by Andrew Gross
And then Charlie was stabbing him too.
“Stop, stop!” I cried. Over and over. “Stop!”
My father looked at me. Helpless. Like, Do something, Jay . . .
“Stop!”
I woke up, and I was sweating. Blinking and disoriented.
My cell phone was ringing.
I found it on the night table and looked. Sherwood was on the line. My heart beat like a metronome on speed. It took a second for me to regain my composure. To realize in relief that it had all been just a dream.
I put the phone to my ear and answered. “Yeah, Sherwood, it’s me.”
He didn’t even say hello. “You got a dollar on you, doc?”
“A dollar? You woke me up to ask me that?” I rolled over and dug into my khakis. “Is this a joke? Yeah, I have one here. Why? Things hurting that bad?”
“Flip it over,” the detective said without responding. “To the back.”
“Flip it over . . . ?” I said, still a little fuzzy. I stared at the familiar words, In God We Trust. The bold, large “ONE,” spelled out. “Okay.”
“Now fold it in half. What do you see?”
“What do I see? An eagle. The seal of the United States. What am I supposed to see?”
“No,” he said, serious now. “The other half.”
Testily I blew out a breath and did what he asked me. “I’m really not into games like this. A pyramid,” I said. “A bunch of Latin . . .”
Then I saw it. What I was staring at. The metronome came to a stop. My whole body did.
“I see an eye!”
“That’s what the Vegas ME pulled out of Thomas Greenway’s stomach during his autopsy in 1988. A crumpled dollar bill. Or half a dollar. Like the one you’re looking at now.”
“Oh my God . . .”
“You were right, doc. All along. So what do you do when everything seems to point in one direction and you want to know how it all connects?”
“I don’t know. You’re playing games with me again, Sherwood. Go to the source?”
“Yeah, doc, let’s go to the source. Where it all connects. You’re not heading home on me again, are you?”
“No.” I sat up, my blood surging. “Of course not.”
“Good. You wanted your case reopened . . . I don’t know how the hell it happened or where in God’s name it’s going to lead, but consider it reopened. I’m in now, doc. I’m all in!”
I felt alive with validation.
“And the source is where?” I asked, the hair rising on my arms. But I already thought I knew.
“The source? And I figured you for a smart guy, doc. The source is Russell Houvnanian. I thought maybe after all these years you’d like to renew your acquaintance with him.”
PART III
Chapter Forty-Five
The loud thwhack-thwhack-thwhack of the helicopter drummed in my ears as the aircraft descended over the dense redwood forest near the California-Oregon border.
Sherwood pointed out the window.
Cut into the sea of green was a patch of cleared land, with a group of interconnected white buildings, almost like an X carved out of the remote forest.
Pelican Bay.
My heart tightened from the anticipation of soon being face-to-face with the psychotic killer who had been a part of my youth.
Pelican Bay was California’s most remote and secure prison, housing only Level Four offenders, the worst of the worst. To be sent there you had to either be convicted of a particularly violent crime or have earned your way through habitually violent behavior at the state’s other penal facilities.
The centerpiece of Pelican Bay was the pod of four intersecting two-story halls known as the SHU, the Security Housing Unit, the giant X that I spotted from the sky. Russell Houvnanian was the SHU’s most celebrated resident. It had essentially been built for him. He had been transferred there, to the isolation of the remote forest, in 1989, after spending his first fourteen years incarcerated at San Quentin.
The copter came down on a landing pad on the prison grounds. The propeller whirred loudly and came to a stop. The landing steps dropped down and we stepped out, squinting into the bright sun.
“Detective Sherwood,” someone yelled. A guard in a khaki uniform came up as we stepped onto the tarmac. “Sergeant Ray Tobin. I’m supposed to escort you over to the admin center. To Assistant Warden Hutchins.”
“Thanks.”
We stepped into a large golf cart–like vehicle, the guard hopping in at the wheel, and it was only a short drive over to the white, two-story administration building. We went in through the main entrance, where we were directed through a law-enforcement security checkpoint and put through a metal detector.
Sherwood checked his weapon with a clerk there.
“The AW is up here,” Sergeant Tobin said, leading us up a flight of stairs, past a grid of offices and the secretarial desks.
A nameplate that read ROBERT HUTCHINS, ASSISTANT WARDEN was affixed to the door.
His secretary asked us if we wanted anything; we both asked for some water. Then she took us in.
Bob Hutchins was a trim, pleasant-looking man with a long forehead and hair closely cropped around the sides. He stood up at his desk to greet us. He had a military bearing. In fact, the pictures on the wall of him with a bunch of brass confirmed that he had once been a sergeant major in the military police. He held out his hand. “Gentlemen . . .
“Good to see you again, Don,” he said to Sherwood. Years back, Sherwood had been the arresting detective of a couple of high-profile inmates who had ended up there, and the two had collaborated on the convicts’ parole hearings.
He introduced me.
“So you’re up here for a tête-à-tête with Russ,” Hutchins said. “He’s like royalty up here. Our longest-running inmate. And one who’s not likely to leave.”
Hutchins patted what appeared to be a prisoner file. “We’ve got him sequestered in a holding cell for you over in SHU A. Try to keep in mind, he may not resemble exactly what you might expect. Not many requests to see him these days, and he rarely accedes to the few that come. You ought to consider yourself lucky.”
Sherwood glanced my way. “I have a feeling the good doctor here should take the bow on that one. Apparently they’ve met.”
“I was just a kid,” I said. “He and my brother came up to my father’s house looking to raise money to cut a record. Apparently, my brother had been living on the Riorden Ranch. This was around 1972. A year before it all happened . . .”
The warden nodded, shaking his head, then glanced back at Sherwood. “You say this is related to a string of new killings? That they may have some connection to the original case?”
“A possibility . . . ,” Sherwood said. “Almost two weeks ago, Dr. Erlich’s nephew was found dead at the bottom of the Morro Bay Rock, in what we first deemed to be a suicide, but are now looking into further. Last week, a retired police detective from Santa Barbara was murdered as well, who had played a role in the Houvnanian investigation.”
Hutchins pursed his lips judiciously. “Anything else linking them?”
“Both bodies were found with similar items on them at the time of death,” Sherwood said. “And we also found out they had recently been in touch.”
“I guess it could always be some kind of copycat crime.” The warden opened the file. “Houvnanian doesn’t have a lot of contact with the outside world these days. Any calls, and incoming or outgoing mail, are closely monitored. Have been since he first came here. And, like I said, he may not resemble what you may recall. He’s basically lived in a five-by-eight cell for the past thirty-seven years. He gets thirty minutes of exercise a day, which for him is just supervised pacing back and forth in the hall outside his cell. He’s rarely even seen the sun in years. His reasoning abilities, such as they ever were”—the warden smiled—“have deteriorated over the years. We have a name for it up here—‘cabin fever.’
“Mostly he just reads—the Bible, Greek philosophy, a bunch o
f stuff on physics, I’m told. Listens to music. He really doesn’t even belong here anymore, it’s just that . . .” Hutchins smiled. “Well, he’s Russell Houvnanian. No one’s about to transfer him out. He’ll be fully restrained when you meet with him—standard procedure. And if you would, please refrain from handing him anything without first passing it by the guards. Ready?”
Sherwood and I both nodded.
The secretary came in with our waters.
“I wish I had something stronger to offer you, gentlemen.” Hutchins stood up. “Take a breath. You’re about to enter Ground Zero for the human race.”
Chapter Forty-Six
We walked down two flights of stairs through a secure glass door leading to a long underground tunnel.
It was perhaps a two-hundred-yard walk to the prominent white X I had noticed from the air. The corridor forked at the end. Hutchins directed us to the left, through a door that read A BLOCK. THE SHU.
We climbed a flight of stairs and were buzzed in through another security door. This time it was manned by two khaki-clad guards, billy clubs attached to their belts along with firearms. My heart accelerated with the knowledge we had entered a very dangerous place.
“Every one of these inmates has a history of being a violent offender.” Assistant Warden Hutchins took us down the hall. “And in most cases, they’re already incarcerated for life, so there’s nothing for them to lose except privileges for being rowdy. I’ve had Houvnanian brought to a holding room on the block. Rudy . . .” Hutchins waved hello to an officer. “As I said, he’ll be fully restrained and there’ll be two guards with you at all times. You can ask him anything you want, but again, there can be no physical contact or exchange of materials.”
Sherwood nodded.
We turned down a sterile white hallway. It looked more like some futuristic genomic lab than a prison. The warden stopped at a secure door with a small glass window. Interview Room 1. A guard was stationed outside. “Warden.” We stood there for a second, waiting.
“In any case, gentlemen,” Hutchins said, opening the door for us, “I hope you find what it is you’re here to learn.”
Sherwood and I stepped in.
It was a tight, narrow room, no more than eight feet by eight. There was a cool, fluorescent light on the ceiling, nothing on the walls. Two guards stood off to the side, and neither nodded our way. I found myself transfixed by the slight man seated at a table in the center. A man whose iconic face rushed back to me, like a child’s nightmare reappearing in his adult years.
At least, a shadow of that man.
Houvnanian was older, grayer, his cheekbones narrow and wan, his hair shaved close to his head, boot-camp style. Sunken, sad-looking eyes. His skin was sort of a parchment gray—he was more ghost than man—and he was dressed in a yellow jumpsuit. He looked up at us only briefly, his shoulders slightly hunched, palms flat on the tabletop, his wrists bound with manacles. In a million years, I would never have recognized him as the long-haired, wild-eyed beast I recalled from photos and from my youth.
Until he spoke.
His voice was calm and controlled, with a kind of friendly drawl, exactly how I remembered. He looked up, eyes bright but unthreatening, and his mouth inched into a knowing grin. “Not what you might have been expecting, huh, gentlemen?”
Sherwood motioned for me to sit. We lowered ourselves into the metal chairs, directly across the table. The convict’s gaze shifted on us from side to side, almost as if he was trying to put us at ease.
Sherwood started in, “Thanks for seeing us, Mr. Houvnanian. My name is Don Sherwood and I’m a detective, senior grade, with the coroner’s office down in San Luis Obispo County.”
Houvnanian nodded back affably. “Detective . . .”
“This is Dr. Jay Erlich . . .”
Houvnanian fixed on me, bunching his thin lips, as if impressed. “Is the doctor with the coroner’s office as well?” His voice was controlled, slightly hoarse. I didn’t know what he remembered and what he didn’t.
“No. Dr. Erlich is from New York. But he’s the reason we’ve come to see you today. Nearly two weeks ago, his twenty-one-year-old nephew, Evan, was killed in Morro Bay. He either jumped or fell, but in any case was found dead at the base of the large rock in the bay there.”
“Morro Bay? I’ve seen that rock somewhere,” Houvnanian said, nodding. “I’m sorry to hear about that, doctor, but doesn’t the Bible tell us, ‘Go forth and stand upon the rock before the Lord, and behold a great and strong wind rent the mountains and broke them into a thousand pieces’?”
He grinned. “It may surprise you, but I spend a lot of my time reading my Bible,” he said, shoulders hunched. “The trouble is, the verse goes on to say that the Lord wasn’t even in that wind that rose up or in the earthquake that ripped the rock to shreds. Which begs the question—one I’ve been trying to answer for years now . . . Just where do you think the Lord is?” He shrugged, let out kind of a mischievous hee-hee. “Or you, doctor?” He looked up at me. “You’re a smart man. Any ideas?”
I couldn’t tell if he remembered me or even my name. I just looked him in the eye, my skin crawling.
“Well,” the killer said, “I think that’s part of what you came to find out. Am I wrong? Because that’s what your nephew was probably looking for up there. I’ve found in my life that death is a strong motivator for self-enlightenment, though it’s cost me some for the gain.” He lifted his wrists for us and jangled his chains.
“Mr. Houvnanian, we’d like to show you a few pictures,” Sherwood said, redirecting him back to the topic, “and ask you some questions, if that’s okay.”
“By all means, gentlemen.” The convict nodded. “I’ve got nowhere to go.”
Sherwood opened his file and glanced up at one of the guards, who inspected the contents, nodding okay. Sherwood removed a photo of Walter Zorn. “Do you recognize this man, Mr. Houvnanian?”
The convict’s face edged into a thin smile. “Well, I may be the scourge of man and a lunatic, some say, but my memory’s still fine. The man had the mark of the devil on his face even back then. But he was only doing his job. Root out those who would betray us. Break us apart. Jesus knew what to look for, didn’t he, gentlemen? ‘If you see a false prophet before you, it’s only a reflection of your own sins . . .’ ”
“His name was Walter Zorn, correct?” Sherwood stared at him. “He was one of the detectives who prepared the case against you. And who aided in your conviction. Isn’t that right?”
“If you say so, I guess he is.” Houvnanian nodded uncontentiously. “And, please, call me Russ.”
Sherwood took out a second photograph and laid it on the table. This was the police photographer’s photo of Zorn’s body: eyes bulging, face twisted in horror, strangled.
Houvnanian barely reacted. He only lifted his gaze ever so slightly to meet Sherwood’s, just enough to show him a slight smile. “Well, I guess even Rome burned in the end, didn’t it, so there’s hope for us all. So how did the bastard die?”
“He was strangled. But the police found something very unusual on his body.” Sherwood put out the next photo, from the autopsy, of the knife marks on Zorn’s tongue. “I’m wondering if you can make out what that is, Mr. Houvnanian.”
“What what is, detective?” the amused convict asked.
“Those marks. Underneath the victim’s tongue. An odd place for a wound, wouldn’t you agree, sir? Especially for someone who was strangled.”
Houvnanian leaned forward and squinted at the photo. “Excuse me, gents, but my eyes just aren’t what they were. Glaucoma. The medical plan’s one of the real let-downs in here . . . But as to your question . . . they kind of look like knife marks to me, detective. Right? I have a familiarity with knife marks, you may remember,” he said, looking up and grinning.
“They do.” Sherwood kept his composure, but I was having a hard time keeping mine.
“And what would you think those knife marks resemble, Mr. Houvnanian, if you h
ad to say?” Sherwood looked at him. “I mean, Russ?”
The convicted killer hunched over the photo again. He looked up and shrugged.
“To me, it sort of resembles a human eye,” Sherwood said. “What do you think? One that’s wide open.”
I wasn’t sure who was playing with whom here. Houvnanian continued to stare at the photo a while. Then suddenly he nodded, his eyes widening. “You know, I think you’re right, detective. It does kind of look like an eye. If you see it in a certain way. And even the blindest man will see the truth”—he grinned—“when it’s the one truth. The real truth! Do you know that saying, Dr. Erlich? You know, I once knew someone named Erlich back in the day. As a man of science, what’s your view? To me, it’s why we’re all here. To see the truth. When it’s exposed to us. When it’s time.”
I balled my hands and gritted my teeth, and said back, “Yes, I guess I believe that too.”
“So then, Russ, what do you make of this?” Sherwood said.
He took out a plastic bag containing the plastic hologram found on Evan’s body. “This was what we found on Dr. Erlich’s nephew’s body. At the bottom of the rock.” Sherwood jiggled it in front of the killer.
One way showing the eye closed; the other way, wide open.
“I’d say, the eyes have it!” Houvnanian stared back at him, cackling with amusement at his own joke.
“I’d say it was all just some sort of weird coincidence myself”—Sherwood shrugged—“if I actually believed in coincidences. And if we hadn’t come upon this . . .”
He brought out the Las Vegas medical examiner’s photo of the dollar bill that had been crumpled up inside Thomas Greenway’s stomach at the time he was drowned. “No doubt you do remember Thomas Greenway, Mr. Houvnanian? Russ? He had something to do with you being here as well, no?”
Houvnanian lifted his hands, chains jangling. “The wind and the rain, detective, that’s what I keep asking. If it can cleave a mountain into pieces, it can surely rend the heart of an evil man. Except, God wasn’t in the wind, I’m reminded. Was he, doctor? I’m still trying to figure out where.”