Death Row

by William Bernhardt

  She thought a long time before answering. “It’s not that I don’t like him. Exactly. It’s that I don’t trust him.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. There’s nothing concrete. It’s just a feeling, I guess.”

  “Did Erin express any reservations about him?”

  “Not to me. If anything, I wondered if she might not have a little crush on him. You know, the young girl falls for the handsome doctor. Soap-opera stuff. I thought that might be the real reason she was hanging around.”

  “Was she getting any help? With her problems?”

  “As in shrink? Yeah, a woman. Dr. Hayley Bennett. Don’t know how Erin met her. Never seemed to help. She was seeing another doctor—”

  “Yes?”

  “Kinda strange, actually. But I guess that’s what happens. When people can’t get the answers they want from conventional medicine, they turn to the weird stuff.”

  Mike frowned. He didn’t like the sound of this at all. “I’d like that doctor’s name, too, please. If you don’t mind.”

  “Sure.”

  “When was the last time you saw Erin?”

  “The day before she died. She went out to McAlester for the Goldman execution. I went with her.”

  “What was her reaction when the execution was halted?”

  “Actually, she had already left. Before the call came in. She couldn’t stand it there. Something about it was really eating her up. She was silent all the way home. Even more distressed than she had been before we left.”

  “Are you aware that Ray Goldman’s lawyers are claiming Erin recanted her testimony? Said she couldn’t ID Goldman as the killer after all?”

  Sheila seemed startled. “No. I wasn’t. I mean—” She paused, obviously deep in thought. “That might explain something she said. In McAlester . . .” Her voice drifted off.

  The sun was beating down on them. It was high noon, and dressed in heavy black cotton, Sheila must be about ready to melt. “So what do you think, Ms. Knight? You must have an opinion.”

  “I—don’t know what you mean.”

  “Do you think Erin lied on the witness stand? Do you think she killed herself?”

  Sheila looked hesitant, almost embarrassed. “Well . . . it certainly looks like suicide. Doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. But some people have doubts. She had tried to kill herself before, hadn’t she?”

  Sheila paused, gripping her purse strap much more tightly than was necessary. “She did. With pills. I was the one who saved her, actually.”

  “So she owed you her life.”

  “Yeah. She mentioned that a lot. It brought us closer.”

  “Any attempts since then?”

  “No. Well, not that I know about. And that was long ago. Granted, I knew she was still having trouble. I knew she had a lot of issues. Guilt. Anxiety. Loneliness. But I didn’t think she was suicidal.” She raised the Kleenex to her eyes. “I didn’t think so.”

  “But you can’t rule it out.”

  “No,” she said quietly. “I can’t rule it out.”

  “Can you think of any reason why anyone would want to kill Erin?”

  Sheila looked at him incredulously. “God, no. I can’t—I mean—God! Hasn’t enough been done to her already?”

  Mike couldn’t argue with that. “Just one more question, ma’am. If you don’t mind. Why did you ask to be interviewed here? At the cemetery.”

  “I just—I knew—” She struggled to explain. “I knew it would be hard, coming here. Finally saying good-bye to Erin. After all this time. But it has to be good-bye, you know? I have to move on. I’ve devoted so much time to her. I loved her so much. But now I’ve got to get on with it. When I go home tonight, I don’t want to be rehashing the last seven years. I want to start fresh. I have—I have to forget.” Tears welled up in her eyes.

  “I can understand that,” Mike said quietly. “Thank you for talking to me.”

  The gravediggers carried away the last of the chairs and the barrier cords, then raked the ground smooth. A moment later, Erin Faulkner was fully and formally interred, and there was no sign that the funeral party had ever been there.

  “Sure,” Sheila said, her voice broken. “Erin really was a wonderful girl. She had a beautiful spirit. But after she lost her family, in such a horrible way, everything changed. She was . . . I know this sounds trite, but—she was like a beautiful flower. Like a rose, you know? Lovely to look at, a joy to behold. But once someone breaks it—”

  “It never grows back,” Mike completed.

  “That’s right,” Sheila said, and all at once, her tears streamed. “It just grows weaker and weaker. Until finally, it dies.”

  Two

  How Time Moves

  Chapter

  15

  Christina stared at Ben. “You consider that a win?”

  “From Derek, yes.”

  “He all but said he didn’t think there was any chance we’d come up with anything that would change his mind.”

  “But he gave us another week to try. From Derek, that’s a major victory. It means we still have a chance.”

  “Ben, I admire your optimism, but I think you’re possibly being unrealistic.”

  “What else is new?”

  “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up. Unrealistically. You or Ray.”

  Ben removed his feet from the desk and swiveled his chair around to face her. “Look, that was Judge Richard A. Derek in there. A for Asshole. The worst judge Ray could conceivably have drawn. As far as I was concerned, the case was over as soon as Derek saw who was sitting at counsel table. I’m surprised Derek didn’t volunteer to drive down to McAlester and inject the needle himself.”

  “I think you’re overstating the case.”

  “Getting anything out of Derek—even the little we did—was a triumph.”

  Christina shook her head. “If you say so. Man, he sure hasn’t mellowed any over the years, has he?”

  “He’s past mellow. He’s ripened and rotted.”

  “Just last week I read that he’s filed for divorce against his wife.”

  “Again? They were blowing hot and cold back when we were at the firm. Had some kind of sick codependent thing going. The man is seriously unstable and you know it. And snide. And self-centered. And he wears a toupee.”

  Christina smiled. “What I was getting at was—most people get a bit out of sorts during a divorce. And I thought he seemed a little spacey in the courtroom. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he’s on antidepressants.”

  “So what you’re saying is, we’ve drawn the worst possible judge—at the worst possible time.”

  “Pretty much, yeah.” She grabbed her coat. “Come on. We’ve got an appointment to keep.”

  “Thank you for seeing us, Dr. Bennett. I really appreciate it.”

  Ben watched as the auburn-haired doctor with the black-rimmed glasses peered down at a tray covered with dead butterflies. She seemed absolutely absorbed by her work. He almost felt guilty, interrupting her with anything so trivial as a murder investigation.

  “Not at all, Mr. Kincaid. Thank you for agreeing to see me at home. It’s my day off.”

  “Least I could do. And call me Ben.”

  Christina inched forward. “How long have you been collecting butterflies?”

  The doctor did not look up. “Well, I don’t exactly collect them. I admire them. Lepidoptery is a science, not a hobby.” She smiled slightly. “Of course, I’m just an amateur practitioner. But still.”

  Ben gazed at the walls of her study, which were covered with framed and mounted butterflies. Dozens of them. The myriad sizes, shapes, and colors were truly beautiful, Ben thought, even if he was basically looking at dead insects. The mounting also seemed very professional, at least to his untrained eye. The good doctor knew what she was doing.

  “It must be an enormous amount of work,” Christina commented.

  “True. But I enjoy it.”

  “How long d
id it take you to pick it up?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Years, I suppose. A little bit at a time.” She set down the stiletto she was using to position a butterfly on a cork-based board. “Of course, I’ve spent my whole life learning to identify the butterflies themselves. Several years learning to use the tools of the trade. How to catch them. How to use the stiletto and scalpel to mount them. It’s delicate work. Requires some real skill.”

  “Fascinating,” Ben said, and for once, he meant it. “How did you learn it all?”

  “Well, I’m a member of the American Lepidopterists’ Society. They have meetings and such. Very detailed guidelines about collecting and exhibiting specimens. Data sharing. The handling of live material.”

  Ben bent down for a closer look at her work. “Mind if I ask what that is?”

  “That, my friend, is a pristine specimen of Ornithoptera victoriae victoriae. Queen Victoria’s Birdwing from the Solomon Islands. I’ve been after one all my life. And now, thanks to the Society, I have one. They find already deceased specimens and preserve them.” She grinned like a kid with a cookie. “You can see why I couldn’t wait.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Christina said, wishing she could think of a more profound comment.

  “That it is. And extremely endangered. Like all too many rainforest species, its days are numbered. The Society has tried introducing them into new environments. But it rarely takes. Unless there are some serious changes in the way we manage our natural resources, we’ll probably see this and thousands of other beautiful and diverse species disappear. In our lifetimes. A tragic loss.”

  Staring at all the lovely examples lining her walls, Ben couldn’t possibly argue with her. And he would’ve much rather talked about butterflies than murder. But that was not a long-term option. “Could we talk about Erin Faulkner for a moment?”

  Dr. Bennett laid down her tools. “Of course. Poor Erin. I liked her. Genuinely. Not just in a doctor-patient way. She was a good person. And at one time, she was very strong, I believe.”

  “Before her family was murdered?”

  Bennett nodded. “The way she handled herself during that crisis, the courage she showed in her escape, those were all remarkable. But the emotional toll it took on her—that was incalculable.”

  “Were you surprised when you heard she was dead?”

  “Of course. I mean, suicide had always been a possibility for her. She was struggling with so much trauma. So much guilt. But I thought she was getting better.” She sighed.

  “You know,” Christina said, “there’s some doubt about whether it was suicide. In the police department, I mean.”

  “I know. I just finished talking to a homicide detective. Some big gruff guy with a Raymond Chandler fixation.”

  Ben’s lips turned up. “Major Morelli, perhaps?”

  “Yes. That was the one. I suppose they have to be thorough.” Her eyes drifted, and Ben thought he caught a touch of genuine regret. “But it’s hard for me to imagine it could be anything other than suicide.”

  “Did Erin ever discuss the source of her . . . guilt? I assume you can talk about this now.”

  “Yes. The privilege expires with the patient, I’m afraid.” She paused. “Erin would never have used the word guilt. Not as such. But it was always there. It was as much a part of her as her arms and her damaged leg.”

  “She felt guilty because she survived. The only member of her family.”

  “Yes. That was certainly a part of it. But I also . . .” Her head tilted slightly. “I always had the sense there was something more.”

  Ben’s eyes lit up. “Did she ever indicate what that other source of guilt might be?”

  “No, I’m afraid she never did. Erin had not been my patient that long, you know. And she had not yet learned to speak freely. Had not learned to trust yet, not entirely. That woman should’ve been in therapy long before she was, frankly. If she had been . . .” She shook her head. “But worlds could be built on ifs, couldn’t they?”

  “Did she ever talk about the home invasion?”

  “Yes, but she didn’t like to. And of course, she didn’t see that much of it herself. She was crippled and knocked unconscious early in the horror. When she woke, she was chained up in the cellar.”

  Ben nodded. He was all too familiar with the grim events of that night. “Can you think of anything she said, anything that might not be in the official reports? We have reason to believe that the man accused and convicted, Ray Goldman, did not actually commit the crime.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  Ben blinked. This was a refreshing change of pace. “And we’re trying to find out who did.”

  “Well, I could help you there.”

  Christina’s eyes widened. “You can?”

  “Oh yes,” Dr. Bennett said, removing her glasses and rubbing the bridge of her nose. “I know who killed the Faulkner family. I always have.”

  “Can I talk to you?”

  Mike glanced up from his coffee cup. Sergeant Baxter was bearing down on him. It seemed there was to be no rest, even during coffee breaks.

  “Can it wait?”

  Baxter placed one fist against her hip. “No, it can’t.”

  Mike glanced over her shoulder. There were four other guys in the canteen, and they were already looking this way. “Not very private.”

  “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

  Mike poured himself another cuppa. “Okay, Sergeant, what’s the beef?”

  “You filed a negative report on me.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “You accused me of unprofessional conduct.”

  “And your point is?”

  Mike could feel the steam rising from the top of her head. “What the hell are you trying to do to me?”

  “I think you’re personalizing this, Sergeant. I’m just doing my job.”

  “Bullshit.” She knocked the Styrofoam cup out of his hands. Hot black coffee flew across the room. “I didn’t complain when you tried to get transferred to a different partner. I didn’t complain when you filed reports disputing my conclusions. I didn’t complain when you tried to use all your sick leave to get away or threatened to catch the Blue Flu if you didn’t get transferred. But this is different! This goes on my permanent record.”

  “Sergeant, we may be partners, but you would do well to remember that I am also your superior officer. When I see conduct that in my opinion does not conform with the standards of this department—”

  “Cut the crap, Morelli.” She surged forward, giving him nowhere to escape. “You want to embarrass me in front of the other officers, you do that. You want to make me out as some kind of man-hating ball buster, fine. But don’t screw with my career!”

  “All I did was—”

  “I know exactly what you did! And I know why you did it, too!”

  “Sergeant Baxter—”

  “I’ve been a cop for twelve years. And I’ve run into a lot of sexist creeps in my time. But no one ever messed with my record.”

  “Maybe it’s overdue.”

  “Your screwing around could lose me my career!”

  “Maybe you should lose your career.”

  “It’s all I have!” Her voice rocketed through the small kitchen. Everyone else present instantly turned away, but Mike knew they were following every word.

  Baxter retreated a step. She pressed her hand against her forehead, as if struggling to regain control. “May I ask one question? What exactly did I do that you found so unprofessional?”

  Mike twisted his neck. “Well, there was no one single thing, really . . . some of the remarks you made at the organ clinic . . .”

  “Like what?”

  “Various things. You said the place gave you the creeps. Others overheard you.”

  “So what?”

  “So, it’s not the behavior of a professional. It’s more something you’d expect from a . . . a . . .”

  “Weak sister?”


  “Not a member of the police department, anyway. Not a member of the homicide squad.”

  Baxter turned away. “This is such bullshit.”

  “It isn’t. We’re public officials. We have to maintain professional deportment.”

  “Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.”

  “Plus, if you can’t stand to be around body parts, how the hell are you going to handle yourself around a corpse? What use is a homicide detective with a weak stomach?”

  Baxter’s teeth were clenched so hard Mike thought her jaw might burst. “I’ve been around plenty of corpses, Morelli. Almost as many as you.”

  “You don’t act like it.”

  “Why, because I don’t go in for the macho poker face? Because I don’t act like I don’t care?”

  “There’s professional behavior, and there’s unprofessional behavior. And unprofessional behavior—”

  “Would be that crack you made the other day about my panties. In front of witnesses.”

  Mike fell silent.

  “Now, that was genuinely unprofessional. That could get you suspended for a month. But did I turn you in, even though I found your behavior grossly offensive and revolting? No, I didn’t. And you know why?” She leaned into his face. “Because I would never do such a crappy thing to my partner, that’s why. Even if he’s a total and utter asshole!”

  “Excuse me. May I cut in?”

  Mike ripped his eyes away from Baxter and saw, to his horror, Chief Blackwell standing not a foot away from them.

  The other people in the canteen scattered. Show was over.

  “Could I have the next dance?” Blackwell continued. “You two seem as if you may be ready for a break.”

  Baxter backed off. Mike tugged at the edges of his shirt, smoothing the wrinkles.

  “Morning, Chief.”

  “And to you, Mr. Senior Homicide Investigator. Enjoying your early- morning caffeine?”

  “Chief . . .”

  “This isn’t working,” Baxter said bluntly, tossing her hair back. “Not at all.”

  “So I see.” Blackwell looked at both of them. Mike could read the tension in his neck, his eyes. “I think it’s time we had a private conference. A little heart-to-heart. One-on-one.”