Dead River

by Fredric M. Ham

  Forgiveness? That would never happen, as far as he was concerned.

  For several weeks now, Valerie was on the other side of a closed door from Adam. They were both curious what was on the other side, but felt safer not opening up. Dawn tried to mediate between her parents, but the spiraling decline of their once-solid bond seemed irreversible.

  The Thursday evening meal at the Rileys, like many in recent days, was marked by silent tension until Dawn pushed away from the table, leaving half of her baked chicken.

  “I’m going to my room,” Dawn said. “I think you two should talk.”

  She left the kitchen, and Adam finally spoke. “What’s with her?” he said sliding his fork onto his empty plate followed by his napkin.

  “Trying to get us to talk, I guess.”

  “About what?”

  “Anything. We haven’t had much to say to each other for the past few days.”

  “I don’t have much to say.”

  “Why?”

  Adam leaned forward, his eyes glued to Valerie’s. “Because all you want to talk about is how we need to accept what’s happened to Sara Ann and forgive this—this murdering son-of-a-bitch.”

  “I’m only trying to do what’s best for us—”

  Adam threw both hands over his head. “Best for us? Maybe for you. If this crazy idea of yours to forgive the bastard that killed our daughter is a way to achieve some kind of closure, it’s not for me.”

  “And what you’re doing is eating away at you. It will eventually leave you hollow and numb.”

  Adam lowered his arms and then his head, shaking it from side to side.

  “You know what Buddha said?” Valerie asked.

  “Here we go, another aphorism.”

  “All that we are is the result of what we have thought. The mind is everything. What we think, we become.”

  “So, what are you trying to tell me, Val? I’m obsessed?”

  “You are—”

  “That I’m completely preoccupied with Sikes and wanting to see him dead?”

  “I think you’re letting this man—”

  “And because I want revenge, I’ll become no better than him? Is that it?”

  “If you let me finish, I’ll tell you what I think.”

  Adam leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest.

  “I think you’re letting this man control your life. Completely.” Valerie swept her blond hair back, tucking it behind both ears. “What happened to the Adam I married, the thoughtful, caring man I met twenty-four years ago?”

  “The Adam back then didn’t have a daughter who was murdered. Back then we had dreams of a life together, a family, watching our children grow up, and then becoming grandparents one day. And now one of our children is dead. An innocent child, denied the life that she deserved to live.” Adam snapped his fingers. “Snuffed out by someone who didn’t even know her. He didn’t have a clue who she really was. For him, she was just someone who could fulfill some—some sick, twisted fantasy. And now it’s his turn to die. The bastard deserves it for what he did to our Sara Ann.”

  “Your obsession with Sikes will eat away at you forever, Adam.”

  “Only until he’s dead,” Adam said, his teeth clenched.

  Valerie stood and leaned on the kitchen table, her cheeks crimson. “You know, there’s another saying that comes to mind.”

  “Here comes another one.”

  “Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.”

  62

  HARLEY BUCKWALD WAS EVERYTHING his name projected. He was big, loud, and flashy, but most importantly, he was smart. He was also a well-respected lawyer who all prosecutors feared to go up against. He was born Clifton Harley Buckwald in 1939. The small southern Florida town where he was born and raised resembled something out of the gun-slinging days of the Wild West. There had been a lot of corruption, and as Harley grew up, he promised himself he would do something about it.

  When Harley was six years old his father, Ferris Lyndon Buckwald, was killed by two bandits, who were stealing milk, of all things. But there was a good reason for their targeting liquid loot. These thieves worked for the competition. The less milk the company that Harley’s father worked for as a driver had to sell, the more profit for the competition. There was never a trial. The death of Ferris Buckwald was ruled an accident by the local judge and the charges against the two men were dropped. Harley vowed to avenge his father’s death. He decided there was no better way to do that than become a lawyer and take on the corrupt system.

  Harley was an excellent student in high school. He always had high marks, and upon graduation, he was accepted into the University of Georgia in Athens on a scholarship. After graduating with a degree in political science, he went on to law school at Emory University in Atlanta. By the time he finished law school, he was married, and his first child was on the way. Any thoughts of cleaning up corruption in his hometown had all but faded away. Besides, the milk business was gone, as well as the corrupt legal system that once ruled there.

  His main goal after law school was a position as an associate at a law firm, to provide for his family. And that’s precisely what he did. Orlando was where he landed and where he stayed. He started as an associate in the law firm of Gogan, Houser, and Wiley. After a few years as a highly successful litigator, he was offered a position as assistant state attorney in the ninth judicial circuit. Since the job would allow him to stay in Orlando, he accepted and proved equally successful as a prosecutor. However, he missed representing people who trusted him. With experience as a litigator and a prosecutor, he started his own law firm. Over the years, Buckwald, Allison, and Crumley became one of the most respected law firms in Orlando.

  Harley was always tied up with the Rotary Club on Thursday afternoons, but as soon as he got back to his office and was given Sikes’s message, he called back. Harley agreed to represent David Sikes without hesitation. Sikes was overwhelmed with relief. He now had one of the best lawyers in the southeastern United States. Harley’s retainer was ridiculously small, and Sikes actually had the required money in his savings account. Harley wasn’t in this one for the money; he wanted a high-profile case, something he hadn’t had for quite a while.

  “I didn’t murder anyone, Mr. Buckwald.”

  “Okay, son, I hear you. But you got to listen to me. Don’t you say another word to anyone until I come over there. Understand me?”

  “I won’t say anything.”

  “Okay now. I can’t come over this evening, but tomorrow morning I’ll be there and we can talk some. How’s that sound? Remember, don’t say a word, not even to someone in the jail cell with you.”

  “I won’t. Thanks for agreeing to be my attorney.”

  “Don’t you mention another word ’bout that. We’ll talk some tomorrow and then go from there, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  The wheels screeched as they made contact with the runway at Washington’s Reagan National. The plane shuddered several times, and the engines roared to slow down the Boeing 757.

  After claiming his luggage, Goldman met his wife outside the terminal. He launched his two bags into the trunk of his wife’s BMW 525i sedan then slid behind the wheel and cruised toward I-395 through the Thursday evening traffic snarl. They settled on dinner out, spicy shrimp scampi at Prago’s in Quantico.

  He merged south onto I-95 reflecting on the past three weeks. The murderer was caught, and now it was up to the justice system. The battle would be long and arduous, prosecutor against defense counsel. There would be legal maneuvering and delays, a possible insanity plea. But in the end, there was only one fitting punishment for Sikes, and that had to be death. Goldman wasn’t an advocate of rehabilitation. During all of his years as a criminal profiler and the countless interviews with murderers, rapists, and arsonists, he had yet to find one such criminal who he thought could be rehabilitated. Rehabilitation was a fairytale fabricated by left-wing bleeding hearts and the civil liberties zeal
ots.

  David Allen Sikes was scared, hungry, and tired. His first night in jail involved listening to two drunks fight most of the night. The scuffle started when one vomited on the other. The older of the two men, George, was the lucky recipient of chunks of hot dog mixed with vile stomach juices. After the launched liquid projectile, with all-beef shrapnel, landed on George’s burgundy pima-cotton Curly Bill pullover, he flew into a roaring verbal assault on the younger man, who answered to Olin.

  When the screaming stopped, George applied a solid arm lock around Olin’s bald head, his face buried in George’s freshly soiled cowboy shirt. They rolled onto the concrete floor, pulling at each other’s clothes, occasionally blurting out obscenities, rarely hitting each other, until they fell asleep at four in the morning. Sikes felt like he was in hell. He put his hands over his ears to deaden the noise from the two men and the other prisoners yelling at them, but it didn’t help. He was truly in hell.

  His Friday morning breakfast was inedible. It consisted of powdered scrambled eggs that were cold, what looked like a sausage patty, cold toast with no butter, and tepid black coffee. He nibbled away at the toast and sipped the coffee. He wanted what he fixed himself almost every morning: fried eggs, hash brown potatoes, three strips of crisp bacon, orange juice, and steaming hot coffee. He missed his breakfast.

  “Hey, Sikes, I hope you’ve finished your breakfast. You’re going to be transferred,” a guard shouted from outside his cell.

  The two drunks, George and Olin, moaned in unison.

  “Where am I goin’?” Sikes asked.

  “You’ll be told when it’s time.”

  “But my attorney’s coming from Orlando to see me this morning.”

  “Is that right? Well, I guess you’ll have to call him.”

  “When?”

  “I’ll check and let you know.”

  “I also need to know where I’m goin’ so I can tell him.”

  “Sure. Anything else you want?” the guard snickered.

  Sikes didn’t respond to the sarcasm. He threw the toast on the metal tray and downed the coffee. He had never tasted coffee that bad.

  63

  HARLEY BUCKWALD ARRIVED at the Brevard County Jail in Sharpes before Sikes. The police officers transferring Sikes took their time leaving Cocoa Beach. There was a good reason for the delay: they figured the media would be waiting for them when they escorted Sikes to their patrol car. They were not disappointed. Outside they spotted at least five video cameras and twice that number of reporters, some shoving microphones toward Sikes and shouting questions as the two officers dragged Sikes to the black-and-white.

  The questions were basic: why had he killed the Riley girl? Was Tami Breckenridge his work too? One reporter asked him if he’d had sex with the two girls. Sikes was silent. He lowered his head to his chest so his face was not exposed. But the experienced cameramen were able to follow his contortions and catch a glimpse of his face.

  Harley waited an hour at the county jail for Sikes’s arrival. He spent the time reading through the information his legal assistant and private investigator had gathered on short notice. So far it didn’t look good for his client, but there was no witness to the crime.

  A deputy sheriff entered the room where Harley was sitting and told him Sikes was available to talk. The deputy led Harley to a small room painted light green and unlocked the door. There was a guard sitting in the corner of the room on a tattered wooden chair, and David Sikes sat in one of two chairs placed at a table.

  “Just let me know when you’re finished talkin’ and I’ll let you out,” the guard announced. “I’ll be outside the door.”

  “Sure will,” Harley said.

  Harley marched toward the table where Sikes was sitting and eased down in the chair opposite him. Sikes’s hands were cuffed in front of him, so Harley extended his hand, and Sikes reached out with both of his bound together.

  As usual, Harley was dressed in a three-piece suit. This one was a silver-pinstriped, navy-blue Hart, Schaffner Marx. His silver-peppered hair was neatly combed back, save for small tendrils framing both of his ears. The buttons on his vest were drawn tight by his barrel chest.

  “Is it all right to call you David?” Harley asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, David, I would like to tape-record our conversation. Is that all right with you?”

  “Sure, I don’t mind.”

  “Good.”

  Harley took a small recorder from his briefcase and pressed the record button, and then placed it on the table between them.

  “Friday, September 7,” Harley droned. “This is the first consultation with Mr. David Allen Sikes at the Brevard County Jail in Sharpes, Florida.”

  Harley folded his hands on his lap and looked at Sikes. He paused several seconds and gave Sikes his signature fatherly, concerned gaze. He always tried to put his clients at ease, for a better chance of honest responses to his questions.

  “David, I want you to sit back and answer some questions.”

  “Okay, Mr. Buckwald,” Sikes agreed.

  “Good.”

  Harley again paused momentarily, but this time he looked behind him toward the door and then back at Sikes. He reached for the tape recorder and pressed the stop button.

  “Keep your voice down, son, so the gentleman outside the door over there doesn’t hear us, okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Harley reached for the tape recorder and again pressed the record button.

  “Son, I want you to know that I’m a very to-the-point kind of lawyer.” Harley waved his hands in front of Sikes. “I don’t like a lot of double talk, and I don’t want to hear any mumbo jumbo. I expect you to answer my questions completely and honestly.” Harley shifted in his chair and crossed his legs. “Remember, I’m here to represent you, and the only way I can successfully do that is for you to tell me the truth. So every time I ask you a question, I expect to hear an honest and complete answer. Do we understand each other?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered Sikes in almost a whisper.

  Harley again stopped the tape recorder.

  “You’ll have to speak up just a bit. If you talk at the level I’m speaking, he won’t be able to hear us outside there. Just don’t blurt out your answers to my questions.”

  “Is this better?”

  “Sure is, son.”

  Harley looked directly into Sikes’s eyes for a few seconds then restarted the tape recorder.

  “David, did you kill Sara Ann Riley?”

  64

  SIKES’S EYEBROWS slowly moved upward, wrinkling his forehead, and then he looked to his right, then back toward Harley. He appeared puzzled by the query. “No. I don’t even know this girl, this Sara. What’s her name?”

  “Sara Ann Riley.”

  “Nope, don’t know her.”

  “Remember, son, I’m your attorney. Anything you tell me stays with me. In fact, if I told someone outside my legal team representing you something that you told to me, I could be disbarred and not allowed to practice law in this fine state.”

  “I know that, Mr. Buckwald, but I’m tellin’ you I don’t know this girl, and I didn’t kill her.”

  “Okay. Do you remember where you were on Saturday, August 18?”

  “August 18, Saturday—uh—let me think.”

  Sikes’s forehead again wrinkled. He looked down and gazed at the table for a moment. Harley’s eyes were fixed on him, watching every nuance, his expressions, his movements, even how he breathed. Finally Sikes looked up at Harley.

  “I was at Joe and Sally McCarthy’s place.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I work for Joe part time. I’m an electrician, and he has me work on some of his jobs when he needs extra help.

  “Why were you at their place?”

  “Because they went to Colorado to see his brother for a couple of weeks. I watched their house, you know, while they were gone.”

  “So you stayed at their house for two
weeks while they were out of town? Why would you do that?”

  Sikes appeared annoyed. He placed his cuffed hands on the table. “Because Joe is my friend and I wanted to help him.” A half-smile formed on Sikes’s face. “Besides, he’s got a great TV set. It’s one of those projection TVs with a theater system. It’s like being at the movies.”

  “So, you like to watch movies.”

  “Sure do. But I don’t like movie theaters.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because it’s annoying. Too many people talkin’, you can’t hear what they’re sayin’ in the movie.”

  “Okay. Let’s go back to Saturday, August 18. That was about three weeks ago.”

  “Yes, I know. It was the day after Joe and Sally left for Colorado. I took them to the Orlando airport the day before.”

  “What did you do Saturday, David?”

  “I rented four movies that morning. I was at Blockbuster at ten o’clock in the mornin’ when they opened so I could rent movies to watch that weekend.”

  “Did you have anyone with you at the house to watch the movies?”

  Sikes didn’t hesitate. “No. I like to watch movies by myself. Whenever I have someone with me, they always talk during the good parts, then I have to rewind and play it back.” Sikes smirked. “Can’t do that in the movie theater. But it still pisses me off.”

  “Anybody that you know see you that Saturday?”

  Sikes thought for a few seconds. “Uh—yes—Bob Anderson. That’s Joe and Sally’s neighbor. He saw me pull my car out of the garage when I went to get the movies. He waved at me and I waved back.”