You Only Die Twice

by Edna Buchanan

  His hands, the left slightly clawed, turned palms up.

  “To one in my position, the earthbound is far more intriguing than anything out there beyond our reach. Better than anything on television.”

  “You called in that floater,” I said briskly, “a couple of weeks ago.” I stepped to the window to gaze down at the stretch of sand where Kaithlin lay after being dragged from the water.

  “Absolutely correct,” Marsh replied, with a casual wave. “But that was nothing. Remember when those Haitian boat people began washing up dead on the beach last year?”

  I nodded.

  “That was me.” His bony thumb jabbed at his sunken chest. “I spotted them first and informed the Coast Guard and the police. And when that dope plane cartwheeled into the sea last October? Dispatch even called me back, kept me on the line until the choppers were directly over the crash site.”

  I nodded, even more impressed.

  “Remember when your own newspaper reported that ‘the Coast Guard spotted’ a fourteen-foot sailboat full of Cuban refugees who tried fighting them off with machetes? That,” he said, voice rising, “was incorrect! The Coast Guard didn’t spot them. Me—it was me. And when all those packages of cocaine washed ashore during that big music convention and people began picking them up off the beach? Guess who?”

  “I remember, that was when the seven kilos washed up.”

  “Twelve.” He inched up taller in his chair. “Twelve kilos. I saw who ‘salvaged’ the other five.” He rolled his eyes toward a zoom-lensed camera on the table. “Even caught them in action.”

  “Wow.” Though he hadn’t invited me to sit, I assumed it was an oversight and dropped into a modern sculpted chair facing him. “What did the cops say when they saw the pictures?”

  “They didn’t see them.” He shrugged. “Don’t ask, don’t tell. They didn’t ask, I didn’t tell.”

  “But—”

  “You know,” he said accusingly, “you are the only one who has come to see me, to acknowledge what I do.”

  “But I’m sure—”

  “I’m sure,” Marsh snapped, “that they take the credit to justify their existence, to make it appear they’re earning their pay. I see what they do down there at night, on duty, in their official cars, parked at the street ends on the beach in the dark. Not one has ever called to thank me, even though I’m the one who makes them look good.”

  “Perhaps they feel you’d rather remain anonymous, protect your privacy.”

  “Right,” he said sarcastically. “The incompetents protect themselves. If they gave me credit, the public and their own superiors would soon question how I manage to see so much while the able-bodied men and women paid to protect our borders and our civilian population see so little.”

  “I’m sure Detective Rychek would like—”

  “Oh, that one.” He waved the name away with a dismissive gesture. “Called the other day, wanted to come by. Told him I was too busy.”

  “Why?”

  “Did he ever call to thank me? Apparently he’s too busy. Well, if he wants my help on something now, I’m too busy.” His pout was petulant.

  “The woman was murdered.” I leaned forward intently. “Didn’t you see the story? Someone killed her.”

  He looked bored. “I knew that—long before anyone else. You were there, on the beach that day. I saw you. When I read the story in the News the next morning, I realized that was you.”

  The look in his eyes gave me a sudden chill.

  “Let me see here.” He pressed a lever on his chair’s control panel, maneuvering it across the narrow room to a low two-drawer file cabinet. Inside were dozens of folders, precisely labeled and color-coded. “Here we are,” he said cheerfully. He removed a folder, thumbed through a sheaf of eight-by-ten photos, then motored back to where I sat, stopping his chair so close that his knees nearly touched mine. I wanted to push my chair back, but it was blocked by the table behind me. He selected a photo, studied it for a long moment, then presented it to me, his eyes meeting mine.

  For an instant, I didn’t recognize the woman in the picture. Hair and skirt caught in the wind. Sunglasses, notebook in one hand, pen in the other, my mouth open, speaking to someone, probably Rychek, who was outside the frame.

  My legs looked good, I thought in a moment of vanity. He handed me another print and I reacted as though slapped. His long lens, that one-eyed voyeur, had zoomed in on Kaithlin’s naked breasts wet and glistening in the sun. The close-up was so intense, the focus so sharp, that the individual grains of sand clinging to her skin were clearly visible. The small bare feet in the foreground had to belong to the boy, Raymond. His pail lay forgotten in the sand nearby.

  “You never know what treasures the sea and Mother Nature will deliver next,” Marsh said crisply. His lips curled in an unsettling smile. “Quite attractive, don’t you think? I do my own darkroom work as well.” As he reached for the photos his hand brushed my knee—deliberately, I was sure. The man is disabled, I reminded myself, swallowing my indignation.

  “Did you photograph the murder?”

  “Unfortunately, no.” His smile faded. “My fault entirely.” He gestured a mea culpa. “I’d been shooting a unique cloud formation at first light. Cumulus, with a vertical buildup. A huge geyser of red, orange, and purple, astonishingly like a mushroom cloud. Looked like Armageddon, the goddamn end of the world. Shot the whole roll. Emptied the camera. Not only would I have had to go to a hall closet for fresh film”—he made a small irritated sound—“in order to reload, I would have had to open that infernal cellophane wrapper, the cardboard box, then the film canister. My fingers don’t work well some days. Had I tried, I would have missed it all. It happened lightning fast. But I have the pictures,” he assured me, gnarled forefinger tapping his temple, “right up here.”

  “What happened?” My voice sounded faint, perhaps because my heart beat so loudly.

  “Savage. It was savage.” His eyes burned with the light of a boxing fanatic reliving a particularly brutal bout. “I couldn’t tear myself away. The bugger popped her right square in the mouth. Punched her out, though the water did slow his swing somewhat.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Dark-haired white man is all I can say. From way up here, heads look like coconuts down in the water. Not much you can tell. He faced the horizon. I did catch her expression briefly in my binoculars. Total amazement, then horror. By then he was all over her. Didn’t take him long at all. I couldn’t see which way he headed once he swam ashore. I went to my bedroom for a better view but I had to unlock the door to the terrace. By the time I got out there, he was gone.”

  “Why didn’t you call the police then?”

  “To say what?” he demanded, rearing back indignantly. “To report a body somewhere in the Atlantic? She was no longer visible.” He frowned at my naïveté. “I take pride in my word. When I say something is out there, it is in my sight. I can direct the authorities right to it. What if they didn’t find her? What if they never found her? Sometimes they don’t, you know. You can’t cry wolf, not once, and ever expect to be taken seriously again.”

  “But,” I protested, “they would have known hours sooner. The police might have stopped him or found other witnesses, maybe even someone who knew him.”

  Marsh stared as though I was the lunatic.

  I gazed back, at a loss for words.

  “I’ve acquired a backup,” he offered, his tone conciliatory. “A second camera, always loaded. And I’ve ordered a video cam as well. Compact, lightweight, the newest, most sophisticated model on the market. Next time I’ll have it all on video.” He paused suggestively. “I see things before anyone else. Sometimes it’s big news. Perhaps you and I can come to an arrangement….” His fingers brushed my right knee again. This time they lingered. “So I call you first, give you the news tip.” His chair pressed closer.

  “You live here alone?” My eyes roved the premises hopefully, for signs of a caretaker wit
h a net.

  “More or less.” He studied my breasts. “Don’t like live-in help. I intend to stay independent as long as I can. A service sends somebody in twice a day, helps me bathe, makes sure I eat. Cleaning woman comes two days a week. Other than that, I’m on my own, doing whatever I like, thank you.” He pushed a button on his remote, and hidden stereo speakers instantly responded, piping mindless elevator music throughout the apartment. He leaned forward, lips wet, eyes still focused just below my neckline. “We are alone,” he said softly, “if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Hate to leave, but I’ve got to go. Deadline,” I sang out cheerfully, as I shoved his chair back and sprang to my feet.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said stiffly. “By the way, did they ever find out who she was?” His words were sly, his eyes bold.

  “Yes,” I said, halfway to the door. “I’m working on the story for tomorrow’s paper.”

  “Then I suppose they also know where she was staying, correct?”

  “No. Neither do the police. So much about her is still a mystery.” I paused. Something in his expression made me ask, “Do you?”

  “It’s probably not important.”

  “It is,” I said quickly.

  “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” His chair whirred and the music played as he swung back toward his windows. He raised the binoculars, as though I had already gone.

  “I’m asking.” I resumed my seat, after angling the chair so I could not be cornered again. “If you want your name in the newspaper, I’ll spell it right, I swear.”

  He slowly lowered the binoculars and turned to me, clearly pleased to recapture my attention. “I saw her walk onto the beach. She was lovely,” he said. “Simply stunning. Slim, yet feminine and shapely, not like the scrawny models who look like adolescent boys.”

  “How would you know where she stayed?”

  “Simple. It was the Amsterdam.” The name dropped lightly from his lips. “She had one of their beach towels draped over her arm. Can’t miss the logo, big initial in a trademark scroll. She also carried one of those matching blue-and-white beach bags they comp to their guests. A status symbol. You see tourists with them all the time.

  “She spread her towel on the sand and sat gazing at the horizon, at that same cloud formation I photographed. There was something about her…. I wondered if she, too, thought it looked like the end of the world. Then she stood up, all of a sudden, trotted down, and dove straight into the surf. She wasn’t one of those people who tiptoe gingerly into the waves. She didn’t hesitate. The sea was silver around her, all streaked with pink.”

  “You saw him arrive?”

  “No. I was watching her. He surprised us both. Neither of us saw him until it was too late.”

  “Anything else I should ask you to tell me?”

  “That’s it for now,” Marsh said thoughtfully. “I’ll do better next time.”

  He maneuvered his chair along behind me. I beat him to the front door but it wouldn’t open. I turned to him and frowned. “What’s wrong with…?”

  Smiling, he touched a button on his remote. The locks disengaged with a series of metallic clicks.

  I shivered in the corridor after his door swung shut behind me. Why are these buildings always so cold? I wondered. It was a relief to escape into the fresh warm air and gentle February sun.

  6

  Fuller G. Stockton peered around the massive mahogany door from his inner office, his florid face flushed a deep red. He was containing his absolute outrage at the condemnation of an innocent man until all the lights were in place and the cameras rolling. The lawyer looked especially dapper in a pinstripe suit that must have set him back thousands. His tie was silk, his attitude pugnacious. Satisfied that the television news crews packing his comfortable conference room, now chaotic and crisscrossed by tangled cables and wires, were nearly ready, he ducked back inside.

  Lottie was crouched down in front with her cameras. I kept my distance, the only defense against being smashed in the snoot by heavy video equipment during a media stampede. Once the story was out and took on a life of its own, this crowd would multiply into a mob. By the time R. J. walked off death row, it would be a media circus.

  Rychek walked in shortly before they began, accompanied by a stranger. Well-built, light-complected, and handsome, the newcomer had serious gray eyes and wore his blond hair short. They squeezed into a space near me, against the back wall.

  “I have to talk to you,” I whispered to Rychek, with a questioning glance at his companion.

  He nodded, then jerked his head at the stranger. “Dennis Fitzgerald, investigator from the Volusia State Attorney’s office.”

  “What are you doing here?” I murmured to Fitzgerald.

  “Nice to meet you too.” His cool smile had a playful edge.

  “Sorry.” I rolled my eyes at the media pack.

  “Our office,” he said softly in my ear, “prosecuted Jordan. They sent me down to find out where we went wrong.”

  “If this turns into a zoo,” I whispered to Rychek, “let’s meet later, somewhere close. I have to go back and write soon.”

  “How ’bout the parking garage under the News building? It’s on our way back to the Beach,” he said.

  “Got some interesting info,” I promised, hoping he’d be interested enough to show up, even if distracted by TV reporters.

  Dennis Fitzgerald raised his blond eyebrows and smiled. Nice teeth. He smelled good, too.

  The media parted like the waters for Stockton as he strode to the cluster of microphones. A spokesman from the Catholic archdiocese, longtime opponents of capital punishment, accompanied him, as did Eunice Jordan, who must have arrived through a back entrance.

  Stockton dramatically recounted “this classic near-fatal miscarriage of justice,” citing the irrefutable proof of his client’s innocence, which he claimed he’d never doubted. His nose didn’t grow at all.

  “Police power is absolute,” he boomed, working up to a rant, “and this is yet another example of its abuse. A shocking case of an innocent man railroaded onto death row. We’re fast becoming a fascist state.” He wagged his index finger in warning.

  Eunice Jordan nodded and clutched a lace-trimmed handkerchief. Tall and striking in black, a single silver streak in her dark hair, she looked as though she’d just stepped out of a beauty salon. The man from the archdiocese fidgeted during the lawyer’s attack on police but perked up considerably when Stockton reported that R. J. would be the eighty-fourth innocent man released from death row since Florida reinstated the death penalty in 1976.

  “During that same time period,” the lawyer said, fist clenched dramatically, “the state of Illinois has executed twelve prisoners while releasing twelve others as innocent. That means that Illinois has a fifty-fifty chance of executing the wrong person!”

  He paused for effect, then said his client “was pleased and relieved, but not surprised” by the good news. “What surprised him was that it took so long. R. J. has always maintained his innocence.”

  “Is your client bitter?” a reporter asked.

  “How would you feel? Losing a decade of your life, coming so close to death? But R. J…. he looks forward to coming home, spending time with his mother”—he gently rested his manicured hand on Eunice’s slim shoulder—“and properly mourning the father he lost during his wrongful incarceration.”

  Eunice dabbed delicately at her eyes, careful not to disturb her makeup.

  “What is Jordan looking forward to most?”

  “You can ask him that question yourself on Monday,” Stockton said, checking his watch. “We hope to have him free by lunchtime.” The lawyer planned to fly to Daytona for an emergency hearing, he said. Rychek would also go, to present the forensic evidence, proof that the recent murder victim had been positively identified as Kaithlin Ann Jordan.

  “What was Jordan’s reaction to his wife’s murder?”

  “Naturally, he’s devastated,” the lawyer said
glibly. “Kaithlin was the love of his life.”

  “Where has she been since she disappeared? And who killed her?”

  Not a sound in the room. “There’s the man to ask!” Stockton announced. He flung his arm at Rychek in a theatrical gesture, his diamond pinky ring winking under camera lights. “He’s investigating her murder. Hopefully, this time, they’ll manage to arrest the right man.”

  “If they do, will you defend him?” Wayman Andrews of Channel 7 asked. Other reporters sniggered.

  “I think that ten years of this case is more than enough,” Stockton said. “My client’s innocence has finally been established, and I’m sure my partners would agree it’s time to quit while we’re ahead. This has been a long and arduous process for everybody involved, especially R. J. and his family.”

  With that, Eunice briefly took the floor. “Thank you for coming.” She spoke graciously, as though this was her party and we her guests. Her joy was tempered, she said, by the anguish of their ordeal. “It killed my husband,” she said softly, “and almost cost me my son. I will be thrilled to have him home again.”

  I wondered. R. J. had always brought trouble home. Now she would be dealing with it alone. Unless, of course, death row had been a character-building experience.

  “Do you think your daughter-in-law deliberately framed your son?”

  Eunice glanced for guidance to the lawyer, but he was busy smiling for a photographer.

  “I have no idea,” she said slowly.

  “I think I know where Kaithlin was staying,” I told Rychek when we met in the News building’s parking garage.

  “You’re kidding me,” he said. “On the Beach? In the seventeen hundred block of Ocean Drive?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Found the cabbie who mighta taken her to the cemetery. Says she walked up to him at a cabstand there.”

  “I wasn’t going to share it with you,” I said, disappointed, “unless we made a deal that we could check out her room together.”