Death Row

by William Bernhardt

  “Ray, stop and think for a moment. This is important.”

  “I don’t have to stop and think for a moment. Answer me one question, Ben. Do you think I’m innocent?”

  Ben looked at him levelly. “I know you are.”

  “That’s what I want. And I’m not going to get it anywhere else. No one else would’ve stuck with me so long, Ben. No one else would’ve fought so hard. You’ve already saved me from the executioner once. And I know it’s been a good long time since you got paid. You’re not doing this for money or glory. You’re doing it because you believe in me.” He pressed his palm against the Plexiglas screen between them. “I want you running the appeal.”

  Ben didn’t know what to say. “You’re the client.”

  “Good. Subject closed. Now go get that young lady’s story down on paper and take it to the judge. Erin Faulkner may have done me a great disservice before, but she’s going to compensate for it now. I’m sure of it. As long as we have her testimony on our side, we can’t lose.”

  Mike stared at the television screen, a tense expression on his face. The brunette telejournalist was reporting live from downtown.

  “I’m LeAnne Taylor, and here at the scene of the tragedy, many questions are being asked about what happened—and why. I spoke earlier to Peter Rothko, the owner of the Tulsa-based Burger Bliss restaurant chain, about the tragedy.”

  The picture switched to a tall, handsome man with a thick shock of red hair. Surprisingly young, Mike thought, for a corporate CEO.

  “It’s a tragedy,” he said, shaking his head. “A tragedy.”

  Mike grimaced. Someone needed to buy these people a thesaurus.

  Taylor pressed a microphone close to Rothko’s face. “Will the restaurant reopen?”

  “I don’t know about that. I think some sort of . . . memorial might be appropriate.”

  “What do you think of the Tulsa PD’s handling of the situation?”

  Rothko paused before speaking. “Well, it’s not my job to assign blame. But I understand there will be a full investigation, and I support that decision. If there were any inappropriate actions taken, those responsible should be called to account. We need to make sure tragedies like this do not happen again.”

  Mike switched off the set, muttering beneath his breath. The quest for scapegoats had already begun.

  His secretary, Penelope, entered his cubicle. Mike had worked with her long enough to know that when she came in with that expression on her face, she was not bearing good news.

  “Chief Blackwell?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Mike wasn’t surprised. In fact, as he made his way down to the chief of police’s second-floor office, he wondered why it had taken this long. In the hours following the Burger Bliss fiasco, the media coverage had been omnipresent. The papers and airwaves had been filled with reportage of the “bungled siege” and “the Tulsa PD’s tragic comedy of errors.” They were already comparing it with Waco and Ruby Ridge.

  Which explained all too clearly why he had been summoned to Blackwell’s office.

  “What the hell did you think you were doing?” Blackwell bellowed, not ten seconds after Mike entered his office. He was not one for small talk. In the past six months he had given up cigars and, to make matters worse, had recently abandoned coffee. To say he was cranky was like saying Madonna was uninhibited.

  “My job,” Mike replied succinctly.

  “You’re a homicide detective, damn it. You don’t have any business screwing around with the SOT team.”

  “I thought they could use all the help they could get.”

  “So you decided to barge in and take over?”

  “I felt Sergeant Hoppes was making some . . . erroneous tactical decisions.”

  Blackwell ran his hands through the hair at his graying temples. He’d aged remarkably little in the years Mike had known him. He must be sixty, at least, but he was still in good shape and looked much younger. “Sergeant Hoppes has trained for over five years to lead that team.”

  “I didn’t interfere with his handling of the team. I interfered with his handling of the hostage situation and a mentally unstable individual. I thought I could talk the kid down. I thought I could get everyone out of there alive.”

  “Well, you were sure as hell wrong about that, weren’t you?”

  “With all respect, sir, no. If Hoppes had held his men back, as I instructed him to do, I think I could’ve resolved the matter without injury to anyone. It was only when the kid saw armed snipers flanking him on all sides that he panicked.”

  “Says you. Hoppes tells a different story.”

  I’ll bet. “I’ve submitted my report, sir. It contains everything I have to say.”

  Blackwell was not appeased. “The one thing your report doesn’t explain is what you thought you were doing in the first place, pulling rank on Hoppes and playing James Bond on his turf!”

  “Sir—”

  “This isn’t the first time you’ve done something like this, Mike, and we both know it. I’ve tried to cover for you, but you’ve become a loose cannon. I never know what you’ll try next.”

  “I give my job one hundred and ten percent. Is that a problem?”

  “No.” He paused. “I suspect the problem is that you don’t have a life.”

  “Sir?”

  “If you had a wife and family you wouldn’t be running around arresting speeders for jollies and interfering in hostage situations.”

  “Now wait a minute. That’s not fair.”

  “Don’t give me not fair.” His voice hardened. “You know what’s not fair? I’ll tell you. Three people injured. Three dead. And why? Because they happened to go to a burger joint on the wrong day. That’s what’s not fair.”

  Blackwell began pacing behind his desk. “I guess you know I’ve got the press crawling all over me. And the mayor. She’s furious. And who do I have to thank for that? One hotshot cop who can’t keep his nose out of other people’s business!”

  So he’d been right; he was going to be fired. So we’ll go no more a-roving. . . .

  Fine. He wasn’t going to sit still and take it like a punching bag. “Look, you want my badge? You’ve got it!”

  “Mike . . .”

  “I know how this dirty game is played. Never mind all the years I’ve given this force. I’ll be your scapegoat.” He pulled out his badge and slammed it down on Blackwell’s desk. “Consider this my resignation.”

  “Your resignation is not accepted.”

  “It—” He stopped short. “What’s that?”

  “It’s not accepted. I didn’t drag you down here to fire you.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No. I didn’t. So siddown already.”

  Mike did as he was told.

  Blackwell took his seat behind his desk and stared intently at his steepled fingers. “How long have you and Tomlinson been working together?”

  Mike cast his mind back. “Since the Kindergarten Killer case.”

  “Right. A good long while. I wonder if maybe it’s time for a change.”

  “Wait a minute. Tomlinson and I work well together. He’s my protégé.”

  “That’s more or less the point.” Blackwell rifled through some records on his desk. “He doesn’t exercise much restraint on you, does he?”

  “Should he?”

  “I see in his report that he advised you against intervening in the Burger Bliss siege. But you basically blew him off.”

  “I wouldn’t put it like that.”

  “But why should you listen to him? He’s your protégé.”

  Mike’s eyes began to narrow. “Sir . . . where are you going with this?”

  “I’m sure you’ve figured that out already, Mike. I’m assigning you a new partner.”

  “But sir, Tomlinson—”

  “Tomlinson will be fine, Mike. He’s earned a promotion and he’s going to get it. Please don’t bother arguing—I’ve already made up my mind.”

&
nbsp; Mike knew there was a time to play and a time to fold. He sensed this was one of the latter. So he remained calm and cool and asked, “Who did you have in mind?”

  Mike continued to remain calm and cool—until about a second after he heard the name.

  “Jesus Christ, sir. No! Anyone else. Please! Anyone but her!”

  “Mike, you’re wasting your time.”

  “Please reconsider. Please.”

  “I’ve asked her to join us.” Blackwell pushed a button on his desk phone. “Send Baxter in, please.”

  A moment later, Sergeant Kate Baxter entered the office. She was slender and about five feet nine, with honey-blonde hair that fell to her shoulder blades. Her skin was a trifle pale and lightly freckled. She did not wear makeup, nor did she seem to particularly need makeup. All in all, not an unpleasant package, but as far as Mike was concerned, he was looking at the Bride of Frankenstein.

  “It’s alive!” Mike muttered under his breath.

  “Major Morelli,” Blackwell said, “I’d like you to meet your new partner, Sergeant Baxter. And likewise.”

  As she shook Mike’s hand, she stared levelly into his eyes. Mike knew she was sizing him up. Just as he was her.

  “Nice to meet you at last,” Mike said.

  “I’m sure.”

  Was he wrong, Mike thought, or did he get the impression she wasn’t any happier about this assignment than he was? He only hoped it was true. Maybe there was hope yet.

  “Sergeant Baxter has an outstanding record, Mike. As I think you know, she just transferred from the Oklahoma City Homicide Department. Worked some major cases. Made a big impression.”

  “Your reputation precedes you, Sergeant,” he said, still looking at her.

  “As does yours, Major.”

  Mike arched an eyebrow. “What have you heard?”

  She hesitated. “I don’t like to repeat gossip.”

  “Relax, Sergeant. You can speak freely. After all, we’re going to be partners.”

  “Well . . .” She held back a few more moments. She glanced at Blackwell, who just shrugged. And apparently decided, what the hell? “Well,” she said, staring straight at Mike, “I’ve heard that you’re an arrogant, authoritative, sexist pig who likes to quote obscure bits of poetry to make other people feel inferior.”

  Mike felt his teeth rattle. This was never going to work. Never in a million years. “Is that right?”

  “I’m afraid so. But I’m sure it’s all untrue.”

  “It is. Except for the poetry part.”

  “I see.” She smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile. It was more like a don’t-push-me-or-I’ll-wring-your-neck smile. “And what have you heard about me?”

  Well, why not? She started it. “Frankly, I’ve heard that you’re a ball-busting, man-hating royal pain in the butt. That your police skills are adequate, but that you alienated so many people you had to run down the turnpike and come work here.”

  “Do tell.” Her face remained expressionless, but Mike knew he’d gotten to her. Good. He didn’t need this.

  “Well, I’m glad we’ve cleared the air,” Blackwell said, eyes on the ceiling. “Now, why don’t we get to work?”

  “Sir,” Mike said, “I wish to formally protest this assignment.”

  “I don’t want to hear any more complaining. If you’ve got problems—work ’em out.” He slid a file across his desk. “Here’s your first case. Get to it!”

  As soon as he started back to Tulsa from McAlester, Ben punched up Speed Dial 1 on his cell phone. “Christina?”

  “I’m here, faithful leader. How’s life in the slammer?”

  “God willing, I’ll never know. I’ve got news.”

  “Really?” Her voice fell. “I’ve got news, too.”

  “Ray insists that we handle the habeas corpus proceeding.”

  “You explained to him about the potential viability of an incompetent-counsel argument?”

  Ben crossed lanes, got out his PikePass, and took the right-hand ramp onto the turnpike. “I did. He doesn’t care. He thinks Erin Faulkner is going to be his savior.”

  “Oh.” The line fell silent for several moments. “This relates to my news.”

  “Something about Erin?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did she drop by to give a formal statement?”

  “Not hardly.” The crackling of static on the line gave Christina’s next sentence an eerie resonance. “She’s dead.”

  “Erin Faulkner.” Mike sat at his office desk, poring over the file. “Why do I know that name?”

  “Apparently,” Baxter replied, reading over his shoulder, “she was the only survivor of a fairly hideous home invasion a few years back.”

  Mike snapped his fingers. “Of course. How could I forget? Horrible tragedy. My pal Ben represented the perp. Not that that prevented us from sending him on a one-way rendezvous with the Big Needle.” He thumbed through the file. “Ben stills calls the case his greatest failure. But the truth is, he never had a chance. His client was buried by the evidence. Particularly the testimony from this girl.”

  “Young woman, don’t you mean?”

  “She was fifteen at the time, Baxter. Don’t get all PC on me. I’m an English major and I won’t tolerate anyone policing my language.” He continued working through the file. “Looks like suicide.”

  “Yes . . .” Baxter said slowly. “It looks that way.”

  “Not surprising, I suppose. After what she’d been through.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Mike continued reading, not looking up. “Ever heard of the sole-survivor syndrome? She must’ve had it big time. Eight family members killed. I’ll wager her life has been a nightmare of psychological recrimination. Guilt, anxiety, loneliness. Inability to connect with others. Most likely she never married. I’ll bet she had few close friends, if any.”

  Baxter arched an eyebrow. “Speculating in advance of the facts? Not exactly standard detective procedure, is it?”

  “Understanding people is what detective work is all about, Sergeant. If you can figure out the people, the rest of it is easy.” He closed the file. “Too bad.”

  “That’s it? Too bad?”

  “I suppose Blackwell wants us to take a look at the scene, then sign off on the certificate of self-inflicted death.”

  “He wants us to investigate the crime.”

  “Yeah. All violent deaths have to be investigated. It’s departmental policy. But I can guarantee you he doesn’t want us to expend a lot of time and manpower on an obvious suicide.”

  “You haven’t been to the scene. You’ve barely looked at the file. How can you know that it’s a suicide?”

  “Because I didn’t just join the department yesterday, Baxter.” He stood and grabbed his trench coat. “Let’s get this over with. But first I think it would be best if I established some ground rules, right at the start.”

  If there had been a wall between them before, Mike sensed it had just become titanium-reinforced. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Like, first of all, I’m in charge. I outrank you, I’ve got more seniority, and that means I’m the boss. I’m not going to put up with a partner who doesn’t do what she’s told, or is constantly challenging or second-guessing me.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No, I’m just warming up. Second, I’m not your buddy, your friend, your counselor, or your father, so don’t for a minute get the idea that I am. We work together. Period. End of story.”

  Baxter’s voice was positively icy. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. I drive. Don’t bother asking if you can drive my Trans Am. You can’t. So, now that we’ve established our rules, let’s—”

  “Wait a minute. We’re not done.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because you haven’t heard my rules yet.”

  “Your rules? You don’t get to—”

  “First, I’m not putting up with any sexist crap. I don’t care where we are or wh
o we’re with. At the scene of a crime or in the locker room. Doesn’t matter. I won’t put up with any salacious remarks, crude innuendos, or chauvinistic character slurs. If I hear anything like that, I’ll report you in a New York minute.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “That’s a promise, buster. Second, if you have any thoughts about trying to snuggle up to me or playing grabass in your Trans Am, forget it. I’m your partner, not your playmate. I’m not attracted to you and I never will be.”

  Now, that was a bit harsh. “Fine. Let’s just—”

  “I’m not done. You haven’t heard my third rule yet.”

  “And that would be?”

  She jabbed her blunt-nailed finger into his chest. “I do not, under any circumstances, want to hear any of your goddamn poems! I hate poems!” She folded her arms across her chest. “Any questions?”

  “No,” Mike said through clenched teeth. “I think we understand one another quite well.”

  “Good. Let’s go!”

  Mike unclenched his fists and jaw, wiped the grimace off his face, and started out the door. This was never going to work. Never. Never in a million trillion years!

  Chapter

  8

  There are constants in the universe, Mike mused. Our echoes roll from soul to soul / And grow for ever and for ever, as Tennyson said. Or, A kiss is still a kiss, as Dooley Wilson sang. The point was, some things never changed. And one of them, he realized as he trudged into the small house on Indianapolis, was that he hated crime scenes.

  Something of a handicap for a homicide detective, but he’d managed to deal with it, over the years. He’d circumvented it. But he hadn’t conquered it. And he supposed he never would.

  A patrolman on duty pointed a finger. “Upstairs, Major.”

  Mike nodded and started up, Sergeant Baxter close behind.

  She’d been discovered when the cleaning lady came in this morning. Rigor had already set in. Her naked body had an ashen green color, and the smell—well, there was one. Mike tried not to focus on it.

  Absolutely beautiful, in a chilling way. Except for the head, of course. Because that had exploded all over the bed.