Florida Key

by Neil Watson

  Oliver withdrew his gaze from the computer screen, looked upwards to the ceiling and pondered. He had previously learned that Joliet Correctional Center had been closed in 2002, and most remaining inmates had been transferred to nearby Stateville Correctional Center, just a few miles to the west of Joliet. So, if ‘life’ did mean life, it was theoretically possible that the last two names on the list could in fact still be residing there.

  Bearing in mind how long ago they had begun their sentences, it was also a possibility that either or both could have passed away. There were certainly more questions without answers, and now there was yet another question: why were there two pairs of names listed together? Maybe if he studied every small detail available, he would eventually find the explanation. It was all terribly laborious, and Oliver knew that at this rate he’d never get his blog layouts completed by the end of the day. But this was far more important for the moment, he thought, so he carried on, regardless.

  From the top, he began reading the links underlined in blue, leading to further information elsewhere. One of the links against Emanuele’s name repeated the word ‘ASSASSIN’. “Hmm—how fascinating. Was he really an assassin?” Oliver wondered. He read on to discover that M.J. Emanuele had, if what he’d read was true, been hired to kill no fewer than six men over a period of three years. Oliver could only speculate as to who would have paid to have their dirty work carried out. Gangsters? Drug barons? The Mafia? All the other links associated with Emanuele simply came up as ‘PAGE NOT FOUND’, indicating that they’d been subsequently removed. “Hmm,” Oliver repeated under his breath.

  After a good deal more work, he stumbled upon the reason for the list’s paired names. One of the links against O’Flannagan’s entry suggested that increased prison populations necessitated cells to sometimes be shared. Ryan and O’Flannagan had been cellmates together, as had Emanuele and Yakamoto. So it looked like Emanuele had been jailed in ’77, having the cell to himself–and then in ‘81 he had to share his space with Yakamoto. As they were both ‘lifers’, maybe they had been moved to Stateville in 2002 together, and possibly were still there to this day.

  As usual, Oliver’s mind wandered off at a tangent. He imagined the scenario of actually meeting these people. Wouldn’t it be interesting to conduct an interview for the blog, he thought, and discover what life had really been like, cooped up in Joliet prison, sharing a cell with another prisoner?

  Completely captivated, Oliver continued with his cross-referencing. He clicked on the link against Yakamoto’s name, hoping to find further information, and he wasn’t disappointed. But what on earth could this ‘Paris BR Murder’ possibly mean? Had the crime been committed in France? Two newspaper clippings were then displayed to reveal the answer.

  Intrigued, Oliver read the headlines, both containing the three words ‘Bike Radio Murder’. So, that’s what the ‘BR’ abbreviated, he concluded. Fascinated, he decided to put all his other work on hold for the rest of the day. He couldn’t resist examining every single word written about the man with the Japanese name—so today’s blog designing and everything else would just have to wait until tomorrow, he told himself.

  As the articles revealed Yakamoto’s full story, a wave of sadness came over Oliver. It had something to do with the fact that this guy was clearly a keen cyclist like himself. And, according to the report, Yakamoto had emphatically maintained his innocence throughout his ordeal, and without fully understanding why, Oliver instinctively believed him to be innocent of murdering Sandy Beach, the reported victim.

  Oliver examined the facts: Yakamoto had been crossing America on a pedal bike. Surely, Oliver thought, cyclists don’t go around killing people, do they? He felt a strong wave of empathy for the cyclist who had surely just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It all seemed so improbable that this young man, barely a little older than his own present age, could be a cold-blooded murderer, hitting a woman over the head and killing her.

  Oliver read on. A handlebar radio was the weapon? This seemed even more incredible. It was definitely this last entry in Gold’s notes that captured Oliver’s interest the most, having now made up his mind that Yakamoto surely couldn’t have been guilty. Inexplicably, he decided there and then that it would be Yushi Yakamoto to whom he would devote his full attention. “Who knows?” he wondered. “Maybe I might even get to interview Yakamoto and discover the whole truth behind the story of the ‘Bike Radio Murder’.”

  CHAPTER 23

  (WEDNESDAY, 3RD JANUARY, 2018)

  Welcome Reply

  O liver looked at the time. It was already 5.42p.m. So absorbed in what he was reading, he hadn’t noticed the other office staff going past his door on their way home. He got up from his desk and glanced towards the large open-plan space at the end of the corridor. It was empty of people, except for Val, the cleaning lady, busy pulling along a Henry vacuum cleaner to suck up the aftermath of yet another busy day in the life of the East Anglian Chronicle.

  Deciding it was time to go home too, Oliver bent down to put his cycle-clips on over his jeans. He folded his laptop shut, put it in his satchel and headed outside to where his bike was locked, fastening his helmet straps as he walked. Mentally exhausted from all today’s internet research, he decided that enough was now enough, and that tomorrow he really must get back to developing the magazine’s digital layouts. Any further Joliet prison research would have to be put on hold until he was back in the United States.

  For Oliver, it wasn’t too long a ride from Colchester, out of the business park where the Chronicle’s building was, weaving along the busy roads and onto the calmness of the Wivenhoe Trail, a flat, gravelled path that ran between the railway on the left and the River Colne on the right. Normally, Oliver would have his eyes on the river the whole way, mesmerised by the sunlight’s reflection as it shimmered across the incoming or outgoing tide. But today, he hardly even noticed the water at all, so deep was he in thought about the day’s developments.

  And what a significant breakthrough he’d made, in more ways than one. Not only with the discovery of Gold’s comprehensive study, but also the agreement he’d come to with his boss about the blog—and of course his return trip to America. “That’s so awesome!” he guessed would be Sam’s reaction when he told her. He also couldn’t wait to tell everyone else his exciting news, including Audrey and Bob, but especially his dad. He hadn’t seen him in a while and hoped they might be able to catch up later over a quick pint.

  But he was also very conscious that he must contact the Indianapolis Daily Times as soon as possible, as part of his general plan. Maybe he could pop into the Black Buoy on his way home this evening, have another attempt at getting something composed on his MacBook, and then call to invite his dad round for a drink after he’d finished.

  Still thinking hard, before he knew it, Oliver had already cycled past Wivenhoe’s railway station, The Station Hotel, and Natalie’s Boutique Chic shop in the High Street. If only she sold men’s clothes as well as women’s, he thought, then he’d have the perfect excuse to go in and say hello to Natalie more often. He admitted to having quite a crush on the woman, especially when she spoke in her delightful Geordie accent.

  On he cycled, past Tollgate Fisheries from where they always offered the perfectly cooked portion of chips that Oliver enjoyed at least twice a week.

  The pub was only a few metres further down, and soon he pulled up outside, propping his bike against the wall, feeling glad that in Wivenhoe there was no need to lock it. Good, he thought, as he entered and saw that it wasn’t yet very busy inside. He knew it soon would be, so the quicker he got his pint and got down to work, sitting in his favourite nook, the better.

  He wanted to ask if he might be allowed to operate out of the Indianapolis newspaper’s office, write his blog and conduct research from there. But how exactly should he approach this question, he wondered? Should he send a personal email to the newspaper’s editor, or directly to the publisher, perhaps? As he already had so
me journalistic credentials, what with his position here at the Chronicle, he hoped that his unusual request would at least be given some consideration.

  Oliver mulled things over, remembering advice he’d been given. “Don’t only write about what I want,” he told himself. “Offer them something that they might want in return.” But what could that be? Maybe he shouldn’t send an email at all. Perhaps a posted letter would be better? It may make more of an impact in this age of email correspondence. As he took a couple of gulps of Guinness, he decided he would send them a letter—a neatly handwritten actual note on good Basildon Bond paper—and sent with a British stamp showing the Queen’s head on the envelope. Guessing that they must receive hundreds of emails on a daily basis, this unorthodox approach would surely grab the attention of at least someone in authority there.

  Oliver tried putting himself in the shoes of the prospective recipient, and considered this would be the best approach. “I bet they don’t get that many physical letters, let alone a handwritten one from England,” he thought. He’d compose it now on his computer, and write it out the following day in longhand, using a fountain pen—the Parker that his dad had bought him for his sixteenth birthday. Unable to remember the last time he’d used the pen, the thought of it reminded him of his father, so before he began tapping the keypad, he made a phone call inviting him round to the pub in half an hour or so.

  “Only for a quick one, Dad,” he explained over the phone. “I’ve got a very busy day tomorrow, but I’ve also got something very important to tell you.” Leslie Markland wasn’t used to going to the pub mid-week, but nonetheless he was pleased for the opportunity to meet up with his son. Normally, his boy was so busy talking with all and sundry at the weekends, he now rarely got a look in these days—let alone a proper chat.

  “Okay, son, I’ll see you around eight,” Leslie agreed. For the following 30 minutes, Oliver slogged away, attempting several drafts until eventually feeling satisfied that he’d got the tone of his composition just right. Tomorrow, he’d find out who he should personally address the letter to, and get it posted. He’d also include an issue of the Chronicle with an example of his column in it, along with some printed information about Colchester and, for good measure, some pretty pictures of Wivenhoe. That should also help to catch their eye, he hoped. At eight o’clock precisely, Oliver looked up to see his dad come through the door, just as he was typing out a few final words.

  After a pleasant couple of pints and a full update from Oliver, Leslie Markland walked home, very proud that his son had so much enthusiasm for what he was doing, clearly relishing his new job. Who would have thought? As he took a shortcut through St. Mary’s churchyard, Leslie smiled, realising that actually he had never doubted that one day, sooner or later, his son would fall on his feet. And that was certainly exactly what he had done.

  Oliver stayed behind at the Black Buoy for a few minutes longer so that he could reread the draft of what he’d written:

  Draft Letter to Publisher of Indianapolis Daily Times

  Dear (xxxxx)

  I am contacting you in the hope that you may be able to help me with a project that I am working on for our publication, the East Anglian Chronicle. We are based in Colchester, England, the oldest recorded town in the country, approximately 60 miles from London.

  I currently write a column and blog for the Chronicle. We’ve recently been getting a great reaction to an intriguing story about the penitentiary at Joliet, Illinois, and a specific police case from the 1980s, known as the ‘Bike Radio Murder’ in the town of Paris, Illinois.

  I wonder if you may have heard of the case, or even better, if you have any records of it on your files? I am particularly keen to conduct an interview with the man found guilty of the murder, Mr. Yushi Yakamoto, who may by now have been moved to nearby Stateville.

  I have been offered accommodation in the town of Plainfield, near Indianapolis, and I will be writing my column and blog from America during my three-week visit to your country.

  I would very much appreciate it if I could perhaps do some of my research from your offices. I have full press accreditation, and I am intending to come just as soon as I can finalise my arrangements, hopefully later this month.

  For your valued assistance, I would of course give full acknowledgement to your newspaper in everything that is published.

  Here at the East Anglian Chronicle, we are keen to extend our best wishes to you all at the Indianapolis Daily Times, and I hope that my request reaches you well.

  Good! That was the general gist taken care of, Oliver decided, satisfied. He could add the finishing touches tomorrow, and politely ask for an email response at their earliest convenience.

  ***

  (THURSDAY, 4TH – TUESDAY, 16TH JANUARY, 2018)

  The following day, Oliver did as he’d planned and sealed his completed letter to Indianapolis. Then he concentrated on re-designing the magazine’s blog pages, writing another column, as well as making contact with Sam’s parents. He just wanted to be completely sure that he’d still be welcome to stay with the Dickinson family before finally booking his BA flights. Fortunately, their speedy reply confirmed that he would be—and it sounded like, judging by Sam’s FaceTime call, that they were all genuinely looking forward to him coming out. She excitedly told him about the many places she couldn’t wait to take him to in her home city.

  The Post Office advised him that his letter to the Indianapolis newspaper should take between five and seven days to arrive. So, after the fifth day, Oliver checked his Inbox constantly, at least every hour. Finally, on the seventh day, the email he’d been longing for popped up. Based on his holiday experiences of how Americans communicate, it was as short and to the point as he’d expected. He knew the reply would either be a quick ‘yes’ or an abrupt ‘no’. He began reading, crossing his fingers for the former. Fortunately, he wasn’t disappointed:

  Oliver – Thanks for reaching out.

  We’d be delighted to welcome you. Let us know your ETA. I’ve checked our records on the ‘Bike Radio Murder’ story. We don’t have much on it here, but our sister paper in Terre Haute covered it extensively. You may wish to write them as well. I copied your letter to the Ed there. Write Ursula O’Mahoney—she’s expecting you. Address below.

  Best

  Steve Borowitz

  Publisher

  Delighted with the response, Oliver sat back and reread the email, amazed at how well things were coming together. “Right,” he thought. “Now all the elements are in place, I’d better book those flights.”

  After a number of clicks on the BA website, and using the company’s Visa card with Edward’s permission, it was all done, and he’d be flying out on Tuesday. That gave him four complete days to prepare, and get his new blog design finalised.

  Not long later, there was the familiar ‘ping’ sound as a further email appeared in Oliver’s Inbox, the sender using the full name ‘Uschi Ne Mathghamhna’. Was that a real name? He was just about to press the delete button, assuming this to be yet another all-too-common scam email that constantly cropped up from somewhere in Romania or Ukraine. Luckily, just in time, he noticed a few words displayed from the first line of text: “Oliver, your charming letter was…”.

  Maybe it wasn’t a scam after all, so he clicked to open and speed-read the content, without fully absorbing everything in the rather confusing format in which the email had been written.

  Oliver, your charming letter was passed to me today by my colleague in Indianapolis. I went to London once and loved it. The case known as the ‘Bike Radio Murder’ was a big deal here in ‘81, and our paper covered it extensively. Sure, come on over and we can turn things up for you.

  Steve B. sent some scans of your quaint little village. My niece is hoping to visit London this fall. Can you help? How far are you?

  She doesn’t know anyone there. By the way, you won’t be able to interview Yakamoto. He was executed in 1996. What’s the weather in Wivenhoe? Foggy, I bet, ne
xt to a river. He always maintained his innocence, but they all say that. My niece is called Siobhan—bet she’d like to meet you when you’re here. You can talk London.

  See you in Terre Haute. When?

  Ursh

  With the sentences all over the place, Oliver was very confused on its first reading. And who was ‘Ursh’? He assumed it must be the same Ursula O’Mahoney that Steve Borowitz had mentioned, but Oliver couldn’t be certain. He reread it, this time more carefully. Previously he’d missed the part that mentioned Yakamoto. “Wow!” exclaimed Oliver out loud, stunned at the revelation he’d now digested. After quickly looking on Google Maps to see where exactly Terre Haute was, he hastily sent a reply.

  Dear Ursh

  Thanks for your email. I’m sure I’ll be able to help your niece. I’ll talk to my boss, Edward Wright. I’ve just booked my flights and I’ll be arriving in the US next week. I’d be very grateful for any assistance you can offer me at your Terre Haute office, and maybe I could sometimes use a desk there as well as at Indianapolis?

  I will contact you again nearer the time to advise exactly what day I’ll be coming. I see it’s only 80 miles away from where I’ll be staying, and I’m hoping to borrow or rent a car while I’m over. If not, I could get a bus perhaps? Thank you.