Blood of Angels

by Reed Arvin

  It’s standing room only for what the press assumes will be the worst day in the history of Tennessee law enforcement. All sixty chairs in the press room are filled, and another twenty or so people are standing around the edge of the room, jostling for position. “You guys hear Wilson Owens’s mother has already filed a civil suit against us?” Rayburn asks, watching the monitor. “She’s got Ronnie Durban representing her.” Durban is high-profile, high-dollar, and has a high win rate. For a fuckup like the one we’re accused of, it’s not out of the question he would be looking at eight figures. Rayburn smiles. “The next few minutes are really gonna piss him and his accountant off.”

  “Just as well,” Carl says. “He would have bankrupted this county.”

  “I don’t think that would have bothered him much,” I say. “Durban’s more of a me-and-mine kind of guy.” We fall silent, waiting for the last minute to tick away.

  At the stroke of 11:00, Rayburn puts his hand on the door. “Gentlemen?”

  “Absolutely,” Carl says.

  The DA pushes open the door, and the three of us walk into a barrage of camera flashes. Rayburn moves steadily to the podium, his expression serious but calm. The rest of us take places behind him. He clears his throat. “I have a brief statement, and then I’ll introduce you to Paul Landmeyer, the county’s chief forensics officer. We will take a few minutes of questions, and there will be a written statement available as you leave.”

  Rayburn’s voice is sober, clear, and unrepentant. “Seven years ago, two innocent citizens of our city were brutally gunned down in an east Nashville grocery store. These crimes, which came to be known as the Sunshine Grocery murders, achieved a high degree of notoriety in our community. Wilson Owens, a career criminal with seven prior convictions, was arrested, tried, and found guilty by a jury of his peers for these murders. These convictions were twice upheld on appeal. Having exhausted his due process, Mr. Owens was executed at Brushy Mountain Prison on May 18, 2003.” He pauses. “Two weeks ago, my office was contacted by Professor Philip Buchanan, lead counsel for an organization called the Justice Project. Mr. Buchanan stated that a Mr. Jerome Hale, now known as Kwame Jamal Hale, claimed responsibility for the Sunshine Grocery murders. The DA’s office met with Mr. Hale, who is currently serving life without parole in Brushy Mountain State Penitentiary. Mr. Hale is a career criminal and has spent thirteen of his thirty-four years incarcerated. Mr. Hale stated that he had framed Mr. Owens because of an argument the two had incurred while serving time together at Brushy Mountain. In support of this assertion, Mr. Hale stated he knew the exact location of the weapon used in the Sunshine Grocery murders, information only reasonably known by the murderer himself. Following his instructions, a Browning pump shotgun matching the description of the weapon used in the murders was located within the confines of Montgomery Bell State Park.” Rayburn looks out into the crowded room. “Last night ballistic tests were conducted by our office to determine if, in fact, this gun is the same weapon used in the Sunshine Grocery murders. I can now confirm for you that it is, indeed, the same weapon.”

  The reporters scribble away, soaking up what they are certain is history unfolding before their eyes. “However,” Rayburn says, “this office is more convinced than ever that the original verdict in this case was correct and just.” Heads pop up, eyes fixed on the DA. A few of the reporters glance at each other, question marks in their expressions. “Central to Mr. Hale’s claim is his statement that he buried the weapon where it was found. But evidence proves that this is not the case. In fact, evidence proves that the weapon was only recently buried there. That gun was, in fact, moved by someone to make it appear that Mr. Hale had intimate knowledge of the crime, when, in fact, he did not. This is a clear attempt to discredit this office, the prosecutors in the case, and the jury’s original verdict. It is nothing less than obstruction of justice, and this office is immediately instigating a full investigation to determine the parties responsible.” He pauses. “I would now like to introduce you to Paul Landmeyer, the county’s chief forensic officer.”

  Paul takes his place at the podium and demonstrates why he is such a powerful witness in court with his professional, unemotional statement. “As the district attorney stated, ballistics tests confirmed that the weapon unearthed at Montgomery Bell was used in the Sunshine Grocery murders. However, upon testing the gunstock of the weapon, I was able to identify the presence of an agricultural pesticide commonly used in the farming of tobacco. This would not be unusual for an object buried in the surface soil in many parts of Tennessee. However, the gun was located within the environs of Montgomery Bell State Park. The park was incorporated in 1954, and since that date, no agricultural activities have taken place within its borders. A call this morning to the Park Service confirmed that the field where the gun was located has been fallow for the entire history of the park. Further, the soil immediately surrounding the gun was also tested and found not to contain this chemical. Therefore, my reasonable conclusion is that the weapon was previously buried somewhere else where it absorbed this chemical, was later unearthed, and was buried again at the Montgomery Bell location. It’s my expert opinion that there is no other rational explanation.”

  Paul steps back, and Rayburn takes his place at the podium. “Questions.”

  Voices explode toward the stage as reporters demand to know more about Paul’s findings. Rayburn lets Paul handle most of them, and he once again proves unflappable. “That’s correct…. The chemical is an active ingredient in many agricultural pesticides…. No, the ground surrounding the weapon did not contain this chemical…. Yes, the entire procedure was videotaped, and I’m happy to make copies available to the media.”

  After fifteen minutes—five more than he intended—Rayburn cuts off the questions. “I wish to commend Dr. Landmeyer for his professionalism and dedication in this project,” he says. “I especially wish to commend the gentlemen standing behind me, Carl Becker and Thomas Dennehy. They prosecuted the original case, and they have behaved impeccably during this entire proceeding.” He looks out at the crowd. “I can assure you of one thing, ladies and gentlemen. The next project this office will undertake is to determine who is responsible for moving this weapon. The families of the victims and the jury members—and indeed, these fine prosecutors standing with me—deserve no less. This has been a difficult time. But we consider the question of whether or not Wilson Owens was guilty of the Sunshine Grocery murders closed. Our focus is now on finding the people responsible for tampering with this vital evidence.” He looks out into the audience. “I now direct your attention to the young lady at the back. She has the complete documentation for the tests performed by Dr. Landmeyer. Thank you very much.”

  WE STAND IN THE PRIVATE HALLWAY, outside the press room, the stunned reporters scrambling for the paperwork being handed out. Rayburn shakes Paul’s hand. “You realize you’re never going to have to buy another beer in your life, don’t you?”

  Paul grins. “I can live with that.”

  I look back up at the monitor; most of the reporters are milling around, flipping through Paul’s documentation. A few are already heading for the rear doors. Rayburn starts to lead us back to the underground parking, but a figure on the monitor catches my eye, and I stop. A man in a well-tailored suit is pressing against the flow of people, coming into the room as others exit. I can’t see his face clearly, but he’s definitely agitated. He rips a press release off the table and stands reading it, his head down. The farther he goes, the more upset he becomes; by the bottom of the first page, his hands are trembling.

  My colleagues are already at the door at the other end of the hall. “Thomas!” Paul calls out. “You coming?”

  “I’ll catch up.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I’m right behind you.” Paul shrugs and steps through the door. I stare back up at the monitor, trying to see the man’s face. He’s about five-foot ten, and his black hair is cut well but fairly long, down over his ears. He’s
angrily flipping through the press release, manhandling the pages. I squint at the monitor. His arms. Are those welts? The image of Indy clawing for his life while someone presses him underwater flashes through my mind. The man lifts his head, unaware he is staring directly into the camera. It takes me a second to recognize him; the street clothes are gone, replaced by a properly cut suit; the hair is well trimmed, and the beard and mustache have vanished. There’s a two count, and by the time I realize I’m looking straight at Charles Bridges, he’s dropped the papers onto the floor and is striding back out into the hall.

  I pull open the door and head toward Bridges. The second I appear, a dozen reporters who are still in the hall converge on me and start hurling questions. I try to push through them, but it’s hard going. The closer I get to the front, the bigger the crowd becomes, and there’s already a crush of people filling up the exit. I finally break out of the front of the hall and see Bridges is about thirty-five yards away, halfway down the concrete steps to the street. If I can get a clear shot, I can reach him in less than ten seconds. Suddenly, I feel a large hand on my shoulder, spinning me around in the opposite direction. It’s a reporter, and standing next to him are Wilson Owens’s brother, mother, and half sister. The mother hurls herself on me, her big, sloppy tears in the air and on my face, her hands pummeling my chest. “You’re a liar!” she howls. “You lied about my boy! Wilson didn’t hurt nobody, and you tellin’ lies about him!” The reporter stands a couple of feet away, grinning fiercely. I try to restrain the woman, but within seconds I’m encircled by reporters and cameramen. The mother of the man I sent to the death chamber hammers away on my body for twenty agonizing seconds, until at last she grinds to a halt, her fists pressed into my chest. She collapses against me and grips me, holding me so tight I can barely breathe. The crowd around us falls silent, the only sound the merciless singing of camera shutters.

  Gently, I disengage from the woman. She looks up into my face with regret as deep as an ocean, a regret that goes back to her own childhood and the freight-train path of her life. Her boy was lost; for a brief, shining moment, he had come back to her. And now I have stolen him from her again.

  Bridges has finally become aware of the commotion behind him. Fifty yards off he turns back and looks; our eyes meet, and he spins away and starts off in a run. Beyond him are a maze of alleys and buildings, each of which he knows like the back of his hand. I don’t bother calling 911. Somewhere deep in my gut, I know that Charles Bridges will never be caught hiding in a stairwell by some patrolman. Until he chooses to show himself again, Charles Bridges is gone.

  CHAPTER

  21

  THE UNOFFICIAL “Paul Landmeyer Saved Our Asses” party—precursor by only a few hours to the official Carl Becker retirement party—has already started by the time I arrive back at 222 West. Rayburn insisted that Paul go back to the office and even dragged Carl back with him. In the main conference room there is now an informal receiving line as the staff heaps affirmation on Paul, mixed with undisguised disdain for Buchanan and his crowd. The rest of the day is going to be spectacularly unproductive, followed tonight by what promises to be an equally spectacular debauch.

  In the midst of a chorus of backslapping and “hell-yeahs,” I manage to get Rayburn back in his office for a talk. He follows me in, grinning like a kid at Christmas. “Good people in this office, Thomas. They stuck together through this.”

  “Charles Bridges was at the press conference, David.”

  He looks at me skeptically. “The hell he was. The cops are out looking for him, and he walks right into the New Justice Building?”

  “The cops are looking for a homeless guy with beard, mustache, and a smell that knocks you down. Bridges looked like a banker. Shaved, nice haircut, suit, and tie.”

  “You’re serious.”

  I nod. “I should have figured it. Watching us go down would be important to him. It’s everything he’s worked for. The point is, I don’t think anything about Charles Bridges is what it seems. And as of now, there’s no current description of him. It even took me a while to recognize him, and I sent him to jail.”

  Rayburn grimaces. “He’s going to be pissed about what happened.”

  “Bridges killed his parole officer over an inadvertent insult, David. And Paul just seriously ruined his day.”

  Rayburn nods thoughtfully. “I’ll ask the sheriff’s department to put a plainclothes officer on Paul, another on his house.”

  I nod. “We have to tell him about it, David. He’s got a family.”

  I WATCH PHILIP BUCHANAN’S press conference alone, in the small conference room. The professor looks satisfyingly rattled, a brave face in shit circumstances. His position undermined, he dissolves into a standard, antiprosecutor rant. Buchanan demands that his experts have the chance to examine the evidence, which Paul will scrupulously provide. And knowing Paul, that work will be found to be impeccable. In the end, Buchanan will claim that pesticide in the gunstock of the murder weapon isn’t ironclad proof one way or another. Paul’s opinion is good enough for me, and more important, it will be good enough for the people of Tennessee. The truth of this case will, for people like Buchanan, always be in doubt. But it is certain that the people of Tennessee don’t want to believe that their representatives in the justice system have killed the wrong man. In the face of such dubious testimony, to accuse them, they will dismiss the claims of Kwame Jamal Hale. This is not the case that brings down a DA’s office. We will not carry that cross.

  I flip off the TV and call Josh Ritchie, who answers on the second ring. “It’s Thomas, Josh. I haven’t heard back from you on Bridges.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s its own story. I got nothin’ against street work, but shit, dude.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It means your boy’s social circle ain’t exactly at the governor’s mansion. But I got a line on him. You were wrong about him going down to the tracks to buy dope, by the way.”

  “I saw him head down there with my own eyes.”

  “He goes down there, all right. To sell, not to buy.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, and it was like pulling teeth. Nobody wants to say shit about your boy Bridges. But he’s got a nice little business going on downtown.”

  “Who’s his supplier?”

  “That’s where I hit a wall. I’ve pretty much decided he must be doing his own cooking.”

  “Then he has to have space somewhere,” I say. “He’d need a house, an apartment, something. A place for a stove, some storage, and doors that lock.”

  “Yeah, but nobody has a clue where he lives. Don’t even ask me where I went trying to find out.”

  “Thanks, Josh. I owe you.”

  “That you do, amigo.”

  THE REST OF THE STAFF, untroubled by concerns about the plans of Charles Bridges, convene early and enthusiastically that evening at the Saucer for Carl’s official retirement party. And although the Department of Homeland Security has specifically requested that the personnel of the Justice Department maintain constant vigilance, many of them are on their way to a night they won’t remember very clearly. This is not merely a party to send off Carl. This is an exorcism of the demons Philip Buchanan and Kwame Jamal Hale. The staff drinks like people who, on the eve of their own executions, received a last-minute reprieve.

  Nevertheless, Carl remains the titular star of the evening, and the law enforcement community has come out in force to honor him. The entire bar has been reserved, and the place is crammed with at least two hundred well-wishers, ranging from police detectives to defense lawyers to Justice Building staffers. Carl stands smiling thoughtfully at the front of the crowd, his shirt disheveled, his tie seriously askew. Cigar smoke wafts above his head, the liquor is flowing freely, and for now, all is well.

  Someone calls Carl’s name, and he breaks from his reverie. The DA hands him something—it’s yet another plaque—and he smiles, tolerating it all under the salutary influence of se
veral fine Pilsners. There is muted applause, and he looks down and reads out loud the inscription of the plaque: In Gratitude for Meritorious Government Service. There are the obligatory calls for a speech, little yips like the barking of dogs. Carl bows with the cautious, overstated grace of the inebriated. “What to say, on the occasion of my sudden irrelevance?” he asks. There are boos and catcalls, and Carl states in a loud voice that he is proud to have served with such a goddamn fine bunch of lawyers. There’s a satisfying round of applause, but I can see something’s still bothering him. His face clears suddenly, and he turns to Rayburn and says, “Except for you, obviously. But it’s not your fault you have to get elected every two years.”

  Rayburn flushes bright red, which brightens Carl’s expression considerably. Carl peers out at the crowd, and he finds me standing several rows back. “I would also like to say that the best thing about retiring is that I will no longer have to carry on my back the highly overrated Mr. Thomas Dennehy. If not for him, I would be a Supreme Court justice. At least.” There’s genuine laughter at that, including from me.

  “Thank you, Carl, thank you very much,” Rayburn says, moving Carl firmly back toward his seat. Carl starts to protest, but the DA’s hand is in his back, and between that and the alcohol, he finds himself trickling toward a waiting, enveloping crowd of well-wishers. I walk up to my friend and put my arm around him.

  “That was beautiful,” I say, smiling. “Pure poetry. The crack about Rayburn was fatally true.”

  “Yeah, and the one about you was pure bullshit,” Carl says, smiling unsteadily but sincerely. “Thank God you’ll still be here after I’m gone, so the place doesn’t fall apart.”

  “I take it you’ll be slipping away as inconspicuously as possible?”

  Carl presses his finger to his nose. “A disappearing act,” he says, smiling. “Look for me, and I won’t be there.”