Benefit of the Doubt

by Neal Griffin

  “Open up, turnkey,” McKenzie called out, waving the transport orders he held. “I’m here to drive Sawyer to the courtroom.”

  McKenzie recognized Corporal Reynolds when he looked up from his position in the control booth. He’d dealt with him a few times before. Uppity black bastard was his recollection. Word had it he was the one who had arranged for Alex to be placed in protective custody. McKenzie also heard this Reynolds stud was tight with Suarez. Go figure, he thought. Dark meat goes for its own kind, I guess.

  “Have a seat, Detective,” he said politely enough. “The prisoner is already being brought to the control booth for transportation.”

  “Thank ya, son. I’m much obliged.” McKenzie bowed dramatically and used a southern drawl.

  Darnell glared through the Plexiglas. “I said, have a seat.”

  A few moments later a uniformed guard emerged with Alex Sawyer handcuffed and in leg irons.

  McKenzie looked Alex over with indifference. “You can take off the cuffs. I don’t think Mrs. Sawyer is going to give me any trouble, are you, Alex?”

  When she saw McKenzie, Alex stopped walking. “I’ll go you one better, McKenzie. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  Corporal Reynolds looked at Alex from the control booth. He picked up a phone and spoke briefly, then turned to McKenzie.

  “The cuffs are standard, Detective,” he said. “Inmate Sawyer is to be cuffed at the wrists and leg irons applied anytime she is not in the facility.”

  McKenzie snapped, “I know the procedures. I’m just telling you we don’t need the cuffs. Take them off her. Now.”

  Corporal Reynolds was calm but firm. “The cuffs stay on, Detective.”

  Alex repeated, “I’m not going anywhere with him.” She looked at the man in the control booth. “Corporal Reynolds, I want to see your boss. This man has come to my cell; he’s threatened me. I will not go anywhere alone with him. I refuse.”

  “Oh, knock off the drama, Alex,” McKenzie said. He had to get moving. “Fine, I’ll take her cuffed.” He wrapped a hand around Alex’s elbow and pulled her toward the jail exit.

  “Please, Darnell. Don’t let him do this,” Alex called as he towed her along.

  “Wait a minute, Detective,” Darnell said, but McKenzie ignored him. He struggled toward the exit, the gate begin to slide shut on its metal rails. He tried to make it through the gate before it closed, but Alex dug in, slowing their progress.

  “Goddamn it,” McKenzie seethed. He turned and looked through the Plexiglas of the control booth. “Listen here, turnkey. Open that door right now or I’ll have your black ass for lunch.”

  “Calm down, Detective. We’ve already made transportation arrangements for the inmate. She will be delivered to the courtroom and released to the bailiff.”

  McKenzie growled. “What kind of arrangements?”

  Tia Suarez stepped through a door behind the control booth. She walked down into the sally port area, dressed in her Newberg PD uniform. She moved slowly and her face was an expressionless mask, but her tone was pleasant when she said, “How’re you doing, Detective? Long time no see.”

  “Suarez?” McKenzie stared. “What the hell are you doing here? You aren’t supposed to be back for months.”

  Tia looked at Alex and winked. “I owe it all to my youth and clean living, Doyle. Great recuperative powers.”

  McKenzie was unimpressed and highly annoyed. “Yeah, whatever, but you can leave. I’m transporting Sawyer to court.”

  Tia stepped between McKenzie and Alex. “No,” she said, “you’re not.”

  “Tell you what, Suarez,” McKenzie said. He could see the pain in her eyes and knew she was still in pretty bad shape. “You step aside or I’ll put you aside. I don’t figure you’ll be too hard to handle, now, will you?”

  McKenzie looked back at the control booth and shouted, “Open this damn gate, now.” He turned to Tia again and said, “Step aside, Suarez. That’s your last warning.”

  McKenzie took a step toward Tia but then saw her face flood with relief as she looked past him and over his shoulder. McKenzie heard a familiar voice from behind, and he turned to look.

  “You heard the man, Corporal Reynolds. Open the gate.”

  McKenzie looked on in disbelief. Sawyer stood just outside the thick gray bars, three feet in front of him. He was towing a handcuffed prisoner who looked beat to hell, and Plate Boyd was standing alongside. Like the prisoner, Sawyer looked as though he had gone a few rounds. His face was bruised and battered. His nose and jaw were swollen and appeared fractured. Dried blood caked his face and clothes. He looked like hell and yet here he was. McKenzie could only stare ahead, and Ben stared back.

  “Thanks, Tia,” Ben said, never taking his eyes off McKenzie. “I’ll take it from here.”

  “You got it, Sarge,” Tia said. “Welcome home.”

  Ben turned to his wife. “Sorry, Alex, it took a little longer than I thought. I got back as soon as I could.”

  McKenzie looked on as Ben and Alex seemed to reconnect. The two exchanged looks of satisfaction, and even McKenzie could feel their affection for one another. Ben looked back to McKenzie.

  “Corporal Reynolds. Sergeant Ben Sawyer, Newberg PD, booking a prisoner. Request permission to enter.”

  Reynolds hit the control pad and the door began to open. “Permission granted.”

  Ben walked in, along with his prisoner and Boyd. McKenzie saw that the man in handcuffs wore the disheveled uniform shirt with a shoulder patch out of Florence County. One eye was screwed tightly shut and his throat bore a savage deep purple bruise. The air about him was that of a proud champion prepared to admit he had been bested. Ben had hold of one arm while Plate Boyd held the other. McKenzie saw that the name plate said “Jamison.” His mind reeled with confusion, but then Ben cleared it all up.

  “Corporal Reynolds,” Ben said, “Sergeant Boyd and I are booking Harlan Lee into this facility on multiple charges of homicide and attempted homicide, most notably the murder of Louis Carson and the shooting of Tia Suarez. Other charges are forthcoming.”

  Harlan Lee? McKenzie thought. How is this happening? McKenzie gave a nervous laugh and tried to think his way through the storm descended on him.

  “What the hell are you talking about, Sawyer? You come walking in off the street beat to shit, every cop in the state looking for you, acting like you got the authority to book a prisoner on my murder case? We’ve got our killer, Sawyer. Tell him, Plate.”

  “It’s over, Doyle.” Plate spoke with a resolute firmness McKenzie hadn’t thought him capable of. “Ben called me on the way down from Florence. Told me everything. You’ve got a lot to answer for.”

  McKenzie worked hard to respond calmly. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Is that right?” Plate asked, then went on. “After talking with Ben, I got a little curious about the old booking card somebody left on my desk. I think Chief Jorgensen might have mentioned it to you, didn’t he?”

  McKenzie saw a knowing glance pass between the two cops, and he thought back to his meeting with Jorgensen. McKenzie couldn’t keep up with the growing mess, but then Plate made it worse.

  “Anyway, it got me to thinking, so I decided to drop in on my old friend Lars Norgaard. It took a while, but we got to communicating.”

  McKenzie watched as Plate opened his jacket and pulled a clear plastic bag stamped EVIDENCE from his pocket. “I recovered this from under his bed. It’s loaded with pure morphine. Enough to kill a man. Your thumbprint was lifted off the plunger, Doyle. It all fits in pretty well with what Mrs. Erickson was able to tell us. You remember. Your visit to Chief Norgaard’s room?”

  McKenzie stared at the syringe. He tried to speak, but his voice faltered. “That? I don’t have any … I don’t know…”

  “Save it, McKenzie. You’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder.” The authority in Plate’s voice continued to grow. “Corporal Reynolds, we’ll be booking a second prisone
r. And initiate release papers for Mrs. Sawyer. The charges against her are dropped.”

  McKenzie watched as Ben passed Harlan off to an arriving deputy in exchange for a handcuff key. Ben’s hands were shaking as he pulled his wife free of McKenzie’s grip. Ben fumbled with the cuffs around her wrists. A moment later her arms were around his neck. He pulled away and dropped to his knees to free her from the leg irons. When Ben got the second iron snapped open, he stared at McKenzie, flinging the chains hard across the floor where they rattled against the bars of a holding cell. McKenzie stared back in stunned silence until Boyd pulled him by the arm.

  “Let’s go, Doyle. It’s over. You’re under arrest.”

  McKenzie threw an elbow and pulled away from the old man. He bolted toward the still-open door and started thinking of his escape plan. His car was in the lot. He’d have to get to his cash, but then he could disappear easy enough. He took two steps toward the door before an explosion of pain in his leg dropped him to the ground. He screamed in agony and looked up. Darnell Reynolds stood over him still clutching his police baton.

  “Not so fast, Detective. We’ve got a cell that just came available in the isolation wing. You should be very comfortable.”

  Reynolds pulled McKenzie to his feet and to the hallway where the cells were located. The pain in his leg was excruciating and McKenzie limped along.

  “Goddamn, man. I think you broke my leg.”

  McKenzie looked back over his shoulder, and just before they rounded the corner he knew led to the isolation wing, he saw Ben Sawyer. The man was on his knees, his eyes closed hugging his wife around the waist.

  He looked on as Alex Sawyer stood over her kneeling husband, and spoke in a hushed voice.

  “I knew you could do it, Benny. I knew it all along.”

  SIXTY

  Nearly a week passed before Ben returned to the county jail. The trip had a surreal quality. His wife had recently been an inmate here, and passing through the iron gates would always remind him of that. The last time he had walked through this door, it had signaled the end of a desperate journey. He’d rescued his wife and imprisoned a cop. When he’d left the building that day, he’d delivered Alex to her son and father in what was the proudest moment of his life.

  In the hours and days that had followed her release, he had not left her side. They ate, slept, and bathed together. It was the stuff of storybooks, and Ben had never felt more alive, especially during their private homecoming, after Jake was finally in bed. But there was unfinished business to attend to. Ben found Corporal Reynolds again on duty.

  “Good morning, Sergeant Sawyer. He’s waiting for you in the interview room.”

  “Thanks, Darnell.” Every head turned and every jailer greeted him as Ben passed through the series of gates that led to the interview room. Of all the publicity the story had gained, none of the experience was more important to him than to be back in good standing as a cop and to have the unqualified respect of his peers. He walked into the interview room and found the man there waiting with the patience only an experienced con can display. A patience that acknowledged that time was not a factor in his life.

  “Heard you wanted to see me, Sawyer,” Harlan Lee said in an emotionless voice still raspy from his injury. “I thought I’d pretty much filled you in on what you needed to know driving down from Florence.” He snorted in what seemed to be admiration, then said, “You done good. You ain’t gotta rub my face in it. I’m gonna do my time, but it’ll be time I earned. I got no beef with that.”

  “I appreciate your willingness to see me, Harlan. Then again, you really should get yourself an attorney.”

  Harlan’s smile was thin and cold, and Ben felt a chill run down his spine. This was a dangerous man; the black patch that covered one eye added to his air of menace.

  “Sawyer, I admitted to killing a half-dozen folks, including a cop. I’ll admit it again in open court. Ain’t no lawyer gonna get me a better deal than life. And as long as I can keep myself in a Wisconsin courtroom, I ain’t looking at the chair. Gotta love the bleedin’ hearts in this state, don’t ya?”

  A very strong though strange connection had grown between the two of them in the hours they had spent alone in the sheriff’s four-by-four, driving back from Florence County. After Ben made the conscious decision not to kill Harlan, he’d declared the man under arrest and driven straight to Newberg. During the four-hour drive, Harlan had been handcuffed and seated in the backseat behind the wire mesh as he told Ben his story. Ben was here to review part of that tale.

  “I wanted to let you know,” he said. “I looked into that murder in Florence, eighteen years ago.”

  Harlan’s one eye showed only the slightest interest, but Ben knew he had the man’s attention. “Whaddya mean? That case is off the books.”

  “Doesn’t mean I can’t look into it. One thing struck me as odd. You said the gun they pulled out of your car was reported stolen, right?”

  “So?”

  “It was stolen,” Ben said. “But it was stolen in Newberg. I got to wondering why a kid from Florence steals a gun in Newberg, goes back to Florence to use it in a homicide, then ends up with it back in Newberg.”

  “Seems unlikely, don’t it? But maybe you oughta ask that father-in-law of yours.”

  “Yeah, maybe I will ask around a bit. But I just thought I’d let you know that I believe you. I don’t think you killed the fella up in Florence. You should have taken it to trial. All this”—Ben waived his arms in a wide circle—“all this could have been avoided. It just took a little police work.”

  “Is that how you see it, Sawyer? All it took was police work?” Harlan’s voice was bitter and held more emotion than Ben had heard in their extensive conversations. “And who was I gonna get to do this police work, Sawyer? Lipinski? Norgaard? How about you? If your wife hadn’t been locked up, would you have crossed the street to help my convict ass?”

  Harlan turned his head and spit into a corner of the room, then locked his one eye on Ben’s face. “You all stuck me in prison and were set to leave me there. You finally took the time to figure out what really happened all those years ago, but it’s too damn little and too damn late.”

  “Okay, Harlan, you got every reason to be mad as hell at Lipinski, Petite, even Lars Norgaard. But all those others, Harlan. Why?”

  “What do the bigwigs in Washington call that shit, Sawyer? ‘Collateral damage,’ right? I don’t hear you taking a high-and-mighty tone with them.”

  “I thought you deserved to know, Harlan.”

  “What about what’s his name? McKenzie?”

  “Attempted murder. Conspiracy. Half a dozen other charges. He’s right down the hall from you. He’s going to end up doing near as much time as you. Maybe you two will run across one another.”

  Harlan scoffed. “He’d better hope not. I’d kill him on general principles. I got nothing to lose.”

  After a short pause, Harlan spoke again. “And your woman. How’s she?”

  Ben tried to imagine the circumstances that could’ve led him to having a near intimate conversation with a man soon to be a convicted of multiple homicides. It still seemed altogether unreal. Even more so when he found himself answering the question without hesitation.

  “She’s good, Harlan. She’s home. Where she belongs.”

  Harlan grunted, “Norgaard?”

  Ben looked at Harlan with honest conviction. “He knows, Harlan. He knows the part he played in all this.”

  Harlan looked away. Ben wondered what he was thinking.

  “So, Harlan. Are you sorry? Any part of you sympathetic to the people you killed? The victims?”

  Harlan thought for a moment before answering. “Sympathy is one of them reciprocal kind of emotions. Kinda get a little, give a little, but not a lot has ever been thrown my way, and I don’t lay much out for other folks. Regret, though? Now, hell, Sawyer. That’s a whole different creation. I might sense a bit of regret.”

  The men sat in silence f
or several minutes. Then Ben said, “All right, Harlan. I’ll leave you alone now.”

  “Yeah. All right, Sawyer.”

  The two men looked one another over. Neither extended a hand or offered a parting word. Ben banged on the door as Harlan stood. A guard arrived and both men turned and walked away. One returning to his life, his home, and his family. The other to his private cell.

  SIXTY-ONE

  Ben walked into the office of the Newberg chief of police unannounced and uninvited. Jorgensen looked up and broke into what was for him a wide grin.

  “Ben Sawyer. The conquering hero returns.” Jorgensen stood up in greeting and, with a bit of flair, waved Ben forward. “Do have a seat.”

  Ben dropped into the chair centered in front of the chief’s desk. He slumped, set the bottoms of his shoes against the expansive mahogany surface, and balanced the chair back on two legs. Jorgensen looked a little put out, but Ben knew the man had no choice. At this point, no one was going to mess with Ben Sawyer.

  Jorgensen sat down and said, “I guess you’ve come for this?” He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out Ben’s badge and police ID. The chief held the items as if to tantalize.

  “Keep it. I’d rather the new chief reinstate me.”

  “Oh, you heard wrong, Ben. I’m not going anywhere. Granted, it was quite a shit storm you stirred up. But remember, once I learned of the Lee connection, I was on it. I couldn’t have known the crimes McKenzie was involved in. I have nothing but respect for you, uncovering McKenzie’s graft and corruption. Tell me, how’s Lars holding up? Does he realize what was going on? It’s unfortunate that all this will leave a real blemish on his administration.”

  “Forget about my father-in-law,” Ben said. “McKenzie puts most of this shit on you, says you were pulling the strings. Hell, he’s even said Lipinski’s death was actually a murder. He gave you up as a coconspirator. I hear Chippewa County is reopening the case. Seems Doyle McKenzie’s had a come-to-Jesus kind of moment.”