by John Hart
“Is that really what you came to talk about?”
I shook my head, staring into the whiskey. “Dad thinks he did it.”
“Maybe he did.”
I looked up. He was serious. “What is it with you cops?”
“What is with you kids? Your brother put two bullets in a biker’s leg. You saw him do it. He’s trafficking illegal weapons. Is murder such a stretch?”
“The murder of an innocent woman.”
“This is a discussion for your father.”
“He won’t talk about it.”
“Then be patient.”
“How, exactly? Jason’s my brother.”
Ken frowned more deeply, then stood and crossed to a collection of framed photographs. I was in some of them. So was my father. He stood for a long, reflective moment, and then lifted a frame from the shelf. “Did you know that I fought in Korea?”
“I did. I do.” So had my father.
“Eighth Army, Second Infantry Division, Ninth Infantry Regiment. That’s me on the end.” He handed me the frame. In the picture, a double row of young men faced the camera. Ken was grinning. They all were. “That was taken the day before we deployed. I was twenty-four years old, a newlywed, a recon sergeant. Most of the others were about your age.”
In the photo, Ken was wide and rawboned and lean, his face clean-shaven, the grin brash and self-assured.
He spoke as if reading my mind. “I wasn’t afraid of much.”
He took the picture back, and studied it with a distant expression. “By July of that year, we were on the Naktong River, not far from the city of Pusan. Ever heard of it?” I shook my head, and he shrugged. “Different war, different time. For us, though, it was about as real as real gets. North Koreans had crossed the thirty-eighth parallel and pushed us into a defensive line along the river. Fighting was constant, weeks of it, day and night, as bad as you can imagine. By August, we’d taken heavy casualties, and were short on everything: troops, supplies, even ammunition. I was a forward observer, tasked to monitor NKA movements. That put me way out front, usually on a hilltop, usually exposed. The terrain was rough on our side of the river, our lines too thin to deal with the incursions, the coordinated attacks. Some days, every foxhole had someone in it that was dead or dying. Rifle fire. Mortar rounds. Even hand to hand, at times. I got cut off more times than I can remember, me and my crew alone on one hilltop or another. Sometimes I’d see North Koreans coming over the river, thousands of them, this wave of humanity determined to kill every last one of us.
“You wonder if there’s a point. Here it is. Our battalion had nine forward observers, people like me. By the time October rolled around, I was the only one left alive. We learned later that those were the bloodiest weeks of the entire war, that nothing else even came close. Five thousand Americans killed, twelve hundred wounded, another thousand MIA. Hell, the South Koreans lost forty thousand.
“I saw more heroism in those days than most men see in a lifetime, and I saw the bad stuff, too, the way men turned coward or turned cruel. Of the thirty-six in that initial platoon, only four of us came back alive. One killed himself a year later, Charlie Green, a corporal, a Kentucky boy. James Rapp robbed a bank, pulled eight years of hard time, then got out, stole a car the same day, and drove into a phone pole. Some said it was intentional, another suicide. No one really knows. The third survivor was from California, Alex Chopin, a good kid, a little flaky but solid in a fight. After the war, he lived rough for a while in LA, then disappeared into some kind of commune up the ass end of Humboldt County. As for me, number four…” Ken sat, his eyes dark and distant. “I lost my wife. I struggled.”
“You said there was a point.”
“People change. That’s the point. They change in wartime most of all.”
“Do you really think he killed her?”
“I think it’s possible.”
I put down the glass, and rose to my feet, dry-mouthed.
“Sit down, Gibby.”
“I think you’ve said enough.”
“You don’t have the facts, son, not about this case or your brother or what war can do to a man.”
“So give them to me.”
“I told you, kid. It’s not my place.”
“He couldn’t have changed that much.”
“War and prison and drugs.” Ken reached for my untouched glass, poured the whiskey into his, and leaned back. “You do the math.”
* * *
At home much later, I stayed awake for hours, afraid that if I slept, I would dream of a river and mud, and small men come for killing. I pictured Ken on a windswept hill—this friend of my father who’d fought young, and lost some piece of himself. He’d known war, as had my brothers; and without meaning to, he’d put some of that war inside me.
The Jason I’d known.
Jason as he might now be.
I didn’t know what to believe, so I twisted and turned, and each time I drifted, I started awake. Eventually, though, I slept, and the dreams that came were not of war or pain or prison but of Becky Collins, who smiled in the sun, her eyes like blue flowers.
Have faith, she said. Life is beautiful.
I woke in a sweat, hoping she was right.
18
Detective French rose early and left the house before the sun had cleared the trees. He’d spent most of the night wrestling with thoughts of his son and murder and a dead girl’s cloudy eye. It looked bad for Jason: the photos of Tyra’s torture and death, the bloody scalpel taped to the back of his son’s dresser.
But still the doubts lingered.
Still, these images of the boy he’d raised.
Captain Martin had locked him out of the case, and word had gone down the line. Only Burklow had the balls to break ranks, and what he’d shared was not enough. French had not seen the knife or the photographs. He knew nothing about witnesses, forensics, the specifics of the autopsy results. Patience had been urged, and French, half-broken, had agreed.
But that was last night.
Like most in law enforcement, the medical examiner was an early riser, and was still at home when French parked the car and killed the engine. He hesitated because there were boundaries in the murder business—there had to be. Putting his uneasiness aside, he climbed out into the morning sunlight as a young man jogged past, and a kid on a bike flung papers. French waited until one landed in the ME’s yard, then picked it up: The New York Times, which was good.
Nothing local.
No mention of his son.
On the porch, he raised his hand to knock, but the door opened before he could. “Detective French. What are you doing here?”
“I brought your paper.” He tried to keep it light, but Malcolm Frye declined to return the smile. “I’m sorry, Mal. I know it’s early.”
“I can’t discuss the case with you.”
His reticence was understandable. Going against the captain’s orders would get any medical examiner in trouble, especially in a case as politically loaded as Jason’s. And Malcolm Frye wasn’t just any ME. He was the only black one in the city, no small accomplishment in a county that had only recently integrated its public schools. That made Malcolm an important part of the civil rights movement. He was visible. He had a lot to lose.
“He’s my son, Malcolm. I don’t know where else to turn.”
The moment stretched uncomfortably. Neither man would call the other a friend, but the respect had always been there: all the years, dozens of cases. The ME frowned, then softened. “You still drink coffee, don’t you?”
“Only in the mornings.”
“Coffee, then. Come on.” He led the way into a neat kitchen. “Two things first.” Malcolm poured the coffees. “If anyone asks, you were never here. Second, the autopsy file is at the office. Even were it here, I wouldn’t share it with you. That’s a line I can’t cross.”
“Hey, we’re just two guys talking.”
“All right, then.”
French had a thousand que
stions, but one rose first in his mind. “You’ve seen the scalpel recovered from Jason’s bedroom. Is it consistent with Tyra’s injuries?”
“With the more precise cuts, yes.”
“Would most scalpels be consistent?”
“Bear in mind that two blades were used on Tyra Norris, one very thin and incredibly sharp. It takes high-grade steel to hold that kind of edge. A scalpel is specifically engineered to that purpose. Telling one from another…” He made a face that meant probably not.
“And the blood on this particular scalpel?”
“It matches Tyra’s.”
“Do two blades mean a second cutter?”
“It means a second blade, something like a kitchen knife, nothing special, sharp enough but not surgical. Beyond that, we move into speculation.”
“At the scene, you said some cuts indicated a higher level of skill or knowledge. A corpsman, you thought. Maybe a med school dropout.”
“Yes, but again, that was off-the-cuff speculation.”
“Not enough to rule out my son?”
“I’m sorry, but no. Everything that led me to that initial impression could be learned in a book or on a battlefield or working on stolen cadavers. I can’t testify to a specific level of skill or training. Whoever did this had patience, a steady hand, and a general knowledge of anatomy.”
French stared through the window. Outside, the day was brighter: a high blue sky, the shadows rolling back. “Walk me through it. Front to back.”
The ME kept it clinical. The specifics. “In the end, she died from blood loss and mass, diffuse trauma. The murder took time.”
“How much time?”
“Hours. She suffered.”
French walked to the window, and peered out. “You have a background in psychology, don’t you?”
“Before medical school, I was a clinical psychologist.”
“Forensic, as I recall.”
“I worked with police departments, yes. Miami-Dade. Los Angeles.”
French pinched the bridge of his nose. He was about to leave the cop behind, and it was hard, losing that shell. “How does it happen, Malcolm? What makes someone capable?”
“Of torture like this?”
“The psychopathy.”
“Come, Detective, you know the answer as well as I.” The ME showed his pale, pink palms. “There are some killers we’ll never understand, even after trial and conviction and years of study. You won’t hear this term in clinical circles, but people like that are born wrong. We both know the names. We’ve read the cases. Perhaps one day we’ll understand that level of innate psychopathy, but right now, we don’t.”
“What about those who aren’t … born wrong?”
The ME rolled his shoulders. “Something in life makes them that way. Childhood trauma, abuse.”
“And if it’s not related to childhood?”
“Something violent, then. Something big.”
“Like war?”
“That depends on the person and the war.”
“A bad war. My son.”
“Ah, now I see.” The ME sipped his coffee, very intent. “How long did Jason serve?”
“A bit less than three full tours.”
“Was he physically injured?”
“Burned, shot, and stabbed.”
“Did he kill men in return?”
“Twenty-nine, at least. Would that be enough to change him, to make him capable?”
“Of murder like this?” The ME leaned back, and showed the same pink palms.
Maybe he had no answer to give.
Maybe none was needed.
* * *
Court opened at nine, and I was there early, watching from across the street. My father would use the secure entrance in the rear, but I wasn’t taking chances.
If he saw me, he’d stop me.
Leaning against a light pole, I tried to sort the people into groups. The lawyers were easy. They carried briefcases and files, and huddled with people that looked like clients. I knew enough about court to know they weren’t the killers or the rapists—they’d come later, shackled and under guard. What troubled me were the reporters. They stood by a line of news trucks, and I knew they were here for my brother. Details of Tyra’s death remained thin, but the rest of it made a hell of a story. Bikers. Guns. A cop’s kid.
“Jeez, look at these people.”
I turned at the voice, and found Chance at my right shoulder. “Why do you always sneak up on me like that?”
“Because you make it so easy.” He leaned against the other side of the pole, dipping his head at the crowd. “Those are people you never want to see late at night or moving in next door. Jesus. Look at them.” He pointed toward the crowd. “Hey, we know those guys.”
He meant the last group, and one I’d tried hardest to ignore: mothers, fathers, people who knew my family. “Moral support, I guess.”
“Don’t believe it for a second. They’re here for the show. Look at that one. He’s laughing. Fat bastard just told a joke.”
I watched the big man shake. He’d been my football coach in sixth grade.
“They’re opening the doors. Let’s go.”
Chance pulled me across the street, and we followed the crowd through double doors and into a long hall. I counted eight courtrooms. Almost everyone made their way to number six. I looked for my father, but didn’t see him.
“There, that’s a good spot.” Chance pointed at a crowded bench near the front. We took seats on the aisle, and I wondered if this was the same courtroom where Jason had made his plea and been sent away. I thought it was. It felt the same.
After a few minutes, an armed bailiff led the judge into the room, waiting for him to ascend the bench, then calling court to order. “All rise.” People stood, and then sat, and I thought how like church it was, the same rustle and sigh, the roomful of sinners staring up.
“Good morning.” The judge settled like a king on his throne. “We have a lot of cases on the docket, so I’ll try to move things along as quickly as possible. Bailiff.” He gestured, and a second bailiff unlocked a door so other armed men could bring out the prisoners slated to face the most serious charges of the day. A line of them emerged, all in orange jumpsuits, all cuffed. Jason was the last out and the only one in full chains.
“There’s your old man.”
Chance nudged me, and I saw my father beyond the bar in the left corner, talking with an older man. The lawyer, I thought.
“Madam Clerk, call the first case.”
A woman to the judge’s left read from the docket. “Case number 72 CR 1402, State v. Jason French.”
A bailiff led my brother to the defense table, and the attorney left my father’s side to meet him there. “Good morning, Your Honor. Alexander Fitch, for the defense.”
“Mr. Fitch, nice to see you in my court.” The judge glanced at the prosecutor’s table. “Is the State ready to proceed?”
A young woman stood, but before she could reply, a small man rose from a nearby bench. “Brian Gladwell for the State, Your Honor.”
He moved behind the prosecutor’s table, and the judge frowned, perplexed. “Not that you are unwelcome in this court, but we rarely have the pleasure of the district attorney himself on matters as perfunctory as a first appearance.”
“I have my reasons, Your Honor.”
“The privilege is yours. Madam Clerk.”
The clerk read the charges. I missed a few, but the big ones stood out. Attempted murder in the second degree, felony weapons trafficking, felony fleeing to elude arrest, felonious assault, assault with intent …
She kept going, but I kept my eyes on the DA. Fine lines creased the side of his neck, but that’s not what I noticed first.
He was sweating.
He was pale.
When the clerk finished, the judge addressed Jason’s attorney. “Mr. Fitch, how does your client plead?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
“Preferences for probable
cause?”
“Only that you schedule the hearing as soon as convenient for the court. We intend to refute these charges and would like to do so at the earliest possible time.”
“Mr. DA?”
“We anticipate further charges, Your Honor. As much time as you can give us would be welcome.”
The judge drummed his fingers. He knew about Tyra Norris. Everyone did. “What kind of charges might you bring in the future?”
“Felony kidnapping. Murder in the first degree. The investigation is ongoing.”
The crowd around us stirred, the sound like a rustle of feathers. The judge consulted his calendar, and offered a date fourteen days in the future. “I assume that’s acceptable to all parties.”
“There’s one last thing, Your Honor.”
“Mr. DA?”
The district attorney cleared his throat and, for an instant, glanced at someone in the courtroom. “Ah, Your Honor…” He cleared his throat again; shuffled some papers on the table. “The State requests that the defendant be remanded to the authorities at Lanesworth Prison.”
The judge was clearly puzzled. “On what grounds?”
“Ah, safekeeping, Your Honor. After consultation with authorities at the local jail.”
“In my experience, Mr. DA, safekeeping orders are for defendants too sickly or frail to manage outside the types of medical facilities available at fully staffed and funded state institutions. Are you suggesting that Mr. French is too unwell to survive two weeks at the local jail?”
“Actually, Your Honor, I’m suggesting he’s too dangerous.”
Another murmur stirred the courtroom. The judge waited for it to settle. “Perhaps you could explain.”
“Your Honor, the defendant served three combat tours in Vietnam, a time in which he learned to kill and do it well. Many here have heard the stories—”
“Rumors, Your Honor.” Jason’s lawyer interrupted. “Unadulterated and irrelevant.”