Death Row

by William Bernhardt

“It was just a hook. Something different. Something to attract the attention of . . . you know. Well-to-do women.”

  “And it worked?”

  “I’m eating regularly. I like all my clients. I can work out of my home. I have virtually no overhead. I don’t have to deal with insurance companies or Medicare. And best of all, I don’t have to answer to some money-grubbing HMO.”

  “Yeah,” Baxter said. “If only your work wasn’t total quackery, it would be perfect.” She grabbed Mike’s arm. “Okay, Morelli. We’ve heard the doctor’s oh-so-sad story. Can we go now? This guy is stressing me out.”

  “I could help,” Harris volunteered. “I give great candle.”

  Baxter flashed him a look that defied description. “Pass.”

  “First of all,” Ben said, standing at the head of the conference table, “I want to thank you for all your work. I know it’s not easy bringing fresh enthusiasm to a case that’s been around so long, but you’ve given me 110 percent just the same, and I really appreciate it.”

  Jones, Loving, and Christina sat around the long table. Loving spoke first. “Why do I think there’s a but comin’?”

  “Because there is, of course. The but is, for all our work, we haven’t come up with much that’s new. Certainly nothing that’s going to get a habeas corpus petition granted by Judge Derek. And the hearing is just around the corner.”

  He turned toward Jones. “I read your report on the Faulkner home invasion. Several times. So did Christina. And she has this . . . theory—”

  Christina smiled. “Thank you for not making little quotation marks with your hands.”

  “Don’t mention it. Christina has this theory that maybe there were two killers. Two people in the Faulkner home. And that if we approach the case from that angle, we might see something we missed before. Something everyone missed. So . . .”

  Jones buried his head in his hands. “Don’t tell me you want me to do more research on that horrible crime.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Boss . . . that case is seriously depressing. Every horrible thing that could happen to those people did, or damn near. I just can’t take it anymore. Paula says I haven’t been sleeping well. She’s says I’ve lost all my energy and drive and—”

  Ben held up a hand. “I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say we’ve already heard more than we’d like of what your wife says about your drive. Just review the material. Find a trace of that second man.”

  “Yes, Boss,” Jones said, but he didn’t appear happy about it.

  Ben shifted his attention. “Loving, great work on Erin’s death. Between your reports and what I get from Mike, I feel as if I’m riding around in the police car with Mike. Except, from what I hear, I don’t want to be riding around in the police car with Mike.”

  Loving grinned. “I heard ’bout some of that down at Scene of the Crime last night. He still partnered with Mad Dog Baxter?”

  Ben nodded. “With no hope of parole. And frankly, that’s just as well, because his partner doesn’t believe Erin killed herself.”

  “Then who did?”

  “So far, they have no answer. What do you think, Loving? Wouldn’t be the first time you beat the cops to the punch.”

  Loving shook his head. “That’s a pretty big order, Skipper.”

  “Well, you’re a pretty big man. What do you say?”

  “What I always say. I’ll give it my best shot.”

  “You’re the man, Loving. Do it to it.” Ben shifted his gaze around to Christina. “Any luck on the legal-research front?”

  She shook her head. “The case you want doesn’t exist, Ben. In these conservative times, habeas corpus relief is a rarity. Particularly in the Tenth Circuit.”

  “But there have been some petitions granted.”

  “And believe me, I’ve pored over those cases. Wiseman v. Cody. Horton v. Massie. Battenfield v. Gibson.”

  “Detect any pattern?”

  “Nothing we haven’t talked about before. We need to hit Judge Derek with all the evidence we’ve got indicating that Ray Goldman is innocent. And anything that points a finger in another direction.”

  Ben nodded. He knew that nothing they had uncovered to date would be sufficient to persuade Derek to issue such extraordinary relief. Besides being a major jerk, he was a Bush Sr. appointee. His friends back at the country club wouldn’t approve.

  “One more thing,” Ben added. “I need someone who can educate me on fast food.”

  Loving shrugged. “There’s a McDonald’s on every street in Tulsa.”

  “I’m thinking more like an expert witness.”

  “Loving’s an expert on eating it,” Jones said.

  “That wasn’t what I had in mind. I need someone who knows the ins and outs of the business. Especially the taste-creation part that was Frank Faulkner’s specialty.”

  Christina shrugged. “Well, the ideal candidate would be Peter Rothko.”

  “Who’s he?”

  Christina stared at him. “Come on, Ben. I pointed him out to you at the bar reception, remember? And he’s been all over the news, ever since that horrible hostage situation where so many people were hurt. Peter Rothko is Tulsa’s fast-food magnate. Owns the Burger Bliss chain—you know. They serve high-class fast food that tastes good and won’t totally destroy your health. That’s their advertising angle, anyway. He started about ten years ago with one shack in south Tulsa. Now he’s got hundreds of them.”

  “Conrad Reynolds mentioned that they’d done some work for Burger Bliss. Sounds like the man I need. Can you set up an interview?”

  “I can try. I’m sure he’s a busy man. Maybe if I went out to see him personally . . .” She batted her pen against her lips. “Rothko is a darned good-looking man. And very single.”

  Ben arched an eyebrow. “Are you interested?”

  “Let me think. A handsome hunk, never married, who’s also a billionaire.” She shook her head. “No, I wouldn’t be interested in that.”

  “Just set up the interview,” Ben said, pressing his hands against the table. “Remember, folks, Ray Goldman has been wrongly incarcerated for seven years. Seven years. He’s lost his fiancée. He’s lost his business. He’s lost all his friends, family. And if we don’t do something to prevent it—he’s going to lose his life.” He paused, making eye contact with each of them. “Do I need to say anything more?”

  Chapter

  18

  April was wearing the transparent blouse again.

  She did not intend it to be transparent, Gabriel Aravena reasoned, and she would undoubtedly be shocked if she knew that it was. But when she stood directly beneath the powerful overhead fluorescent lights in the store, it dissolved. Her brassiere was fully visible, as was her cleavage and the lovely little mole at the base of her neck. He could even make out her nipples, dark and firm and pert. They were winking at him, playing peekaboo.

  Aravena smiled. Off Depo for a mere twenty-four hours. And what a change it had already made in his life.

  The chemical castration, the hormones that were slowly turning him into a woman, enlarging his breasts, shrinking his genitals, making his facial hair turn to peach fuzz, had been arrested. If he was not quite himself yet, he was certainly on his way.

  “Did you see what that clown was driving?” April asked. She was staring through the front doors toward the gas pumps. “The pickup with the jacked-up wheels?”

  “I did.”

  “Why do men do that? Or boys, I should say?” She turned slightly. It was as if she were pointing at him with those lovely little nippies. “Does it make them feel more manly?”

  “Perhaps so,” Aravena said.

  “I hate it when boys think they have to put on a big show.”

  “All men are not alike.”

  “No. You don’t do stuff like that, do you?” She smiled. “We’ve been working together at this store for—how long now? And you never do any of that macho-stud crap.”

  Better living throug
h chemistry, Aravena thought. “It would not be appropriate in the workplace.”

  “I bet you wouldn’t do it, wherever you were.” She smiled, letting her hand brush his shoulder. Her touch sent his blood coursing through every part of his body. “You’re just not the type.”

  As if you had the slightest idea what kind of man I am, Aravena thought. If you did, you would not be standing so close to me. If you knew how much I wanted you. If you knew how I would take you.

  And now I can.

  “I used to go out with this guy,” April said, “who drove one of those rigs. And he had tattoos all over his body. And he spit and cursed and chewed tobacco. Every he-man affectation in the book. His whole life was governed by his dick.”

  Aravena felt himself becoming aroused. “What about the young man you are seeing now?”

  “Larry? He’s all right. I mean, he’s kind of thoughtless sometimes. Rude. But I’m not thinking it’s going to be a forever thing, anyway, so who cares?”

  “You should have someone in your life who treats you well, April. Someone who takes care of you.”

  “Yeah, well, we’d all like that.”

  “You deserve it.”

  April’s eyes darted downward. “That’s very nice of you, Gabe.”

  “It’s the truth.” And about that he was not lying. He would take care of her, given half a chance. He’d take care of her over and over again, till she cried for mercy. He’d take care of her in every possible way, every position, every orifice. He’d pound her again and again till she screamed. Till it killed her.

  “I’m going to pour in some more Slushee mix. Can you watch the front counter?”

  “Of course.” He watched as her curvy little butt sashayed away from him. It had been so long. Too long. But he was going to change that. He was going to change everything, starting—

  “Excuse me?”

  Aravena brought his eyes out of soft focus. There was a young woman standing before him on the other side of the counter. Tall, dark-haired, slender. Beautiful.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes. I need to pay for my gas.”

  She seemed familiar, but he couldn’t quite place the face. “How would you like to pay?”

  “Plastic. What else?” The woman passed him a credit card. Sheila Knight, the name on the card read. Sheila Knight.

  He stole a few furtive glances at her while he processed the card. Her blouse was not transparent, but it was so tight it might as well have been. She had no secrets. Her body was beautiful and she knew it. She wanted everyone else to know it, too.

  Maybe it was just the effect of the chemicals drying up, but it seemed to Aravena that she was the most arousing, most devastatingly desirable adult woman he had ever met. And he had seen her before. He was certain of it.

  But where?

  It came to him as he thrust the pen and the credit-card receipt across the counter to her. She was a friend of Erin’s.

  He smiled with great enthusiasm. “Thank you for shopping at FastTrak.”

  She nodded, grabbed the receipt, and left. Too bad.

  But he would see her again.

  He watched as she passed through the front doors to her car, swinging her hips, inviting everyone around to drool over her. How he would like to give her what she wanted. What she was asking for. How he would like to throw her down, knock her to the concrete, take her under the pumps, roll around in the gas and grease and—

  But that would not be smart. It would be pleasurable. But not smart.

  He glanced at the credit-card receipt in his hand. That was his passport. The key to whatever he wanted to know about—or to take from—Sheila Knight. He would call the credit-card company and say that she had left her card behind. They would give him her phone number. From her phone number he could get her address. From her address, he could get—her.

  He smiled, feeling better than he had all day. Better than he could remember, actually.

  The days of looking and talking and being a woman were over. From now on, he would be himself. Himself and no one else. The real Gabriel Aravena. Not the fake chemically induced, harmless-puppy variant. The real thing.

  He would be visiting Sheila Knight. Soon. And it would be a visit she would never forget.

  Chapter

  19

  Ben was doing double time across the street toward his van when he heard Joni shout. “Be-en!”

  He stopped, and a moment later, she caught up to him. “Sorry, Joni, I’m running late. I have to get to McAlester—”

  “The penitentiary? To see another of your glamorous clients?”

  “Something like that. You can give me the maintenance update later, okay?”

  “It’s not about the house, Benjy. I took Giselle to the vet, like you asked.”

  “And you got her . . . got her . . .”

  “Fixed? No, I didn’t.”

  “But you said—”

  “I know I said I’d take care of it. But there was a problem.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  Joni grinned from one high cheekbone to the other. “She’s already preggers, Ben.”

  The color drained from Ben’s face. “Giselle? Pregnant? How—?”

  “Do I really need to explain that to you again, Ben?”

  “I mean—she spends the whole day locked up in the apartment.”

  “Apparently she busted out. Or a furry friend busted in.”

  “But—she can’t! I’m in the middle of a huge life-or-death case. I don’t have time for this.”

  “You’ll make time.”

  “And—I don’t know anything about delivering kittens.”

  “Don’t panic, Ben. I’ll be there for the blessed event. It usually pretty well takes care of itself.”

  “And then there’ll be all those kittens!”

  “That is usually how it works, yeah.”

  “What am I going to do with all those kittens?”

  “You’ll think of something.”

  “This can’t happen, Joni. You’re the handyman. Do something . . . handy.”

  Smiling, Joni put her arm around him and led him to his car. “Sorry, pal, it’s already a done deal.” She reached into the pocket of her flannel shirt and pulled out a pink candy cigar. “Congratulations, Ben. You’re going to be a father.”

  “You know, I really shouldn’t be telling you this,” Dr. Bennett said as she artfully uncrossed and recrossed her legs. “I shouldn’t.”

  Mike smiled. He was happy because his years of experience with interrogations told him that when the witness started insisting that they really shouldn’t be talking—it was a sure sign he was getting close to something good.

  “I’m afraid we have to insist,” Sergeant Baxter said firmly.

  She wasn’t playing hardball yet, but Mike knew she was only about two sentences away. And unless he missed his guess, once Baxter started playing the big bad, Bennett would retreat and the questioning would come to an abrupt end.

  “First, there’s the matter of doctor-patient privilege to consider.”

  “That didn’t prevent you from speaking with us before. You said the privilege died with Erin.”

  “But that was different. At that time, you were inquiring into her death. I thought I not only could speak but should speak. But this.” She shook her head. “This is something altogether different. I don’t know that this has anything to do with her death.”

  “With all due respect,” Baxter replied, “we have to be the judge of that.”

  “I know, I know. But still . . .” Bennett’s hands gestured futilely in the air. “I just don’t like it.”

  “We could subpoena you, Doctor.”

  “Fine. Subpoena me. We both know what will happen. I’ll claim privilege, the judge will put me in jail for a few hours, and then I’ll go home. And you’ll be none the wiser.” She hesitated. “I just don’t know what I should do.”

  Which was Mike’s cue. He stepped closer to the interrogation table.
He had deliberately staged the questioning, calling Bennett at a time when she was out of the office and claiming great urgency, forcing her to come to him. He wanted this interview to take place at police headquarters, not in the cushy comfort of Bennett’s home or office. He didn’t want her to be comfortable. He wanted her to be on edge, at least a little. He wanted her to feel vulnerable.

  “I know what you should do, ma’am. You should tell us everything you know. Even if you don’t see the relevance. You should give us unrestricted access to your files.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You can. And you will.” He leaned across the table, hunched like a vulture, his eyes burning into hers. “I insist.”

  Bennett drew back. “Are you trying to intimidate me?”

  “Yeah. Is it working?”

  “Kind of.” She ran a nervous finger across her lips. “You do that smoldering-intensity thing really well.”

  “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

  “Seriously, some of my patients are major-league bad boys, murderers and rapists and such. But they don’t give me chills the way you just did.”

  Mike shrugged. “It’s a gift.”

  Bennett allowed herself a small smile. “What makes you so sure there was some dark family secret Erin was hiding?”

  “I’m not sure of anything. But Dr. Harris was making some pretty broad hints, and he generally seemed to know what he was talking about.”

  “The man is a quack.”

  “But a quack who spent a lot of time talking to Erin Faulkner.”

  “I don’t see how this could possibly relate to her death.”

  “I do. And believe me when I say that if you withhold evidence that might help us break this case”—he glanced at Baxter—“or put it to bed once and for all, I will come down on you. Hard.”

  Bennett’s long-nailed fingers fluttered in the air. “I can’t prove any of this.”

  “Tell us what she told you.”

  Bennett frowned, started again. “There were some indications of . . . child abuse. In Erin Faulkner’s past.”

  “Indications from?”

  Bennett sighed. “From Erin. She first revealed it to me during hypnosis. After that, she talked about it more freely.”