by Bill Myers
But tonight the door was open. Two men stood inside. One was a stranger, the other Murkoski. Hearing the elevator open, Murkoski turned toward him. Coleman tried to make out his expression, but the sweat and gel blurred his vision.
“I’m sorry to have to do this to you, Mr. Coleman, but there is no other way.”
Coleman tried to talk, to plead, to threaten. He shook his head, hoping to signal with his eyes for Murkoski to remove the gauze so he could speak. But Murkoski turned from him and nodded to another large man, who pulled open the door to the execution chamber and went in before them.
It was a nine-by-nine, off-white, cinder-block room. What looked like an old oak throne sat majestically in the center. The chair had been built sometime between 1913 and 1920; it looked like a crude antique. The seat and back were covered with black rubber mats — insulation. Near the top, a small block of wood, which served as a headrest, was also covered with the grooved rubber matting. The four legs, made of four-by-fours, rested on two parallel skids, also made of four-by-fours. They were anchored to the floor by heavy wires threaded through attached ceramic insulators. There wasn’t much room to move as the three men unstrapped Coleman from the gurney, carried him across the rubber floor mats, and dumped him into the chair.
Of course Coleman fought, but it served little purpose. These men knew exactly what they were doing.
They began buckling him down with brand-new leather straps, bought expressly for the execution. First the lap strap, then the chest strap, then one for each biceps, one to hold each of his forearms to the armrests, two more to strap his thighs down, and two more around his calves. The purpose of all these straps was not to prevent him from running, but to prevent his body from convulsing and flying out of the chair when they turned on the electricity.
As they attached the electrode to his left calf, Coleman looked ahead at the large rectangular window, not three feet in front of him, covered by a heavy, gold drape. On the other side was the twelve-by-fifteen-foot witness room where the ten chosen witnesses should be watching. But Coleman knew they wouldn’t be there. Not tonight. Tonight was eleven days too early.
He turned his head to the left and saw Murkoski standing in the doorway, watching with scientific detachment but avoiding eye contact with Coleman.
The first two men filed out as the last one attached the metal electrodes to Coleman’s head, making sure the strap fit snugly. Then he turned and left. Only Murkoski remained, standing in the open doorway between the control room and the execution chamber.
Sweat streamed into Coleman’s eyes, continuing to sting them with jelly. But he kept them open. If he’d known how to pray, this would have been the time. He didn’t. Instead, he braced himself, preparing for the worst, trying to forget the stories he’d heard. Most of the inmates had speculated that he would feel nothing — “Knock you out before you know what hits you.” But Coleman had read an entirely different account from former U.S. Supreme Court Justice Michael Brennan:
The prisoner’s eyeballs sometimes pop out and rest on the cheeks. The prisoner often defecates, urinates, and vomits blood and drool. The body turns bright red as its temperature rises, and the prisoner’s flesh swells and his skin stretches to the point of breaking. Sometimes the prisoner catches on fire, particularly if he perspires excessively. Witnesses hear a loud and sustained sound like bacon frying, and the sickly sweet smell of burning flesh permeates the chamber.
Coleman glanced down. Under his left wrist was what looked like a round coffee mug stain. There were plenty of rumors about that stain. Historians believed that it wasn’t a coffee stain at all, but the stain from an ink bottle. In the old prison, the execution chamber had also served as the clothing storeroom. The inmates who had run the store used to sit in the chair to write letters.
Coleman was breathing hard now, trying to catch his breath. Again he looked at Murkoski, who turned to the control room and nodded.
And then it hit.
But it was nothing like Coleman had expected. No jolt. No spastic convulsing. No burning. In fact, he barely felt anything, just the slightest tingle across his skin for several seconds, and then it was over.
Had the chair short-circuited? Had they made a mistake?
He turned back to Murkoski, who was still looking into the control room. “Did you get a reading?” Murkoski asked.
“Yes,” came the reply.
“Let’s do it again, just to make sure.”
Again Coleman prepared himself. The first attempt had failed. This time he closed his eyes, preparing for the worst, and felt —
Nothing. Again.
“Got it?” Murkoski asked.
“Yes. Two good responses.”
Coleman opened his eyes just in time to see Murkoski turn to him and smile. “Good,” he was saying, “very good.” He looked over his shoulder and called, “All right, gentlemen, go ahead and release him.”
Two of the three men reentered the cubicle, looking far more relaxed. The first thing to go was the surgical-tape-and-gauze gag. But Coleman, who had earlier wanted to shout and swear and scream, said nothing. He could only pant, trying to catch his breath, as he stared at the smiling Murkoski.
“We had to measure your galvanic skin response,” Murkoski said.
Coleman still didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure he could.
Murkoski continued. “If we’re going to stage a mock execution, we have to know what type of jolt your body can withstand. By running this test, Hendricks here,” — he motioned into the control room — “will be able to install the correct ballast resistor as well as determine the proper voltage, enabling us to stop your heart without frying your brain.”
The men finished unstrapping him, and Coleman continued staring, still trying to comprehend.
“Galvanic skin response, or GSR, is a measurement of the electricity your skin conducts. It changes depending upon the amount of stress you are under. That’s why it works so well in lie detectors.”
Coleman’s hands were free, and he wiped the sweat and gel out of his eyes.
Murkoski continued. “If we had told you this was just a test, you’d have been far more relaxed, and we would never have received an accurate reading. To obtain the proper measurements, you had to think it was real. I trust there are no hard feelings.”
“Hi, Kate.”
Katherine Lyon looked up from the hard disk drive she had been installing in the store’s back room, removed her glasses — and saw a face from the past.
“Jimmy!”
James Preston was thirty-seven years old and built like a tank. He barely had time to enter the room before Katherine raced around the worktable and threw her arms around him.
“Jimmy, it’s so good to see you! How are you?”
“I’m fine, Kate, just fine.”
He seemed a little stiff, a little uneasy. It may have been the years since they’d seen each other, or the presence of his companion, a tall somber man in a dark suit. Either way, it was a reminder that times change and so do people. She couldn’t suddenly return to being the person she had been. Nor could he. She pulled away, a bit more reserved. “Come on in,” she offered, then called into the store, “Eric! Eric, come here a minute.” Turning back to Preston, she said, “He’ll flip when he sees you.”
Preston smiled.
“So what brings you all the way out here? Don’t tell me you’ve moved.”
“No, Kate, I came to see you.”
Eric appeared in the doorway.
“Eric, this is your uncle Jimmy.”
“Who?”
“Your dad’s partner. You remember Uncle Jimmy.”
Preston crossed to the boy. He had a pronounced limp. It came with the artificial leg. “Hi, Eric.”
“Hi.”
Preston spoke gently. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“Yeah, a little.” Eric pushed up his glasses.
“I was with your dad on the police force. We were partners.”
“Were you with him when he got shot?”
“Yes I was, Eric. It was my life your father saved.”
Eric said nothing.
“He was a brave man, Eric.”
The boy nodded. “Uh-huh.” Then turning to Katherine he asked, “Can I go now? I got somebody on the Internet.”
A shade of disappointment crossed Katherine’s face. “Sure.” She nodded. “Go ahead.”
The boy quickly turned and headed back into the store.
“I’m sorry,” Katherine said. She ran her hands through her cropped hair. “You two used to be such buddies.”
“That was a long time ago, Kate.”
“I’ll say.” She moved behind her table, then motioned to the broken-down sofa across from her. “Please, have a seat.”
The men made their way through the cluttered room to the sofa, where they rearranged a few catalogs and electronic odds and ends to find a place to sit.
“Can I interest you fellows in a drink?” she asked as she sat.
She caught Preston’s disapproving look at the glass and bottle on her table. “I thought you quit.”
She resented the reprimand and purposely reached for the bottle to pour herself a refill. “It’s one of the few pleasures I’ve got left, Jimmy. That and Eric.” She recapped the bottle and set it back on the table. “So, who’s your friend?”
The suit was immediately on his feet, extending his hand over the table. “I’m Agent Kevles, Ms. Lyon. Witness Protection Agency.”
Katherine shook his hand with less enthusiasm. She took a drink and turned back to Preston. “How’s Denise? The kids?”
Preston glanced down. “We’ve been divorced three years now. She moved back to Vermont eighteen months ago.” He continued more quietly. “The shooting took a lot out of us, too.”
Katherine said nothing. She was already beginning to dislike the meeting. “So why are you here, Jimmy?”
“Agent Kevles asked me to come with him. The Witness Protection Program has done a lot of research for a special project, and they think you’re a prime candidate for the job.”
She turned to Kevles. “Job?”
“We have a client we need to place. I can’t tell you his name. But I can tell you that he is very, very special. Perhaps the most important placement we have had in years.”
“By placement you mean somebody who’s informed on somebody else, right? Is he a con?”
Kevles started to respond affirmatively, but Katherine cut him off. “I don’t know if Jimmy has filled you in on all the details, but my husband was killed by an ex-convict.”
“We are well aware of your history, Ms. Lyon.”
“Then you’re also aware that I’m not too keen on helping any of the creeps.”
“This man is different. I guarantee it.”
Katherine said nothing but slowly finished her drink.
Kevles leaned forward more intensely. “I should clarify something. This man is not an informer. He’s part of an experiment.”
“Experiment?”
“Up in Arlington. With a firm called Genodyne.”
She waited for more.
“It’s a biogenetic company. The project is classified, so I can’t give you the details, but I can tell you that we are prepared to pay generously if you would consider hiring this man as your employee.”
Katherine held his gaze. “Why me?”
“Well, as I said, you fit the profile —”
“Why me?” she repeated.
Kevles adjusted his glasses, obviously uncomfortable revealing any more information than he had to. But it was also obvious Katherine would settle only for the truth. “Much of this experiment is sociological in nature. And because of your past — your bereavement, your psychological profile, even the fact that you have a seven-year-old son —”
“Eight. My boy’s eight.”
“Even the fact that you have an eight-year-old son — all of this has strongly influenced our consideration.”
“So what does that mean? He’s not some kind of pervert, is he? I’m not going to have my kid exposed to —”
“I guarantee you that he is one of the most sensitive, loving people you will ever meet.”
“Right. He’s still a man, isn’t he?”
Kevles appeared unsure how to respond.
“How much?” she asked.
“Pardon me?”
“You said pay was involved. How much?”
She could see the relief cross his face. He was back to familiar territory. “We are prepared to pay eight hundred and fifty dollars a month.”
Katherine didn’t believe her ears. Eight hundred and fifty dollars a month plus free help around the store. But she’d learned much from being on her own, and she knew that the figure had come far too easily for him. She had room to negotiate.
She met his gaze firmly and said, “Twelve fifty.”
“Ms. Lyon, twelve hundred and fifty dollars per month seems a bit —”
“Take it or leave it. I have no idea who this creep is. Or what he’ll try to pull. You’re asking me to spend ten hours a day working beside somebody I don’t even know, risk my safety, risk my son’s safety, all because you say I can trust him. You know, you may have a point: twelve fifty isn’t enough. I’d say fifteen hundred is more realistic, wouldn’t you, Jimmy?”
Preston stared at her.
Kevles removed his glasses and folded them. “Ms. Lyon, I don’t think fifteen hundred dollars is a reasonable —”
“You’re right, you’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’d have to train him, he’d always be underfoot, he’d —”
“All right —”
“There’s no telling what he could break or —”
“All right, all right, I understand.” Kevles put his glasses back on. “I suppose fifteen hundred dollars isn’t all that unreasonable.”
Katherine almost smiled. “Good. Of course, I’ll have to run it past Eric, but we’ll see what we can do.”
Please, take anything you want. Please, but don’t —
“Augh!” Coleman cried, as if he’d been slugged in the gut. But no one had touched him. Not Harold Steiner who stood four feet away in the attorney/client room, not the guard who remained glued to his side. Neither had moved.
It was the picture of Melissa Steiner someone had set on the table that had doubled him over. A pretty girl. Auburn, shoulder-length hair, a smile bordering on mischievous. Coleman leaned on the table with both hands, trying to steady himself.
I’ve got a stereo upstairs, take it. Please —
Cold sweat broke out on his face. He continued breathing deeply, refusing to give in to the nausea and dizziness trying to overtake him. He didn’t recognize Melissa’s face. Except in his dreams, he never remembered his victims’ faces. But there were those eyes. Different in color and shape, yet somehow similar to his brother’s and Father Kennedy’s.
And her voice. You’re scaring me, please don’t —
As clear and real as if she were standing in the room with him. He hoped this was another dream. But he knew it was something new, something stronger.
“What’s wrong?” It was Steiner’s voice, far away in another world. “What’s happening?”
Coleman watched the beads of sweat falling from his face and splattering on the table beside the photograph. He had agreed to meet Steiner, not because he wanted to, but because he had to. He had to tell the man how sorry he was, that he now understood the unfathomable pain he had inflicted.
“Mr. Coleman.”
Of course the press would have a field day with it, but this wasn’t for the press. It was for Steiner. And, somehow, for himself.
“Mr. Coleman, what is wrong?”
Coleman nodded, but he wasn’t okay, not at all. Once again his senses were tightening, focusing. But not tightening and focusing on the present.
Please, I’ll do whatever you want, but please —
Coleman watched the sweat drip and splatter,
drip and splatter. But he could no longer look at the photograph. He no longer had to. Now he could see the eyes without looking at them. Lonely eyes. Begging for mercy.
He felt something in his right hand. It was still the edge of the table, but it wasn’t. It was a knife. Her knife. From the kitchen. And that sound. That irritating laughter of a TV sitcom. Mocking him, taunting him.
“Mr. Coleman…”
Please — if you want money —
He feels his left arm wrapping around her neck. He is standing behind her. His right hand suddenly jerks inward, toward her, hard, again and again. Now the gasping cries. Hysterical. Pleading, like the eyes. And the rage, the uncontrollable rage as his hand continues thrusting inward. But not rage at the girl. Rage at himself.
He continues stabbing, again and again, only now the girl is gone. Now he is stabbing himself. Now he feels each burning penetration of the knife, each slice and tear of his own flesh. Now he is crying out in her pain. He is in the attorney/client room, gripping the table, and he is back at her apartment in Omaha, jabbing the knife, but not into her. Now it is into his own chest, his own abdomen, again and again and again. Gasping in her anguish. Weeping.
Then the footsteps. His father’s, he is sure of it. Louder and louder. They thunder in his head. Just before he arrives they dissolve into another sound. Someone rapping on glass — the guard, signaling for assistance. He hears the door unlock, he hears voices, but the gasping cries in his head are too loud, his own weeping too overpowering.
Arms take his shoulders, leading him away. Other voices ask what is wrong. He cannot answer. It takes all of his effort just to breathe, to walk. He is in the hallway, tears blinding his eyes, making it impossible to see. Sobs of unbearable pain and remorse escape from his throat. Someone is swearing. It is Steiner. He can’t make out the words, but the man is not happy.
The meeting has been canceled.
