Vendors stood in a long, narrow space behind the bar where the customers shuffled up to place their orders. Behind the vendors were soft-drink machines, toasters that kept the pretzels hot, and rotating ovens that constantly grilled the meat. As soon as he got to the stand, one of the female vendors smiled at him, and Ali found he was smiling too. Women had always been a sore subject with him. He was a virgin who believed subconsciously that any attempt to have a girlfriend would only result in rejection and disappointment.
“Hi, Ali, how did it go today?” Ann O’Hearn asked cheerfully.
“Good,” he said as he lifted the empty tray over his neck and set it on the concrete floor.
Ann was the personification of everyone Ali Bashar had been trained to hate. In the remote mountain village where he had been raised, the teachers in his all-male madrassas had drummed into him that his only concerns in this life were the Koran, Sharia law, and the glorification of jihad. O’Hearn was a blond, blue-eyed female, she was a Catholic and therefore an infidel, and she was not deferential to men. Yet try as he might, he could not hate her. He actually liked her.
“You must be happy,” Ali said.
“You mean because the Redskins won?”
“Of course.”
O’Hearn laughed and it sounded to Ali like bells pealing.
“I couldn’t care less about football. I work here to pay my tuition. I’m into soccer.”
“You are?” Ali had answered, surprised that an American girl would be interested in a game most Americans found boring.
“Sure. I’ve been playing soccer since I was a kid. I’m on my college team now.”
“I too play soccer, but we call it football in my country.”
“I know that. What position?”
“Goalie,” Ali answered.
“Whoa. You’ll never catch me in goal. That’s the toughest position on the field.”
Ali blushed and shrugged. “I enjoy playing in the goal.” He did not tell her that none of the other children in the village wanted to play that position. On the rare occasions he was included in the village games, goalie was the only position he was given.
“I don’t know how you stand the pressure. And you’re always the goat if your team loses.”
One of Ali’s jobs was to help clean up after the game. He and Ann continued to talk about soccer until their work was done and the crowd had cleared out. Ali rode the bus to the employee lot with Ann. When they got to the lot, Ann smiled and said, “See you at the next game.”
Ali smiled too, and it was not a duplicitous smile aimed at creating a false confidence in someone he wished to betray. To his surprise, it was a genuine smile of friendship. Then Ali remembered that Ann had said she’d see him at the next game. As soon as her back was to him, Ali stopped smiling. He did like Ann O’Hearn, and that made him sad, because she would die a horrible death if his mission succeeded, and his mission would succeed because it was blessed by Allah.
Chapter Fifteen
Millie slept in fits and starts the night before the hearing on the motions in Clarence’s case. She was up before her alarm went off, exhausted, her stomach in knots. All she could handle for breakfast was tea and toast, but moments after she ate, she rushed into the bathroom, bent over the toilet bowl, and threw up. When she tried to straighten up, she felt light-headed and had to sit on the floor, paralyzed by fear.
Millie squeezed her eyes shut and imagined what Clarence would say if he were sitting beside her on the cold bathroom tiles. He would tell her that there was nothing to worry about, that their plan could not fail. But was it foolproof? Would she bring him down? She had no confidence that she could carry out her part of the plan. She was certain that she would blunder and the plot would unravel.
If Clarence were with her, he would whisper, “Have faith,” in that self-assured way that made Millie believe she could do anything when she was with him. But she wasn’t with him now, and she was terrified that she would be caught, disbarred, disgraced, and sent to prison.
Millie’s head fell into her hands. She took deep breaths, but they didn’t help. She couldn’t do it. She was too frightened.
Then she thought about what would happen to Clarence if her fear caused her to abandon him. He would die. It was that simple. Her cowardice would kill him. Clarence had explained how the state had stacked the cards against him. He had convinced her that no matter how brilliant she was in court, he would be convicted and sentenced to death. If she didn’t execute their plan, the man she loved would die, and it would be her fault.
Millie struggled to her feet and staggered to the sink. She rinsed her mouth and splashed cold water on her face. Then she straightened up, squared her shoulders, and took slow, deep breaths. When her composure returned, Millie went into the bedroom and dressed for court. Then she put the thick, older model cell phone she had found in a pawn shop in her purse. Last night, she had taken out the phone’s innards and replaced them. If she could get the cell phone past the metal detector at the courthouse, Clarence would go free, and they would spend the rest of their lives together. If she failed, her life as she knew it would be over.
Clarence had instructed Millie to park on the street as close to the courthouse as possible. After she parked, Millie drew a detailed map of the car’s location and wrote a description of her car, including its license plate number, for Clarence had never seen it.
The Multnomah County Courthouse had been the largest courthouse on the West Coast when it was completed in 1914, and the eight-story concrete building took up an entire block in downtown Portland between Southwest Main and Salmon and Southwest Fourth and Fifth avenues. As Millie drew closer to the courthouse, she paused to see if there were any reporters waiting in ambush. She spotted vans from several local television stations, but none of the faces that had become familiar to her since the reversal in Clarence’s case had made her famous. She assumed that the reporters would be waiting outside the courtroom.
Millie entered the courthouse and stood in the shorter security line reserved for attorneys, court personnel, judges, and police officers. As she inched toward the metal detector, doubts assailed her again. She was weak-kneed and light-headed when she finally got to the head of the line. A stack of plastic trays stood on a table in front of the metal detector. Millie took her keys, her change, and the cell phone out of her attaché case, put them in the tray, and passed the tray around the metal detector to a guard. Then she took off her coat and put it and the attaché on the conveyor belt. The guard barely looked at the contents of the tray because her attention was focused on Millie as she walked through the metal detector. Millie went through without setting off the alarm. Then she put on her coat, put the cell phone, change, and keys back in her briefcase, and walked up the stairs at a natural pace, even though she wanted to run.
When Millie reached the second floor, she found the ladies’ room. As soon as she locked herself in a stall, she started to shake. She bent forward and rested her elbows on her thighs. It took an effort to keep from crying with relief, but she didn’t want to ruin her makeup. She knew Clarence would be so proud of her. She’d done it. She had gotten through security.
When Millie regained her composure, she took the cell phone out of her purse and smacked the casing against the side of the toilet until it cracked. Inside the hollowed-out cell phone was a gun. When Clarence told her about it, Millie had trouble believing it existed, but it did: a .22 Magnum Mini-Revolver that held five bullets but was so small that it fit in her hand and looked like a toy.
Millie slid the revolver inside the crotch of her panties and rearranged her clothing. When she stood up, the metal felt odd and cool against her skin. Millie left the stall. No one else was in the restroom. She took a few steps to get used to walking with the gun in her underwear. When she was comfortable, Millie left the ladies’ room and walked down to the ground floor and around to the back of the courthouse to an alcove near the door that opened onto Fifth Avenue. Inside the alcove was a
n elevator that went up to the courthouse jail where prisoners with court appearances were held.
Millie checked her watch. Clarence’s court appearance was scheduled for 9:00. At 8:30 Millie pressed a button on the intercom attached to the wall. A disembodied voice asked her business, and she told the jailer she was Clarence Little’s attorney. Moments later, the elevator took her up to the jail. She waited in a narrow hall for a guard to escort her into a room similar to the noncontact visiting room at the prison. Glass separated her from Clarence. At Clarence’s insistence, Millie had gotten a judge to order that Clarence be allowed to wear a suit and tie to court appearances.
“You look more like a lawyer than I do,” Millie joked to ease the tension that threatened to paralyze her.
Clarence smiled. “And you look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” Millie answered nervously.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes.”
As they spoke, Millie hiked up her dress. She took the miniature gun out of her panties and palmed it.
Millie and Clarence engaged in small talk while they anxiously waited for a jailer to end the meeting so Clarence could be escorted to court. Millie felt faint when the jailer unlocked the door behind Clarence and led him out. She opened her door and waited. Two guards handcuffed Clarence and walked him to the elevator. They made no objection when Millie asked to ride down to the fifth floor with her client. The elevator door opened and Clarence stepped to the rear. Millie pressed against him and passed him the gun. One guard stood facing the door. The other stood next to Clarence but slightly in front of him. As soon as the elevator door closed, Clarence raised his hands and shot the nearest guard in the back of the head.
The tiny gun made a popping sound that would not have attracted much attention in a large room but sounded hard and horribly loud in the confined space. Millie gasped as the jailer slid down the wall. The other guard turned. Clarence pressed the gun between his eyes and squeezed the trigger. There was no room to fall and the guard lurched against Millie. She screamed.
“What have you done?” Millie asked.
“The key,” Clarence commanded. “Quick, Millie. We only have a few moments.”
Millie had seen the guard put the handcuff keys in his front pocket after he handcuffed Clarence. The guard was pressed against her. She fought back a strong urge to throw up as she groped in his pocket. Blood was flowing from the wound between his eyes and she had to contort her body to keep it from getting on her dress.
“Good girl,” Clarence said when Millie unlocked his cuffs. The elevator shuddered to a stop on the fifth floor. Clarence found the button that kept the elevator door shut and jammed it in. Millie stared at the dead men.
“You said no one would get hurt,” she said, her voice breaking.
“It was us or them, Millie, and I chose us. It was the only way we could be together. Now we have to move fast. Where is your car?”
Millie was horrified by what she’d just seen, and she didn’t trust herself to speak. So she took the map with the location and the license plate number out of her attaché case and held it out to Clarence with a trembling hand.
“Did you put my change of clothes in the trunk?” Clarence asked. Millie nodded.
“Give me your car keys.”
Millie handed Clarence the keys, and he put the keys and the gun in his pocket. He looked sad. “Here comes the hard part. Come to me.”
Millie turned her back to Clarence. She was shaking.
“We’ll be together soon,” he said.
“Will it hurt?”
“No, dearest. I’ll be gentle. It will be quick, and you’ll just pass out. I have to do this so they don’t suspect you helped me.”
Millie closed her eyes and felt Clarence’s arm encircle her throat. She was frightened. Then Clarence kissed her ear and said, “I love you, Millie.”
She tried to smile, but she was too tense. Then she remembered that they were going to be together forever. She imagined palm trees, a warm, gentle breeze, a pearl white beach, and a sea so blue that the scene looked like a picture postcard. Then the choke hold tightened and she panicked.
Millie tried to speak but her larynx was being crushed. She clawed at her true love’s arms, but the hold didn’t ease. Fear flashed through her. Have I made a terrible mistake? Millie thought, moments before she died.
Chapter Sixteen
Every day on death row was mind-numbingly similar. The lack of intellectual stimulation had been torture for a man with Clarence Little’s IQ, so Clarence had distracted himself for large parts of each day with mental reenactments of the slow torture and ultimate death of his playthings. Clarence never thought of the women he killed as victims. Victims were human beings. He thought of Winona Bedford, Carol Poole, and the other women as toys he used to act out his sexual fantasies.
Clarence had felt intense pleasure and an explosive sexual release whenever his playthings screamed or pleaded for mercy or died. Strangely he did not experience sexual pleasure while he was strangling Millie Reston. Maybe that was because he found her repulsive. He actually wondered if putting Millie down wasn’t a humanitarian act. The poor simpleton had no life and had been so easy to manipulate. He didn’t even have to waste a bullet on her. He shook his head in wonder. She was really like a cow in a slaughterhouse, following instructions without a thought as she was led to the abattoir.
Clarence marveled at the fact that she was so blinded by love that she hadn’t thought about how she was going to explain the gun. Millie had to have known that Clarence would be searched thoroughly before he was brought to court. She was the only person who could have smuggled the gun into the courthouse. She would have been asked to take a lie detector test, which she would have failed. If she had refused to take the test, her refusal would have confirmed the suspicions of the police. And Millie was weak. Eventually she would have cracked. Then she would have been arrested, disbarred, and put in prison. Clarence honestly believed that putting an end to Millie’s pathetic existence had been one of the few good deeds he had ever performed.
Clarence opened the elevator door and stepped out into the alcove on the fifth floor. Then he peeked into the back hall. There were a few people in it, but he didn’t think he would attract attention in a business suit, carrying Millie’s attaché case.
Next to the alcove was a little-used set of stairs. Clarence didn’t meet anyone on the way down, but he discovered that the stairs were blocked off below the second floor. He nudged open the door to the second floor. His luck held. There were very few people in the corridor. Clarence walked to the end of the rear hallway and turned right into the corridor that ran parallel to Salmon Street. Then he turned right again and headed down the marble stairs to the courthouse lobby. He was in luck again. Most people took the elevator, so there were few people using the stairs. They were either engaged in conversation or focused on their own problems, and no one gave him a second look.
The front door came into view. Clarence headed for it, keeping his head down so it would be difficult to see his face. Seconds later, Clarence Little was breathing fresh air for the first time in a long time.
Millie’s car was exactly where the map said it would be. Clarence slid behind the wheel and breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t home free, but he was damn close. He left the parking spot and headed for the I–5 bridge that crossed the Columbia River into Washington.
Clarence assumed there would soon be an APB out for Millie’s vehicle. Just before he reached the bridge, he drove off I–5 into the Jantzen Beach shopping center and parked in the middle of a crowded row in the center of the large lot. Until someone discovered that the car was abandoned, the police would believe he was driving it.
Two large SUVs flanked Millie’s vehicle and shielded him from view. He took the clothes Millie had bought for him out of the trunk. They were on a wire hanger, and there was $1,000 in cash in a wallet in one of the pockets. He changed into jeans, a flannel shirt, and a leather j
acket before donning a Seattle Mariners baseball cap. He pulled the bill down before wandering around the parking lot until he found a car to steal. He used the wire hanger to break in and was back on the road to Seattle twenty minutes after he’d turned off the highway.
It took a little under three hours to drive from Portland to Seattle. Once he was in the city, Clarence planned to ditch the stolen car and get a room in a cheap motel. Then he would withdraw the money he kept in several Seattle banks in accounts he had set up under aliases. He hadn’t lied to Millie about the money. He was well off financially. There had been an inheritance, and his engineering firm had done well. He also had several passports under different names in a safe-deposit box. He would lie low until the initial furor died down. Then it was off to South America to visit a plastic surgeon who asked no questions if you could pay his fee. And then . . . ? Then there would be a world of possibilities. His priority after he was sure he was safe would be to buy an isolated house. In it he would construct a secret room where he could entertain. Spanish was a more melodious language than English, and Clarence wondered if the screams of Latin women would sound different from the screams of his American pets. He smiled as he contemplated answering that question.
Chapter Seventeen
Keith Evans had been born and raised in Nebraska and probably would have spent his life there if it hadn’t been for a lucky break. He was a twenty-eight-year-old detective on the Omaha police force when he arrested a serial killer who had run circles around an FBI task force. The agent-in-charge had been so impressed by the deductions that had led the young detective to discover the killer’s identity that he convinced Keith to apply to become an FBI agent.
Keith saw a whole new world opening up to him when he started the course at Quantico, but he never duplicated the Sherlockian performance that had led him to the FBI. His subsequent successes were achieved with old-fashioned police work that involved long hours at the office or in the field and large blocks of time away from his wife. Four years after he became an agent, Keith’s wife filed for divorce, and he found himself living alone in a sterile apartment in Maryland.
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