Dead River

by Fredric M. Ham

  “Do you recall seeing anyone else that day that you know?”

  “No. Wait a minute. Yes, the girl at Blockbuster.”

  “What girl?”

  “Her name is Carrie; she was the one who rented me the movies. I’ve rented movies from her before.”

  “Of course. Did you go anywhere else that day?”

  “No. I didn’t need to, I brought some groceries with me. I had everything I needed.”

  “David, are you sure you didn’t leave the house any other time?”

  He looked down at the table again and then back at Harley. “I’m positive.”

  “Did you tell any of this to the FBI agent, Mr. Goldman?”

  “Yes, sir, I did. Is that all right?”

  “No harm done, son. No harm done. Do you have a girlfriend, David?”

  Once again wrinkles appeared on Sikes’s forehead, but he continued to look at Harley. “No, I don’t.”

  “The authorities claim they have a note from the Riley girl.” Harley stared into Sikes’s eyes. “You know anything about this?”

  “No.”

  “There was a phone number imprinted on the paper.”

  Sikes again knitted his brow and paused for a moment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know nothin’ about a note.”

  Time to hit him with the hard stuff. Harley leaned forward and folded his arms on the scarred wooden table. “Here’s a hard fact, son. It’s been brought to my attention that some hair strands that matched those of the Riley girl were found in the bedroom where you stayed at the McCarthy residence. Can you explain how they got there?”

  Sikes’s chin met his chest, and he slowly shook his head from side to side. There was silence for several seconds. “No—no I don’t. Somebody must have put it there.”

  “Did you leave the McCarthy house for any extended period of time during your stay there?”

  Sikes was still shaking his head. “No.” Then he looked up at Harley. “What do you mean by an extended period of time?”

  “Let’s say for more than one day.”

  “No. I worked every day during the week and was at the house on the weekends.”

  Harley continued to probe, replacing the microcassette in his recorder twice. He informed Sikes that the State would probably want to eventually obtain a sample of his DNA, and that would require drawing blood. Sikes wasn’t keen on someone sticking a needle in his arm. Harley told him it probably wouldn’t happen for a few more days, some time after his initial appearance before a circuit court judge scheduled for late morning the next day. He briefly explained what would happen in court and told Sikes his appearance before the judge was routine. However, Harley made it clear there would be no bail, not in the case of a capital offense. Sikes’s shoulders sunk and his head wobbled. He occasionally rubbed his chin on the sleeve of his bright orange jail attire.

  “One last item, son,” Harley said. “Some possible good news.”

  “What’s that?” Sikes asked.

  “I’m going to file a motion for what’s called an adversarial preliminary hearing.”

  “A what?”

  “A special hearing. The case against you isn’t a strong one, you know, only circumstantial evidence. This would give us an opportunity to bring that to light. Hopefully the judge will agree to it. But you never know.”

  “When will you find out?”

  “The judge should let us know at the initial appearance.”

  While driving back to Orlando, Harley reflected on his discussions with Sikes. Initially he felt that Sikes had answered his questions truthfully; however, his gut told him something wasn’t quite right. The more he thought, the more doubts surfaced. Could this man have actually committed murder and not remember committing the crime? Is there one part of David Allen Sikes who’s a killer, and another part of him someone that I just talked to? That was certainly a possibility. He would have to hire a reputable forensic psychiatrist who specializes in this area to evaluate Sikes, and then testify in court that Sikes possessed multiple personalities and was insane at the time he committed the murder, if that was indeed what had happened.

  Harley was aware that in recent years a plea of insanity due to multiple personality disorder, now more commonly known as dissociative identity disorder, was becoming less effective as a defense strategy. But he was also aware of some cases where dissociative identity disorder was relevant in court. This was definitely something to consider, as it could lead to a solid defense for his client. Besides, this added to his list of challenges for the Sikes case and elevated his level of excitement.

  A decision would have to be made soon: to either enter a plea of not guilty or guilty due to insanity, since Sikes wasn’t about to confess to the crime. The latter would entail plea-bargaining with the state attorney. That would be a very involved, if not impossible, task, compounded by another problem unique to Harley. He and the state attorney for this judicial circuit, Owen Jacobson (or Mr. Slick as Harley lovingly referred to him in the privacy of his law offices), were bitter enemies. So a plea bargain would probably be out of the question. In all likelihood, Jacobson would go for murder one and the death penalty. The problems were quickly accumulating, and Buckwald loved it. He felt invigorated.

  Harley knew he had to find out more about the evidence against his client. He was also aware of the possibility of prevarication on the part of Sikes; maybe the chubby part-time electrician was a master of deceit. Right now, it was difficult to determine the veracity of his client’s answers to his questions, but Harley leaned in favor of the possibility that Sikes was a very sick man that didn’t know he committed a crime. Harley needed to have a discussion with his friend and colleague Mark Masters, one of the best private investigators he had ever known.

  65

  AS USUAL, SAM WEBER was drunk. His gangly fingers were wrapped around a gin and tonic. He took the swizzle stick and whirled the ice cubes in the frosted glass.

  “What the fuck, man?” the man sitting next to him at the bar said. “That drink’s already mixed, why you keep stirrin’ it? Just drink the motherfucker.”

  Weber slowly turned his head toward the man, squinting. “What the fuck do you care for, Townsend? It’s my drink.”

  “Yeah, it’s your drink but that shit’s annoying.”

  “So what?”

  “So what? All I ever seen you drink for the past year is gin and fuckin’ tonic.” Townsend held up his beer. “Why not start drinkin’ beer? You don’t have to fuckin’ stir this shit.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  Townsend broke into a snorting fit of laughter and then abruptly became serious. He leaned over the bar and looked at Weber. “Hey, man, you wanna buy some pot?” he whispered. “I got some good shit.”

  Weber swiveled his barstool toward the little greasy-haired weasel next to him and stared into his eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you, I don’t do that shit? It’s for losers. Peddle that shit to your low-life pieces of shit, not me.”

  “Okay, okay, chill out, dude. I just thought I’d ask. Like I said, it’s some really good—”

  “Like I said, I don’t want your fuckin’ dope, dope. Get it?”

  “Yeah, I guess you don’t want any fuckin’ dope, dope.”

  A third man sat at the bar sipping a 7-Up, concentrating on every word spoken by the two men. Occasionally he leaned in closer.

  Weber stirred the fresh drink the bartender had placed on the white napkin in front of him. Townsend watched the rotating swizzle stick, shaking his head.

  “Have you followed the news about that Sikes guy?” Weber asked Townsend.

  “Sikes? Who the fuck is—oh yeah, Sikes. I saw him on TV a couple of times.” Townsend rubbed his chin. “Yeah, yeah, Sikes, he’s the one that they think killed that girl.”

  “That’s right. And he did it, too.”

  “No shit?” Townsend straightened up on his barstool. “Hey, how do you know?”

  “’Cause I did
the lab analysis on some of the evidence.”

  Townsend slapped Weber on the back. “No shit. What the fuck! You’re a regular Sherlock fuckin’ Holmes. Kiss my ass.”

  “Don’t touch me, you fuck. I don’t like anybody touchin’ me.”

  “Well, shit, sorry, dude. So what kind of analysis did you do?”

  Weber looked around the bar and then leaned in closer to Townsend. “When I got to the lab it was real late, and I didn’t feel like doin’ any work. So I—”

  The jukebox began to roar, and it didn’t stop the rest of the night. Weber and Townsend continued talking as the jukebox blasted out tune after tune. First it was “Sweet Home Alabama,” then “Friends in Low Places,” then “Indian Outlaw,” then …

  66

  ADAM SAT in the family room with a glass of iced tea watching the Friday evening news. Valerie was slumped at the opposite end of the couch. She might as well have been in another room. Dawn was out with some of her friends, those that weren’t attending college. The feature story on the news was the arrest of Sikes and his transfer to the county jail from Cocoa Beach. Sikes’s face momentarily appeared on the screen as an unsteady news camera twisted and turned to foil the suspect’s attempts to conceal himself.

  Adam watched as the gyrating camera caught a glimpse of the man’s face as he was led out by two policemen. Valerie sat with her hands tightly clasped, eyes fixed on the TV. Intermittently a microphone popped into the frame followed by a reporter shouting questions.

  “Did you kill Sara Ann Riley?”

  No reply from Sikes.

  “Did you have sex with her?”

  No response. Another microphone appeared.

  “How did you kill her?”

  Still no reply. Adam watched as Sikes’s head snapped to the side, trying to avoid the camera.

  “Did you kill Tami Breckenridge?” a reporter roared. “Did you rape her too?” another bellowed.

  Adam’s glass met the porcelain coaster on the end table with a clink, rattling the ice cubes inside. He snagged the remote and punched the power button. The screen went black.

  “He looked scared to me,” Valerie whispered.

  Adam turned toward his wife, but she stared straight ahead. “He should. I hope he’s goddamn terrified.”

  “He’ll have to answer to God for what he did.” She turned and wagged her finger in Adam’s direction. “And he will be punished.”

  “Here we go again. Is this another one of your ‘Let’s Forgive Him’ speeches?”

  Valerie stood, working up a contemptuous glare. “No, not hardly. I won’t have another discussion like we had last night.”

  Adam shot back an icy stare. “Is that what we had last night, a discussion? That usually involves an intelligent exchange of ideas. So it couldn’t have been that. No, it was more like wrangling, with a few of your stale adages thrown in for good measure.”

  Valerie jerked her body around and then stomped out of the room.

  Saturday morning offered a clear sky. The muggy summer air was hanging on into fall, as usual for Florida. There was no relief in sight on the extended weather forecast. Harley’s black Lincoln Continental cruised toward the Justice Center off I-95. The scheduled time for Sikes’s court appearance was ten. Harley checked his watch and estimated that he would make it to the parking lot about thirty minutes before ten. Just enough time to park, go through security, and see his client.

  Appearing before the judge would be a routine matter. The charges against Sikes would be explained to him, followed by a brief discussion regarding bail. Harley expected the judge to deny bail because of the capital offense. Hopefully the judge would then grant the adversarial preliminary hearing requested by Harley, and a date for that would be set.

  Harley drove up a long access road and parked in the large lot. There weren’t many cars there compared to a weekday, so he was able to park close to the entrance. After passing through security, he took the elevator to the third floor and entered courtroom 3-C. Harley spotted the court deputy, the court stenographer, three of the judge’s staff, and an unfamiliar man sitting at the prosecutor’s table, but he didn’t see Owen Jacobson. Harley figured the man at the table was Jacobson’s assistant, and Jacobson himself wouldn’t make his appearance until precisely ten.

  Harley walked over to the deputy, who had a flat-top haircut and looked like his clothes were ready to split at every seam from his overweight frame. “Good morning, sir, my name’s Harley Buckwald. I’m representing Mr. David Sikes. I’d like to see my client before we start at ten.”

  “Okay. Wait here.”

  He waited several minutes before the deputy reappeared. Harley was asked to follow him through a door to the right of the judge’s bench and down a hall. They stopped in front of a large metal door that the deputy unlocked. Harley entered the room and saw a deputy sheriff sitting in a chair at one end of a rectangular table. At the other end was David Sikes.

  “You have fifteen minutes,” the deputy sheriff announced before leaving the room. The heavy door shut with a thud.

  Sikes was handcuffed, and his ankle restraints were secured to the floor with a padlock. After an awkward handshake, Harley explained what was about to be discussed in the courtroom.

  “I don’t want you to say anything during your appearance.”

  “What if I’m asked a question?”

  “Just hold on, son, I’m getting to that.”

  Sikes shifted around in the wooden chair, glancing to either side.

  “If the judge asks you a question, I will either answer it for you or I’ll direct you to answer. If I want you to answer, I’ll nod my—son, are you listening to me?”

  “Yeah, I hear you. These handcuffs are cutting into my wrists.”

  Harley shook his head. “As I was saying, if I want you to answer, I’ll nod my head to let you know to speak. But only answer the question he asks, no more. So always look toward me after the judge asks you a question. Understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Another thing. There will be no bail.”

  Sikes took this harder than he did the first time he heard the words. He lowered his head and mumbled something, raising his cuffed hands to cup his forehead.

  “What’s that, son?”

  “I said it smells in my cell.”

  “You’ll just have to deal with it.”

  The weighty metal door opened, and the court deputy stomped into the room. “Times up, counselor,” he announced.

  Sikes rubbed his forehead and continued mumbling.

  “How about a few more minutes?” Harley asked.

  “Nope. Time’s up.”

  Harley planted his hands on the table, slowly lifting his large frame out of the chair. He looked toward Sikes a last time. The accused murderer just sat there, chained like a dog and muttering, as Harley left the room.

  67

  HARLEY RE-ENTERED the courtroom and took a seat. His client’s case was third on the court docket. At 9:55 am, five defendants, manacled together, were led into the courtroom by three deputy sheriffs and seated in the jury box.

  Owen Jacobson finally made his entrance into the courtroom at precisely ten. His meticulously trimmed, slicked-back silver hair glistened under the overhead lighting. He wore a tailored dark gray three-piece pinstriped suit that complemented his hair. His gait seemed to be timed so that everyone in the courtroom had a chance to observe his entrance.

  Harley despised basically everything about this man, but especially hated his monotone voice. However, Jacobson was a hard-hitting prosecutor, definitely a worthy adversary. He took every case very seriously, and expected the same commitment from everyone that worked for him. He ambled toward his table and took a seat. He looked over at Harley and nodded. Harley returned the gesture.

  The court deputy quickly covered the rules of the court, asking one audience member in the back of the room to remove his cap. He reminded the defendants to speak up when addressing the judge. Sometimes Judge
Vetter didn’t have his two hearing aids turned up high enough.

  The second case was delayed nearly an hour because some of the documents were missing from the prosecution’s case folder. Jacobson was furious. The papers were ultimately found, and it was on to the next case.

  When Sikes’s name was called, a deputy sheriff unlocked him from the fellow defendants on either side and led him to the defense table. Sikes finally settled into a chair beside Harley who was already at the table. The judge began reading the charges. Harley glanced at Sikes and saw a look of terror on his face. He reached over and gently patted his client’s shoulder. The judge explained the defendant’s rights and asked him if he was understood. Sikes looked at Harley. With a nod of approval from his attorney, Sikes spoke.

  “Yes, I understand.”

  Harley stood up and placed his fingertips on the table. “Your Honor, I respectfully request a decision on my motion for an adversarial preliminary hearing.”

  Harley knew this would get a rise out of his opponent. And it did. In fact, that was a planned side effect of the request. Suddenly, Owen Jacobson stood up and moved smartly to the side of his table. He glared at Harley and then looked at the judge.

  “Your Honor, there’s no need for such a hearing. This is absurd,” Jacobson droned. “The State requests that the defense be denied a preliminary hearing.”

  Harley was his usual calm and collected self. He aimed to never let his opposition know if he was upset about anything. There were appropriate times for dramatic outbursts to make a point. But this wasn’t one of those times.

  Harley looked to the judge. “Sir, I believe such a hearing is very appropriate. The State basically doesn’t have a case against my client, and I would like to show that during a preliminary hearing.”

  This was a stretch, but he had nothing to lose. Maybe he could uncover something during the hearing. This was definitely a stretch.

  Harley snapped his head in the direction of the prosecutor. Both of Jacobson’s arms shot straight up, and then they hit his sides in unison. “I can’t believe this,” he shouted.