Long Fall from Heaven

by George Wier

  “Huh. That’s interesting. What’s Lynch’s former cellmate like?” Cueball asked.

  Kellman smiled and played around with his paperweight for a few seconds. “Of similar disposition but not nearly as intelligent. I had him brought in from work detail and placed in his cell not long after he and Lynch said their goodbyes. Then I dropped by for a chat…”

  • • •

  “So, Sheer, looks like you’ve lost your buddy,” Kellman said.

  Sheer looked up from where he sat on his bunk and said, “Yes, Warden. But I’ve gained peace of mind.”

  “How’s that?”

  Sheer smiled at him and said nothing. The man appeared a little too full of himself to suit the warden’s taste.

  “Maybe I should move one of those big sisters in here with you,” Kellman said. “I’m beginning to think you could do with a little smoothing out.”

  Aside from solitary confinement, which had very definite federal rules the prison had to abide by, throwing one of the big homosexuals in with a straight man was the biggest stick a warden could legally wield.

  “Well, you know best, Warden,” Sheer said, smiling cooperatively.

  “That I do. If I didn’t know better, though, I would say that you’re downright pleased with yourself.”

  Sheer gave the very slightest of shrugs. “Maybe.”

  “Alright,” Kellman said, “if there’s something you feel you need to tell me you better speak now. I’ve got work to get done.”

  “Warden, all I can say is that Satan is about to have a long fall from heaven.”

  “And pray tell, exactly what does that mean? In ten words or less.”

  Sheer ran a hand slowly up the concrete wall above him, as if his fingertips were probing for microscopic irregularities in the concrete.

  “Oh. Nothing, Warden. Or at least nothing that you won’t hear about soon enough.”

  • • •

  “So you think he knew,” Cueball said. “Sheer knew Lynch was planning something. Something big, maybe. Only I don’t see how the killing of his stepbrother and a beach comber is quite so big as all that.

  Kellman nodded. “No doubt he did know something. You can have as much time as you need with him in a monitored interview room. He will be well shackled and there can be no physical contact. Good luck.”

  [ 16 ]

  Wiley Sheer was a murderer. The man was what correctional officials called a “natural lifer.” He would not leave his home in the Texas Department of Criminal Justice until such time as his blood ceased its circulation and a licensed medical doctor was certain enough of that fact to so note it.

  A piece entitled “Equal Opportunity Killer” about Sheer appeared in Texas Monthly in the fall of 1983. He was interviewed in prison by one the magazine’s newest, wet-behind-the-ears columnists, who brought a camera with him to the interview and took some pictures of Sheer. Mostly they were grainy, sepia-toned photos taken from rather odd and disturbing angles, but the most chilling one was shot dead-on. It showed Sheer sitting at a table with his head in his hands, his eyes shining above a bizarre, mocking grin, while a smoldering cigarette suspended from his razor-thin lips a la Humphrey Bogart.

  Cueball remembered that photo. He noted that there had been little change in the man over the intervening years. At age forty-seven, Sheer still looked clean, strong, and eager. He looked happy and healthy. He also looked crazier than a peach orchard boar. Above all, he looked like a man who had a secret, one that he wasn’t planning to tell anyone anytime soon. Cueball Boland laughed inwardly. He had a notion that he could change that plan.

  • • •

  “Three consecutive life sentences, Wiley,” Cueball said. “With two hundred years tacked on top of that. You will never get out.”

  Wiley Sheer smiled. He loved attention and he was enjoying himself. “Did you come all the way up here to tell me that?”

  “No, but it might have been worth the trip just to rub it in.”

  Sheer’s smile turned into a smirk. It was about all he could manage in way of response. “Rub away.”

  Boland shook his head. “I’d rather hear all you know about Harrison Lynch.”

  Sheer’s smirk morphed back into a smile, but this time it was a knowing smile, a smile that was wise and ancient in the way only a con’s smile can be. “Now, why don’t that surprise me?” he asked. “Well, then, you need to be aware that in my world knowledge is trade goods. You want mine, you got to offer some of yours. So what can you offer me for what I might know? And who the hell are you anyway? A cop?”

  “Not any more.”

  “What then?”

  “These days I run a pool hall down in Galveston. I also have a mid-sized security company.”

  “And?”

  Cueball silenced him by putting his finger to his lips and saying, “Shush. Let me introduce myself my own way, Wiley. As for what I do, I get by, but I’m sure as hell not a rich man. Nor am I an elected official. So how do you think I got in here today to see you?”

  “Shit, man, how should I know something like that? Maybe you blew the warden.”

  Boland laughed happily. “Nope. A state senator named Dell Ross called Kellman and told him let me in to talk to you. I know you’re familiar with Senator Ross since he chairs the senate committee charged with oversight of the prison system, and lifers always know crap like that. Got any idea why he called the warden for me?”

  Sheer raised his eyebrows.

  “Because when I was a cop in Dallas and he was a student at Southern Methodist University, I cut him some slack on what could have been a drunken driving bust if I’d wanted to push it. SMU is a rich school with a lot of rich kids, and you better believe he wasn’t the only one I helped out over the years. Oh, I cut plenty of poor kids the same kind of slack too. And that turned out to be a good investment as well because some of them aren’t so poor any more. Some of them are high-powered lawyers and executives. And a lot of them are involved in politics in one way or another. But they all remember me and like to show their appreciation on those rare occasions when I need a little help. Besides that, I was raised on Galveston Island and I know where all the bodies are buried there too. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Sheer’s eyes gleamed brightly and his grin was something one would expect to find on a hammerhead shark—eager, mean, greedy. “You’re telling me you’re really in a position to help me? That’s what you mean?”

  Boland nodded, a lazy smile on his face.

  “Then let’s hear your offer.”

  “Okay. Here it is. The Pakalote Unit.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a new unit the prison system is building out near El Paso, where the climate is terrible, if you didn’t know. And they named it after the right man, a man named Luther Pakalote who was warden of the old all-black Retrieve Unit for thirty years. That’s the one the inmates called ‘The Burning Hell.’ Pakalote himself was known as ‘Big Devil,’ and he lived up to the name. So you can see why I say they’re naming this new unit after the right fellow. It’s being patterned after the federal super-max at Florence, Colorado, and the guys who are designing it are working closely with the prison system’s lawyers to make sure that it just barely slides in under the federal prison standards. The operative word there is ‘barely.’ It’ll be finished in about six months, and the first inmates shipped out there will be the five hundred most incorrigible assholes in the whole Texas system.”

  “What’s this got to do with me?”

  Boland ignored the question. “Let me tell you what life will be like at the Pakalote Unit. Each day will consist of twenty-three hours in lockdown in a five-by-eight cell. The other hour will be spent bouncing a basketball around in a miniature gym under the watchful eye of a pair of tobacco-chewing peckerwoods from some place like Silsbee or Conroe. They’ll each have a nightstick, an electric cattle prod, a gut-deep hatred for people like you, and a yen for excitement.” Here Boland broke off and shrugged and gave
Sheer a goofy grin. “And you know what they say about situations like that. Shit happens!”

  “Awww, man—”

  “There will be no social contact with the other inmates. No bragging, no telling of war stories, no strutting around and impressing the new fish. Just the minimal number of visitors the feds require them to allow, which amounts to something like one every two months. Restricted phone privileges. Mandated weekly cavity searches. And this will be seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year, stretching all the way out to eternity. For entertainment, if you want to call it that, each cell will have a TV set in the wall behind unbreakable Plexiglas. Two channels will be available. The old movie channel and the evangelical channel. But there’ll be plenty of old Perry Mason paperbacks and stuff like that to read.”

  “Why are you laying this shit on me?”

  “Because unless you tell me what I want to know here today, this shit is your future.”

  “Huh?”

  “Believe it, Wiley. This is a one-time offer and you don’t have but one chance to climb on the train. If I leave here today unhappy, you may as well get started packing your stuff, because your ass is headed west. So here it comes. You answer all my questions to my satisfaction, and out of the goodness of my heart I won’t have you sent out there. And that’s the best deal you’re ever going to get from me.”

  Sheer smirked again, but this one wasn’t a smirk with a lot of horsepower behind it. “You’re bullshitting me. You don’t have that kind of stroke.”

  Cueball nodded sagely. “I suppose a man could make that argument. But you might consider that it only took me fifteen minutes to arrange a visit with a triple lifer who was locked away in administrative segregation in a maximum-security unit. So do you want to risk it?”

  “You’re not offering anything of a positive nature,” Sheer complained, his voice slipping easily into a plaintive whine.

  “That’s right, Wiley. I’m all stick and no carrot. But when you get back in the general population, you can ask any of the longtimers from Dallas about Cueball Boland. They’ll tell you that making me happy was one of the wisest moves you ever made.”

  Sheer pondered this for a few moments, then shrugged. “Well, since I have nothing to gain by holding my mud, I guess I’ll make you happy. Besides, I don’t owe Harrison Lynch anything anyway.”

  “Smart move, Wiley my boy,” Micah said.

  “So what do you want to know?” Sheer asked.

  “Gimme all you got,” Cueball said. “Start wherever you want and set your own pace. Just don’t leave anything out or you’ll be headed west before you can fart.”

  Wiley Sheer stretched as well as he could in handcuffs and a waist chain. Then he wiggled around in his chair before looking across the table to meet Cueball’s eyes. “Well, he claimed he had some old scores to settle. His family was rich folks.”

  “I don’t think so,” Micah said. “His father was a Pense. We’re not even sure where the name ‘Lynch’ comes into it, but there’s no rich islanders with that name.” Micah turned to Cueball. “Were the Pense’s rich?”

  “At one time, maybe. If they were rich now, Jack wouldn’t have been working for me.”

  “No,” Sheer chimed in. “You don’t understand. I’m talking about his real family. They’re on top of the heap, but when he gets done with them, they’ll be under the heap. That’s all I know about it.”

  “His real family, you say,” Cueball said. “Who are they?”

  “That’s the one thing I don’t know because Harrison would never talk about it, no matter how I tried to pull it out of him. But I saw Harrison’s commissary slip once. I didn’t know you could have a commissary acount that big.”

  “How big?” Micah asked, before Cueball could.

  “It was fifty thousand smackers. That’s even against the rules.”

  Cueball chuckled. “There’s only one rule, really, Wiley. The golden rule. You know what that is, right?”

  “Yeah. Him who’s got the gold, rules.”

  • • •

  Thirty minutes later Micah and Cueball were on their way back home. “They must be keeping that new Pakalote Unit under wraps,” Micah said. “I never miss reading the Houston paper or watching the news, and I haven’t seen or heard a thing about it.”

  “You haven’t?” Cueball asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Well, don’t feel too bad about that. Neither have I.”

  [ 17 ]

  As soon as Micah and Cueball returned to town from Huntsville, Micah did his rounds, checking the various locations where NiteWise had security contracts.

  When Micah finished his rounds, he pulled in at a doughnut place down on the Seawall for a cup of coffee. He had the bad fortune to run into Morgan, who had stopped only because he saw Boland’s security company pickup parked outside the building.

  “Out,” Morgan said.

  “Out of what?” Lanscomb countered.

  That was another thing Morgan hated about the man—his obtuseness. He misinterpreted everything.

  “Outside,” Morgan said, nodding at the door. “We need to talk outside.”

  “Well, if you meant outside, why didn’t you say outside?” Lanscomb asked. “I mean, the word ‘out’ has all sorts of existential possibilities not found in the word ‘outside’ due to the latter’s geographic specificity.”

  Morgan ground his teeth and peered at the other man for a few seconds, trying to decide if he was serious or if he was being a smartass. He decided he was serious, which was all the worse in Morgan’s view. Smart-ass he could handle. But a guy who would stand around in a Galveston coffee shop at 11:00 P.M. babbling about crap like “geographic specificity” had to be crazy. And literal-minded man that he was, Morgan always had trouble with crazy, especially when it came in packages like Micah Lanscomb.

  Before Morgan could say anything else, Lanscomb gave him a bobbing nod and went through the door with one of his abrupt, plunging motions that set the cop’s teeth on edge. Outside the doughnut shop, Morgan grabbed the other man’s arm and whirled him around.

  “What is your problem?” Micah asked, pulling loose from the angry cop.

  “I’m sick of stubbing my toes on your heels in this investigation.”

  “So get ahead of things.”

  Morgan seethed. “Do you want to spend the rest of the night in jail?”

  “For what?”

  “We’re out here all alone, so I guess it could be for anything I dream up.”

  Lanscomb sighed and shook his head. “Look, you’re a badass cop. I give you that. I even respect it a little. But I’m Cueball Boland’s man, and he’s wired in tight with the people that matter here in Galveston. Old Island shit and all that. You know how these folks are. You and I are both outsiders, and we always will be. But like I said, I’m Cueball’s guy and you ain’t really anybody’s guy. So if you lock me up for nothing you’ll be pushing him a little too far. He’ll go to his friends, after which the wrath of God will fall on your head and then you’ll have to spend the next two weeks making excuses and explaining yourself. Tedious. Nobody profits. So why don’t we cut all the Raymond Chandler cop versus P.I. bullshit and cooperate a little on this? I know you don’t like Cueball. You may not even like me, charming fellow though I am. But what the hell? We both want the same thing.”

  “Which is finding out who killed Jack Pense,” Morgan finally said. “I guess I can see that. Since he was your employee, you feel like you have a vested interest in the matter.”

  “Oh, it seems to go deeper than who killed Pense. A whole lot deeper, in fact. You see, we already know who did that. Or at least we’re pretty sure we do.”

  “No shit? Who?”

  “A guy named Harrison Lynch. Ever heard of him?”

  “You’re crazy. Lynch is in the joint doing life.”

  “Not any more, he isn’t. The parole board got all misty-eyed and sprung him about three days ago.”

  Morgan regarded Micah with skepti
cism. “Okay, let’s say that’s true. But that doesn’t mean he killed Pense.”

  “He’s Pense’s half-brother.”

  “How in hell did you find that out?”

  “Old Island shit, I tell you. Cueball knew all along. They were all raised here in Galveston.”

  “But that still doesn’t mean—”

  “Lynch’s cellmate said he told him he had some scores to settle with his family.”

  “You talked to his cellmate?” Morgan’s voice was rising. He was both astounded and mad. “When?”

  “Early this afternoon.”

  “Why didn’t you let me know about this?”

  “We tried. Cueball phoned the station as soon as we got back in town, but you weren’t available.”

  “He should have tried harder to find me. This is withholding information,” Morgan said between gritted teeth. “Maybe even obstructing justice. He’s required to—”

  “He’s not required to do shit. That special Ranger commission, remember? Technically speaking, he’s state and you’re local. He can withhold anything he wants to withhold.”

  Morgan was poised somewhere between whipping out his pistol and killing this goofball or just admitting defeat. As it so often does, bureaucratic prudence overrode knightly valor: he dropped his shoulders and nodded in defeat. The goofball might be right. In fact he was right, but Leland Morgan didn’t like it one damn bit.

  “Besides, Cueball left a message for you to either call or come by the house. Didn’t you get it?”

  Morgan shook his head ruefully.

  “Sorry about that,” Micah said. “But where do we go from here? What do you want to do? Spend the rest of the evening booking me in and bringing a shit storm down your head, or would you rather invest the same time in getting a bulletin out on Lynch?”

  [ 18 ]

  The town lay inland half a dozen miles from the waters of the Gulf. On a breezy day the air had a salt tang to it and flocks of screeching gulls rode the zephyrs overhead, an ever-present reminder of the towns proximity to the waters that fostered it and gave it its life blood no less so than the growl and exhaust of the big trucks plying the highways between Texas City—the town’s nearest neighbor and sister city—and Houston, thirty miles to the northwest. It was a working town and a tough town, if not a dingy town. And it was the perfect town for an itinerant blue-collar worker, his small-waisted and demure wife and his two towheaded children, ages five and seven.