five women returned the controversial verdict earlier in the week, after less than twelve hours of deliberation. Waxman stood accused of the August 19th, 1996 brutal slaying of his wife at the family’s townhouse on Washington Avenue.” The harried reporter kept looking down at her quickly written notes. “Throughout the trial, the mayor steadfastly adhered to his claim that an intruder killed his wife, even though he admitted to a violent argument with her earlier that tragic evening—an argument that was overheard and testified to by the couple’s resident housekeeper. Also, despite the fact that the murder weapon was registered to the mayor, and only his fingerprints were found on the weapon, the defense team shed enough reasonable doubt in the juror’s minds for them to return a verdict of not guilty. Mayor Waxman, not surprisingly, has resigned his office under the cloud of negative publicity following the trial. Once again, the press conference scheduled for later this afternoon will be the mayor’s first public appearance since his acquittal on homicide charges. Of course, this station will bring it to you when it happens. This is Michelle Schaefer reporting live from the steps of Miami Beach City Hall. Now, back to the studio…”

  Bennett Chase walked over to the window and opened the blinds. For some reason, the room suddenly needed the cheering effect of warm morning sunlight. “What a farce! Can you friggin’ believe it? That bastard’s gonna get off scot-free after committing an act of cold-blooded murder, and we’re both condemned to death!”

  Gabe nodded. “It sure is a tough pill to swallow.”

  “It seems like it’s happening more and more these days,” Chase sadly admitted, as he pushed his bag aside and sat on the edge of his bed. “It’s like the justice system in this country has lost its rudder. Is it just me, or does it feel like the inmates are running the asylum?”

  Gabe scratched his head. Even though this case was in the Beach’s jurisdiction, you still heard things through the grapevine. The buzz was that a conviction for this guy was supposed to be a slam dunk. “I can’t figure what those jurors were listening to.” He shifted his weight uncomfortably in the bed. “I’d have staked my reputation on the D.A.’s case.”

  The old man glanced up at the television. Like a microcosm of the real world, the attention of the news anchors had already shifted to the weather. “So what are you saying? You think there was monkey business going on?”

  Gabe waved his hand as if he had already said far too much. “I’m not exactly the one to be casting aspersions anymore.”

  Chase zipped the duffel bag closed. “I guess at least one good thing is coming out of all of that Waxman nonsense.”

  “What the hell would that be?”

  Chase pointed up at the television. “At least it’s taken you out of the headlines! You’re now yesterday’s news, my boy!”

  Gabe nodded. “I guess you’ve got to be thankful for what they give you. You always manage to find the silver lining, don’t you, Bennett?”

  The old man lifted his duffle bag set it down on the edge of Gabe’s bed. “Hey, since this jerk took over the headlines, I’ve actually been able to take a stroll in the hallway without being bombarded by reporters!”

  Gabe took a sip of water from a paper cup. “Damn! And to think, I ended up spending my fifteen minutes of fame flat on my back!”

  Chase patted the back of Gabe’s hand. “If there’s one thing life teaches you, son, it’s to always look at the bright side. If life deals you a deuce, you’ve got to turn it into a wild card!”

  Gabe reached out and took the old man’s hand. “Life sure has dealt us both a bunch of deuces, hasn’t it?”

  Chase reached into the pocket of his sweat pants and pulled out a note card and a ball point pen. “Okay now. That’s the last time I want to hear any of that pessimistic shit coming out of your mouth, young man!” He scribbled his address and phone number onto the card. “Here’s my number. If you need anything,” he said, emphasizing what he felt was the most important word, “you call me, and we’ll talk.”

  Gabe sat up and snapped his fingers towards himself. “Got another one of those cards?”

  The old man reached into his pocket and handed another one over, along with the pen.

  “And this is my number. If you’re ever not feeling well, or you just need to get something off your chest, you do the same, you hear me?”

  “Deal.”

  “Promise?”

  Chase raised an eyebrow. “What are you, my mama? I said I promise.”

  After five emotionally draining days of sharing the same claustrophobic hospital room, Bennett Chase had discovered a fellowship that few people could ever dream of sharing. They were two completely different men who’d come upon each other at a defining moment of their lives. Though years apart in age, and after arriving at this place by two quite distinct paths, fate had thrown them together into a very special kinship. Without ever saying it aloud, they agreed to fulfill their separate destinies together, sharing the final leg of their journeys down the same short road.

  17

  Gabe hadn’t heard the door open.

  In the doorway, backlit by the stark white light flooding in from the hall, stood a fantasy in a navy blue business suit. She was incredibly tall, and both men’s eyes were drawn to her shapely stems like lemmings to a cliff. Her green eyes were soft but piercing, hidden behind a pair of large fashion lenses. Her hair was midnight black, pulled tightly behind her head and held there with a blue fashion clip. While her coat sleeves were long, her skirt was much the opposite. Bennett Chase was the first to break the awkward silence. “Please tell me you’re here to wheel me out of this place and I’ll die a happy man!”

  “No, that would be my job,” grunted Nurse Ethel Grogan as she lumbered into the room pushing a wheelchair. “Let’s go, Casanova! I’ve been looking forward to this day for two weeks now. It’s time to boot your wrinkled old ass outta here!”

  Chase flipped his middle finger at the old crone before turning his salacious consideration back to their alluring visitor. “Pay no attention to her, doll-face. She’s never been the same since Dorothy’s house fell on her sister!”

  Grogan’s face always seemed twisted, like she was in the midst of having st
omach cramps. “In the chair, wiseass!”

  The old man grabbed his bag off Gabe’s bed and proceeded to beam his most beguiling smile at their visitor. “I’m sorry, miss, but I never caught your name.”

  The young woman’s demeanor remained extraordinarily business-like. “That’s probably because I never threw it.” Her Irish accent was subtle, but there was a definite lilt to it.

  Chase took a seat in the wheelchair, placing the duffle bag on his lap, and feigned a shiver. “Aye-chi-mama! Did the temperature just drop fifty degrees in here, or is it me?”

  The tall stranger shook her head. “My name is Sheila Randall, and I’m here to see Mr. Mitchell.”

  The old man looked over at Gabe and mouthed the words “you lucky bastard.”

  Gabe laughed, then held up the card with Chase’s phone number on it. “You remember what I told you, right?”

  Bennett Chase flashed a “thumbs up” at his friend, and let himself be spun around toward the open door. “Onward husky,” he shouted, pointing into the hallway.

  Nurse Grogan billowed in a deep breath and gave the chair a hearty push, letting it roll unchecked into the corridor. “That old fool sure better pray that the elevators are working!”

  Gabe rolled his eyes and offered his visitor a seat. “I’m sorry, Ms. Randall. You said you were here to see me?”

  She crossed her legs in a long, fluid motion that made Gabe lean up on his elbows. “Yes, I am.”

  Gabe suddenly felt awkward and vulnerable lying prone in the bed. Something about this situation made him feel less a man than he really was. “Have we met before? I get the feeling that we might have. You’re not another reporter, are you?”

  “You must be mistaken. We’ve never met and I’m not a reporter.”

  Gabe nodded. “Work for the hospital then?”

  She picked a piece of lint off the hem of her skirt. “No, Mr. Mitchell…”

  “Call me Gabe.”

  “Okay … Gabe. I don’t work for the hospital.”

  Gabe scratched at the nearly week’s worth of thick stubble that had sprouted on his face. “Well, Sheila, I could keep guessing if you really want me to. I used to be a detective.”

  “I’m here to talk to you about your situation.”

  Gabe closed one eye warily. “My situation?”

  “The police department has turned its back on you.”

  Gabe should have known it. The business suit should have been the tip off. “You’re a lawyer?”

  She clasped her hands around her exposed knee. “Oh God no, I despise lawyers.”

  “See? Now, if we had continued playing twenty questions,” Gabe said, pushing himself back on the bed until he was propped up against the headboard, “you would have won, ‘cause I don’t have the slightest idea what you want from me then.”

  “The insurance policy you have through the police department will probably take care of this hospital stay, but not the rest of your treatments.”

  Gabe had no idea how this stranger knew so much, and it made his radar flip on. “First of all, getting back to the force, and having them turning their backs on me … you should know that my case is still under internal investigation and I have been assured that there are no charges pending.”

  Sheila Randall’s matter-of-fact tenor never wavered. “Those investigations move so slow you’ll probably be dead a year before any determination is actually ever reached.”

  “Okay, well I can definitely rule out you being a doctor, what with this uplifting bedside manner of yours!”

  “What about your son?”

  Gabe gnashed his teeth. “What about my son?”

  She crossed her legs in the other direction, only this time Gabe was too incensed to take notice.

  “Have you thought about his future? What will happen to him after you’re dead? How will he get by?”

  Why did she keep using the word “dead,” instead of saying “gone,” as in “after you’re gone?” That was so strange to use harsh language like that to the dying person’s face.

  “Look, Ms. Randall. I just found out a few days ago that I’m not gonna be around to put milk and cookies out for Saint Nick this year, okay? So cut me some slack, will ‘ya? My son Casey is the most important thing in my life and, as soon as I get out of here, I intend to see that he is taken care of.” He ran his fingers thoughtfully along the cold silver bed rail. “I don’t know how yet, but I will.”

  Randall slid her chair closer to the bed until she was talking in just over a whisper. “That’s what I’m here for, Gabe—to see that Casey’s taken care of for the rest of his life.”

  Gabe nodded as though he finally understood. “Ah, so you’re from an insurance company! That might have been my next guess.”

  She reached up and put her hand over his. “You haven’t had a personal visitor except your son and his nanny since you were admitted. Your fellow officers hold you responsible for your partner’s death. You have $683 in your savings account. Two years ago, you took out a second mortgage on your house.”

  Gabe lashed out and grabbed her by the wrist. “How the hell do you know so much about me? You’re no insurance agent!”

  Randall never flinched. Even as he increased the pressure on her wrist, she seemed to be enjoying it. “Think of me as your guardian angel, Gabe. I’ve come here to solve your predicament.”

  Gabe eased his grip and looked at her skeptically. “So, you know someone that can cure cancer? I know about a billion people who would be real happy to hear that!”

  Randall pulled her hand away and flexed her wrist. “Mr. Mitchell, this is just a preliminary interview, but if you’d care to be serious for a moment, I’m here to make you a very generous offer.”

  Why not? Gabe thought. I’ve got nothing better to do at the moment. Sure, I’ll play along with her. “How generous?”

  “Four million dollars.”

  Gabe’s mouth went dry.

  “…untraceable … in a secret numbered account … payable to your son … however you stipulate the funds should be disbursed to him … upon your death.”

  This had to be some kind of elaborate gag, but Gabe didn’t know anyone, besides himself, who had the ingenuity to think up such a sadistic scam! His mouth tried to form words, but he couldn’t even make spit. When he finally managed to shake out the marbles, he spoke the prophetic words half-jokingly that would change the rest of his life: “So, exactly who do I have to kill for that kind of cash?”

  18

  Traffic was light on I-75 as the black stretch limousine crossed the imaginary boundary line into Broward County. Gabe stared out at the scenery as it flew by at 70 miles per hour. Like so many residents who had relocated to Broward County since the devastation caused by Hurricane Andrew in 1992, both Gabe Mitchell and his in-laws now made their homes further north in the town of Davie, a suburb west of Fort Lauderdale. Once a sleepy little community that prided itself on its country charm and leisurely, rustic lifestyle, the town now found itself in a showdown with developers to maintain its identity in the midst of the ever-encroaching urban sprawl. Where once all he could hear on a cool winter morning was the plaintive trumpeting of a herd of milk cows grazing in a windswept farm field, now that tranquil scene had been replaced by the coughing of backhoes, and the thunder of dynamite blasting through sheetrock to clear the land for more homes and commercial centers. Things change.

  Office buildings and homes under construction weren’t necessarily a cheerful sight, but perhaps it was because Gabe was suddenly more attentive to the everyday things others might take for granted. Most upsetting to him was his muddied perspective of the bright blue sky that was being soiled a mossy shade of green by the dark window tinting. Indeed, the inside of this limo wasn’t a very cheerful environment for someone who had very few things to be optimistic about.

  Behind Sheila Randall’s head, a pane of thick black glass separated the nameless chauffeur from where they were sitting. “Are you feeling alright, Gabe?”r />
  Gabe glanced impassively across the car’s whorish red velour interior at Randall, but chose not to respond. There was an awkwardness in the way she had posed the question, as though her interest in his welfare was unnatural and well-rehearsed. She was one of the few things Gabe thought he understood about this whole deal. Randall was only the messenger … albeit a long-legged, utterly breathtaking one, but still, nothing more than a chunk of bait fish used to lure him into … what? He didn’t know that yet.

  Maybe the average prospect would let Sheila Randall’s knockout good looks lead him around by his short hairs, but from the minute she had walked into the hospital room, Gabe’s internal warning system started to flash. No matter how hard she tried to mask it, there was something cold and lethal behind her eyes. His late partner had that same dangerous edge to her personality, but he didn’t want to think about that now. Feigning a toothless smile, he returned his attention to the passing landscape.

  Gabe watched with envy as a flock of colorless birds fluttered across the skyline in a perfect arrowhead formation to whereabouts unknown. Why did they do that … and why couldn’t he? Just another strange mystery of life he would never have the time to unravel. Something about watching that convoy of birds fade away on the horizon made him think back to one of the many reflective late-night discussions he held with Bennett Chase. He remembered sitting in their darkened hospital room, the only light bleeding in from beneath the door, ruminating over paper cups filled with warm apple juice. Chase warned Gabe that no good would come out of him dwelling on his limited mortality. Thoughts of what the future held would only serve to drive him mad. Concentrate on the present, he urged, and only on the things he could directly effect. They were simple but profound words and a difficult maxim to master.