by Joanne Fluke
“I see. New secretaries can be very unreliable. Perhaps, in the future, you’d do me the courtesy of making that call yourself?”
Bowman was really backpedaling now. Stan smiled at the man’s obvious discomfort and let him rattle on for a moment. “Yes, Jerry, I’m sure you will. Sorry I don’t have time to chat, I have a client waiting.”
Stan ended the call and pushed the intercom button, remembering to hold the phone away from his ear as his secretary came on the line. “Joyce? Would you check my appointment schedule and clear me for tomorrow afternoon? I’ll be out of the office from eleven on. And then you can bring in the professor.”
He gave a sigh as his thoughts turned back to his brother’s doctor. He knew Bowman was incompetent. It was no wonder he’d opted for running a state hospital rather than going into private practice. Stan planned to drive up to Oakdale tomorrow and drop in unannounced. It ought to be easy to find some irregularities if he arrived unexpectedly, and Stan had friends in high places. Perhaps the social worker who’d called could steer him in the right direction. While he was there, he’d visit Michael. Stan chuckled as he pictured his brother trying to choke the starch out of Bowman. Michael’s actions might be crazy, but he’d certainly had the right man!
There was a knock on the door, and Joyce ushered in Professor Zimmer. Stan got up to shake hands. He remembered him only vaguely from Michael’s trial, a thin, nervous man with thick glasses and an irritating habit of grinding his teeth. He had refused to say what he’d wanted over the phone.
“I thought I should come to you immediately, Mr. Gerhardt.” Professor Zimmer’s voice matched his size, tentative and small. “Quite by accident I’ve come across some evidence that gives your brother an alibi for the night of the murder.”
Through a supreme effort of will, Stan kept his expression neutral. Perhaps it was nothing. He seemed to recall that James Zimmer had been the excitable type.
“You say you have evidence?”
Professor Zimmer nodded and took a DVD out of his briefcase. “I’ve spent the past five years at Gateway University researching television news and its role in society. My contention is that networks set public opinion by choosing to air, or not to air, selected interviews. It’s fascinating work, Mr. Gerhardt, simply fascinating. And naturally, it’s of paramount importance to assess the influence the television medium has on—”
“Excuse me, Professor.” Stan interrupted what was sure to be a lengthy monologue. “Michael was interviewed on television?”
“No, that’s not it at all. You see, I gained access to the complete footage of the KLAX man-on-thestreet interviews. The station donated them to the college. I studied the segments they ran, but I also viewed what they call the outtakes. Those are the segment the network decided not to run for various reasons, some of them mechanical, others because”—Professor Zimmer leaned forward conspiratorially—“if my contention is correct, the opinion of the interviewee did not fit into the preconceived framework of the network.”
“I see.” Stan took a deep breath. Professor Zimmer could be here for an hour, just getting to the point. “And Michael was the subject of one of those interviews?”
“Not the subject. Mr. Gerhardt. Another man was being interviewed, but your brother was in the background watching. Since a person can’t be in two places at once, it proves he couldn’t have killed his wife.”
“Is this footage dated and time-stamped?”
“In a way,” Professor Zimmer smiled. “The interview concerns the nurse’s strike at County General, and there are several shots of nurses carrying placards. If you’ll recall, that strike was settled overnight so the date has to be October second, nineteen seventy-nine.”
“How about the time?” Stan leaned forward. Perhaps the professor really had something here.
“The time is a bit of a problem. There’s no actual mention of the hour, per se.”
Stan shook his head. “Without the exact time, Professor Zimmer, we don’t have a prayer for an—”
“Wait, Mr. Gerhardt. I haven’t told you everything. The interview takes place on the steps of the hospital. There’s a bus that stops in the middle of the interview, and they have to wait for it to unload and load. The camera keeps rolling, and the number of the bus is clearly visible. It’s a Rapid Transit Division Nine B.”
“Go on.” Stan leaned back. It was futile to try to rush the professor.
“I looked through the company records and discovered that Nine B was a special. It stopped at the hospital only at seven forty-five and eight fifteen.”
“You’ve certainly done your research, Professor. But which one of these times was it?”
“Aha!” Professor Zimmer raised his eyebrows as if he were answering a question from a particularly slow student. “You see, Mr. Gerhardt, it doesn’t matter. If your brother was in front of County General at either of those times, he couldn’t possibly have murdered his wife. The drive from the hospital to his apartment takes over thirty minutes under optimum conditions. If your brother left the hospital at seven forty-five, right after the Nine B pulled out, he couldn’t have arrived at his apartment before eight fifteen. And since Mrs. Hart’s friend heard the shot and placed the time of death at eight o’clock precisely, that proves your brother is innocent.”
Stan could do nothing but agree. “I see. And if Michael left immediately after the murder, he couldn’t have arrived at the hospital before—”
“Eight-thirty.” Fifteen minutes too late to be in the picture with the bus. Do you have a machine in your office? I want you to watch the footage for positive identification. I took the liberty of showing it to another juror, and we’re both sure the man in question is your brother.”
Stan watched the footage and was silent as he removed the disk. The man was definitely Michael.
“Well?” The professor beamed proudly. “What do you think, Mr. Gerhardt?”
Stan cleared his throat. “It does look like Michael, no doubt about that. Did you try to locate the cameraman who filmed the interview?”
“No, but I’ll be glad to try.”
“That’s quite all right, Professor, you’ve done enough. I can take it from here. KLAX, is that right?”
Professor Zimmer nodded, and Stan took the disk, dropped it in an envelope, and handed it to the professor.
“Could you seal this envelope, please, and write your name and the date on the outside? That’s to certify that the disk in the envelope is the same one we’ve both seen today.”
The professor signed his name and wrote the date. Then Stan took the envelope and buzzed for his secretary. In a moment, she appeared in the doorway.
“Joyce? Take this envelope and lock it in the safe. Log it in as Exhibit A. Michael Hart.”
After Joyce had left with the envelope, Stan turned back to the professor. “I’d like to thank you for all you’ve done, Professor Zimmer. You’ve come across something that could clear my brother. Frankly, I’m surprised and pleased that you didn’t go straight to the police.”
“The police?” Professor Zimmer frowned. “I didn’t even think of them. I came to you because you handled your brother’s defense.”
“And it’s a stroke of fortune that you did!” Stan gave him a smile. “If you’d taken your tape to the police, they would have reopened their files. That always causes a flurry of publicity. The fewer people who know about your discovery, the better it is for Michael.”
The professor looked confused, and Stan hurried to explain. “The evidence you’ve given me is almost certainly the basis for a retrial, but there’s a lot of legwork to do first. I’ll have to find the cameraman and get his sworn testimony that he taped the interview. Then I’ll need an affidavit from the station stating that they gave Gateway University their outtakes. And a letter from Gateway administration explaining that you, as their employee, had access to this particular outtake. Of course, I’ll attempt to locate the other people in the segment on the off chance that they might rem
ember talking to Michael. Then I’ll gather positive identification by expert bone structure comparison based on a freeze frame from the footage and photographs of Michael. Once everything’s in order, it should be a simple matter to take this clearly exculpatory evidence—evidence that wasn’t available at the time of Michael’s conviction—and petition for a new trial.”
“It’s that complicated?” Professor Zimmer looked dazed.
“I’m afraid so. Let’s just hope we can keep this thing under our hats until we have everything we need. It would be a terrible thing if the press got wind of it.”
“It would?”
“Yes.” Stan sighed deeply. “You see, Professor Zimmer, my brother’s a patient at the Oakdale State Hospital. He had a complete psychotic breakdown shortly after his conviction.”
“Oh, my!” Professor Zimmer blinked. “I’m so terribly sorry, Mr. Gerhardt.”
“It was rough for a while, but they tell me he’s doing much better now, finally adjusting to his incarceration. I wouldn’t want to raise his hopes prematurely and then have them dashed again because we were turned down on some technicality. I’m afraid that he might . . . well . . . “I’d rather not go into that. Suffice to say, it would be kinder for Michael if he didn’t know anything about this until it’s a fait accompli.”
“Of course, I understand perfectly. Mr. Gerhardt.”
Stan cleared his throat. “And that’s why I’m a bit concerned about the other juror, the one who saw the tape. If he or she mentions—”
“You can relax about that, Mr. Gerhardt,” Professor Zimmer interrupted. “The other juror won’t say a word.”
“Yes, but perhaps it might be wise if I paid a call to stress the importance of—”
“No, I’ll take care of it. You have my word that this matter will remain completely confidential. Now I’ve taken up enough of your valuable time. Goodbye, Mr. Gerhardt.”
Professor Zimmer stood up and headed for the door. Stan opened his mouth to try for the juror’s name again, but he didn’t have time to say a thing before the professor was gone.
CHAPTER 4
Oakdale State Hospital
Michael Hart blinked his eyes as someone unlocked the door. The sheet they had fastened around him permitted no other movement. He was in a padded cell, flat on his back in a hospital bed.
“Hi, Mike. Feeling better?”
It was Jack. Michael felt better immediately. The big barrel-chested orderly had been at Oakdale almost as long as he had, and he was Michael’s only real friend.
“Aw, for Christ’s sake! They got you trussed up like a Christmas turkey. They must have figured you’d bang yourself up after I left last night. Hold still and let me get them restraints off you.”
“Thanks, Jack.” Michael’s voice came out in a whispery croak. His throat felt sore, as if he’d been shouting for hours, and he was unbearably thirsty. He tried to lick his lips, but there seemed to be no saliva left in his body.
“You’re pretty thirsty, huh?” Jack lifted something from his forehead, and Michael found he could nod. “Okay now, Mike. Don’t try to talk. It’ll just make your throat hurt. I’ll get you some juice just as soon as I take off this other stuff.”
It felt as if a great weight were removed from his chest as Jack lifted off the sheet. Another weight disappeared from his ankles, and finally his arms.
“That crabby nurse with the glasses gave you one of them yellow pills. Isn’t that right, Mike?”
Michael opened his mouth to answer, but his throat was so sore he couldn’t force out the word.
“That’s okay. You don’t have to talk. Just nod your head.”
Michael nodded, and Jack sighed loudly. “I don’t know where they find ’em, Mike. Maybe they dig ’em out from under old rocks someplace. Now, I’ll tell you something, and it’s God’s truth. The only reason she gave you that pill was so you wouldn’t pee the bed. Too lazy to change it. She didn’t give a fiddler’s damn about you, Mike. What d’ya say we slip one in her coffee and see how she likes it?”
Michael managed to laugh, even though it hurt. Jack really cared about him. Why weren’t the orderlies paid as well as the doctors? They were a lot nicer, and they spent more time with the patients.
“Okay, Mike, I’m going to get that juice. Just lie there calm and easy, and don’t try to get up until I can help you. I sneaked a look at your chart, and they shot you up with all kinds of drugs. You’re going to feel like you went off on a cheap drunk last night.”
The door closed, and Michael shut his eyes again. Jack was right. His head was pounding, and he felt sick to his stomach. It was a massive hangover, and he hadn’t even had the pleasure of raising a glass. What had he done? It must have been something serious.
The door opened, and Jack was back. Michael struggled to a sitting position with the orderly’s help and swallowed as Jack held a glass to his lips. Naturally, the glass wasn’t glass. Only paper cups were used at Oakdale.
Michael made a face as he swallowed. Jack saw him and grinned.
“I know, I know. It tastes bad. Tomato juice with an egg in it and a handful of pepper. It’s my daddy’s hangover cure. When you can swallow better, I got a couple of Bayer’s in my pocket. I lifted ’em from the nurse’s lounge.”
Michael nodded and took another swallow. Jack was an expert at expediting procedures. If Jack had gone through normal channels and asked the nurse for an aspirin, it would be tomorrow before Michael got it.
“Ready yet? The sooner you take ’em the sooner they can work.”
Michael forced down the two aspirins. Jack’s daddy’s hangover remedy seemed to be working. His throat didn’t feel so raw now. Perhaps the pepper burned out his pain receptors. He finished it off in one gulp and handed the paper cup to Jack.
“Good for you, Mike. Now just sit there a minute until your head starts to clear. One good thing about all them shots they gave you. You were out for the count, so you couldn’t of dreamed your nightmare. Isn’t that right?”
Michael nodded. If he’d had the nightmare, at least he couldn’t remember it now. It always started with the courtroom, when the judge came in and banged his gavel. Then he rose to his feet. The jury had reached a verdict. Their faces were huge and hard, like sculptures of the presidents at Mount Rushmore. Their eyes were flat, gleaming stones that accused him. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Over and over. How could they say that? They were wrong! Then he was moving, hurtling over the rail in one soaring leap, right into the jury box.
Michael forced his mind to back off, away from the nightmare. That was the point where he always woke up. And found himself not in bed, but somewhere else. The first time it had been in the hallway, only steps from the nurse’s station. And then outside the dayroom, trying to get through the locked door. And once he’d been in the janitor’s closet with all the mops and the brooms. Somnambulism, the doctors called it, their name for sleepwalking. That was why they gave him the nightly medication. To keep him from killing the jurors in his sleep.
At first, they’d tried something called reality therapy. They’d told him the dream wasn’t right, that things hadn’t really happened that way. They’d gone over it hundreds of times, the jury coming in, the judge banging his gavel, the foreman reading the verdict. They’d said he’d stood there beside his attorney, Stan. He hadn’t moved at all until the two uniformed officers had snapped the handcuffs around his wrists and led him away. The part about hurtling over the rail had never happened. It was just what he’d wanted to do.
“Mike? Are you all right?”
Michael blinked hard and nodded. “Yes, I’m fine now. Do you know what I did, Jack? I mean, I must have done something terrible to end up in the rubber room.”
Jack grinned. “Oh, you were impressive, from what I heard. The whole staff’s buzzing. There’s quite a few that think they should of given you a medal, but I guess Dr. Bowman doesn’t see it that way.”
“Bowman? Oh, Now I remember. I was up for review. And Bowm
an did something that made me so mad. What was it, Jack?”
“I don’t know, Mike. I wasn’t there. I just know what Mrs. Gray said. Bowman was trying to break you down so you’d say you killed your wife. From what I hear, he got real nasty, and you just sprang out of your chair and wrapped your hands around his scrawny neck. Surprised the hell out of everyone, except for Mrs. Gray. She said it took three guys to pry you loose.”
“So now I’m in Dutch with Dr. Bowman?”
“I guess!” Jack shook his head. “But if I was you, I wouldn’t let it worry me. The word’s out that Bowman’s gone. Any day now.”
“He’s leaving?”
“I guess you could put it that way.” Jack chuckled. “My buddy on Ward C says your brother’s here, raising all kinds of hell. He’s been asking some real interesting questions, and lots of people are talking. He spent over an hour with Mrs. Gray, and then he went straight to the head nurse on Ward C. You remember her, don’t you, Mike? The one that had the run-in with Bowman last year? She damn near got fired over them cakes.”
Michael nodded He remembered her. She’d brought in little cupcakes in silver paper whenever there was a birthday. And star-shaped cookies at Christmas with red and green sugar on the top. She’d talked to him as if he were a real person, not crazy at all. And she’d made him believe it. She’d been the only reason he’d made it past Ward C.
“Believe me, Mike. There are people lining up for a word with your brother. You can take it from me. Bowman’s history.
“That’s good. Jack. Is Stan coming up here?”
“Of course he is. Your brother wouldn’t come to Oakdale without seeing you. You know that, Mike. Now what d’ya say we get you up and back to your regular room?”
“I’m sorry, Stan. I didn’t mean to drag you all the way out here.”
Stan reached out to pat Michael’s back. “I was coming anyway. Don’t worry about that. How do you feel?”
“Better, but I don’t know how much longer I can take it, Stan. I mean, being locked up like this. They’re not going to let me go. Ever!”