by Piers Platt
One down.
Falken spun and deflected another punch off of his forearm from his second opponent, and then felt a kick land on the back of his leg from behind. He dodged away, breaking free from the two men surrounding him. Falken circled the ring, backing away toward the edge of the disk, and keeping both men in his field of view.
“Come on,” Falken urged the man closest to him. “Quit being a coward and come at me.”
The man snarled and hurried forward, launching himself at Falken in an attempt to tackle him. Falken met his advance, and for a second they grappled, and then Falken twisted his upper body and threw the man neatly over his hip. The inmate skidded across the disk for several feet, and then disappeared over the edge, screaming.
Two down.
Falken went straight at the last man, who tried to back up but soon found himself out of room on the disk. Falken lunged in to grab the man by the hips, throwing him down onto his back. The man grunted in pain – Falken scrambled up on top of him, straddling his chest. He unleashed a flurry of punches, landing one after another on the man’s upraised arms and poorly-protected face. Finally, Falken grabbed the man’s hair and slammed his head against the metal disk, once, and then again. The man’s eyes rolled back into his head.
… and three down.
Falken stood up, breathing hard. He held his arms out to the side, and spun in a slow circle, surveying his two broken opponents, and the inmates around the balcony, whose cheers threatened to deafen him. Falken found Cadellium and Auresh, and pointed at them in warning.
Do not fuck with me. Not here.
Then he turned and caught sight of Archos. “Well?” Falken shouted.
The warden grinned at him. “Welcome back, Bird-man!”
Chapter 15
Vina finished scrubbing the roasting pan and rinsed it in the sink, washing the last of the soap from it. Then she held it up, letting the water drain, before handing it to her mother. Elize took it, wrapping it in a dish towel to dry.
“Thanks for dinner,” Elize said. “The chicken was delicious.”
“I burned the potatoes, though,” Vina said, peeling off her rubber gloves and draping them over the sink.
Elize shrugged. “I always liked them crispy.”
Vina laughed. “Mom, there’s a difference between ‘crispy’ and ‘burnt to a crisp.’ ”
“Well, I didn’t mind,” Elize said, putting the roasting pan away in the cabinet. “It was just nice to come home to find dinner laid on already. What did you get up to today?”
“Day four,” Vina said. “First day of defense arguments.”
“Oh, right,” Elize said. Her brow knitted together. “Vee, should I be worried about you?”
Vina shook her head. “No, why?”
“Well … you’ve just been very focused on this since you came back. I’m worried you might get too wrapped up in it all.”
“Aren’t you curious, too?” Vina asked. “To know what happened?”
“I was,” Elize said. “As soon as we got out and discovered your father was in jail, I went over everything myself, and talked to everyone involved.”
“And …?” Vina asked.
“And I ended up confused and frustrated. All the evidence seemed to support his conviction, although I couldn’t bring myself to believe that he had done it.”
“But you believe it now,” Vina pointed out.
“I accepted it, after a while,” Elize said. “For a few months, I caused quite a scene, petitioning everyone that would listen to get him released, or have his case appealed.” Elize sighed, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “And then one day I realized I was fighting a battle I couldn’t win, and it had taken over my life, and yours, too. I was fighting for your father, and neglecting you and your brother in the process. So I had to just accept what happened, and move on.”
Vina bit her lip. “I think I need to look into things myself, too. I’m not ready to accept it, yet.”
Elize nodded. “So long as you can put it aside, when you need to,” she said.
“I’m okay, Mom,” Vina said. “Promise. I’m going back to work next week, anyway. I’ll stop digging then.”
“Okay,” Elize said, placated. She leaned over and kissed her daughter on the cheek. “I’m going up to bed.”
“Goodnight, Mom,” Vina said, rubbing her mother’s back.
“‘Night.”
As Elize made her way upstairs, Vina took a seat on the couch in the living room, and turned the vidscreen back on.
Onscreen, Tarpon Buckniel was addressing a witness. Vina checked her notes. Who was he …? Oh, right. The psychiatrist.
“… so, Doctor Wenstal, it’s possible that Mr. Weaver had no intention to kill Mr. Savanh, and it was all just an accident?” Buckniel asked.
“Ah, I wouldn’t say ‘accident,’ ” Wenstal replied. “I think it’s more accurate to say that Mr. Weaver suffered a mental breakdown when confronted with the man who kidnapped his family, and in that altered mental state, he lost control of himself. He knew that killing Mr. Savanh was wrong, but he couldn’t stop himself.”
“And is it possible that this ‘altered mental state’ lasted for some time, and in fact led him to try to cover up the evidence, as well?” the defense attorney asked.
“It’s certainly possible,” the psychiatrist replied, shrugging slightly. “The academic research on the longevity of temporary insanity is not very robust, honestly.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Buckniel headed back to his table, and sat next to Weaver.
The prosecutor, a younger woman, stood up next. “Doctor, when you say the academic research is ‘not very robust,’ what does that mean, exactly?” she asked.
“It means there haven’t been any studies on it,” Wenstal replied.
“None whatsoever?”
“I’m afraid not. It’s not an easy subject to study, as you can imagine – you can’t exactly induce temporary insanity in a lab environment, or follow subjects around in real life hoping they’ll have a breakdown about something.”
“Naturally,” the prosecutor replied. “When people experience an episode like this, how long does it usually last?”
“A few minutes, a few days … in some cases, the insanity can take hold, and become a permanent condition,” Wenstal replied.
“So it’s possible that Mr. Weaver had an extended mental breakdown, long enough that he was still not of sound mind when he drove home? That he was still insane when he retrieved the tools he needed, and returned to the scene to hide his crime?”
“It’s absolutely possible,” Wenstal said.
Buckniel already covered this in his questions. Where’s she going with this? Vina wondered.
“Is Mr. Weaver still insane?” the prosecutor asked.
“I don’t believe so,” the psychiatrist told her.
“How do you know?” the prosecutor asked.
“He doesn’t exhibit any real symptoms now,” Wenstal said. “He hasn’t tried to harm anyone else, and aside from being distraught and somewhat depressed over this case, I haven’t seen anything to indicate that he doesn’t have a firm grip on reality.”
“Mr. Weaver continues to deny that he had anything to do with Mr. Savanh’s murder,” the prosecutor pointed out.
“True,” Wenstal agreed.
“Is that enough evidence to conclude that he’s insane?” she asked.
“What?” Wenstal asked. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“Sorry. Is the fact that Mr. Weaver has not confessed to this crime enough to conclude that he is still insane?” she repeated.
“No,” Wenstal said. “I don’t think so.”
“So then explain this to me,” the prosecutor said. “If Mr. Weaver was insane when he killed Mr. Savanh, but he regained his sanity sometime following that event … why has he not pled guilty by reason of temporary insanity?”
Wenstal glanced over at Buckniel apologetically. “I … I don’t know,” he said, fa
ltering. “That’s a question for Mr. Weaver and his lawyer, I suppose.”
“When people recover from their bout of temporary insanity, do they generally take responsibility for their crimes?” the prosecutor asked.
“I suppose so,” the psychiatrist hedged.
“Yes or no, Dr. Wenstal,” the prosecutor said.
“Yes,” he said. “They do.”
She turned and faced the jury then. “Mr. Weaver claims he didn’t kill anyone. But his lawyer brought Dr. Wenstal here in an attempt to argue that if Mr. Weaver did it, he was insane – it wasn’t his fault.” She turned and faced Buckniel and her father, crossing her arms. “Pick an argument, gentlemen – we’re all getting a bit confused. But either way, it won’t change the fact that Mr. Savanh is dead, and Mr. Weaver killed him. No further questions.”
… and that’s where Buckniel lost the case, Vina thought. His own witness pointed out that Dad wasn’t still crazy, but also wasn’t taking responsibility for the crime. I’m not a lawyer, but … that seems like a pretty dumb trap to fall into.
She paused the video, and made a few more notes on her datapad.
So the question becomes … was Buckniel just incompetent? Or was he throwing the case on purpose?
Vina bit her cheek, staring intently at the defense attorney on the screen.
And if he was throwing it on purpose, why? What did the Buckniel brothers have against my father??
She made another note, and then hit Play again, letting the video continue.
*
“Vina.”
The voice was low and gruff, and a hand shook Vina by the shoulder. She started awake.
“Hm?” She sat up on the couch, squinting in the harsh morning light streaming in through the living room blinds. A figure loomed over her, frowning. “Grandpa?”
“You slept on the couch?” he asked.
“I guess so,” Vina said, frowning. “I was up late.”
“So I gather.” Rauno jerked a thumb at the vidscreen, where the video was paused on a frame of the prosecutor standing in front of the jury, pointing at Weaver. “Still doing your own investigation?”
“Yeah,” Vina said. “What are you doing here?”
“Your mom needs her sprinklers turned on for the summer. She’s covering the store this morning so I could take care of that for her.”
“Ah,” Vina said, stretching. “Did you eat breakfast already?”
“It’s eleven a.m.,” Rauno said, a hint of disapproval in his tone.
I’ll take that as a “yes,” Vina thought. She stood up. “Well, I need some coffee – you want a cup?”
“Maybe when I’m done with the sprinklers,” Rauno said. He disappeared down into the basement, and Vina brewed herself a cup of coffee. She was on her second cup, having read through all of her notes from the night prior, when her grandfather came into the kitchen.
“All done?” she asked.
“Mm,” he said, washing his hands in the sink.
“Want that coffee now?” Vina asked.
Rauno checked his wristpad. “I’ll take it to go,” he decided. “I better get back to the store soon.”
Vina stood and pulled a travel mug from the cabinet, and then set about brewing him his own cup. “You know, Mom’s been running that store with you for nearly all her adult life,” she commented. “I’m pretty sure she can handle it for a few hours without you having to worry about her.”
“Your mother’s name isn’t the one hanging on the building,” Rauno said. “When something goes wrong, it’s not her they blame.”
What’s going to go wrong in an antique bookstore? Vina wondered, mentally rolling her eyes. But she bit her tongue, and poured sugar and cream into the mug, before handing it to her grandfather.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Can I come with you?” Vina asked. “I wanted to ask you a few things about Dad.”
Rauno frowned, eyeing her rumpled clothing. “You don’t need to change?”
Vina glanced down. “I mean, I guess I should … but I don’t care if you don’t care.”
He shrugged. “Come along, then.”
They locked the house, and Vina sat in the passenger seat. In the driver’s seat, Rauno overrode the car’s autopilot function, and took the wheel in both hands. His driving was rougher, more erratic than the car’s would have been, but Vina had become used to it over the years.
“What do you remember about that time?” Vina asked.
Her grandfather raised an eyebrow. “I remember being very scared for you. I remember wishing I could have had a good, stiff drink, from time to time.”
Vina nodded. “That’s right – you had just come back from one of your surgeries.”
Rauno nodded. “Mm. The last one.”
“… getting your artificial kidneys implanted,” Vina finished. Because Grumpy Gramps used to have a problem with alcohol. But we don’t like to talk about that … and anyway, he’s been clean and sober since then. “Did Mom and Dad run the shop while you were gone?”
“Your father did,” Rauno said. “Your mother was busy raising you and your brother.”
“He must have run it for a pretty long time – I remember you had a few surgeries, it was touch and go for a while.”
“I spent the better part of eighteen months in the hospital,” Rauno said. “Just before you were kidnapped.”
“Did Dad do okay running the store?”
Rauno shrugged. “I was a bit worried – your father’s strength was always appraising books, not dealing with customers or running a business. But the store survived. It was still standing when I came back.”
“How was his mental health after we were kidnapped?” Vina asked.
“Frayed,” Rauno said. “It was a very difficult time, for both of us. I was just as worried as he was, but I think in some ways, I was better able to cope. Your father … it took a heavy toll on him, from the start.”
“What about the murder? Did you ever get to talk to him about it?”
“Once or twice, while he was on trial,” Rauno said. “He didn’t share much with me. I wouldn’t say we were ever that close.”
“Why not?” Vina asked.
“He was a private man,” her grandfather said. “I always found it tough to get to know him, even after he married your mother.”
“Did he tell you he killed Tevka?”
“No, never,” Rauno said. “He denied it, ‘til the end. I think that was ultimately what led the jury to convict him, sadly.”
“Mom says she had trouble believing he did it,” Vina observed, watching through the windshield as the car drove through the rolling grasslands. Her grandfather didn’t answer, so she turned to him. “What do you think?”
“I think she’s trying to protect herself,” Rauno said.
“You think Dad’s a murderer, then?”
Rauno nodded. “I saw him on the day of the murder. He seemed very distracted, even more distant – and very upset. He wasn’t himself.”
Vina frowned. “You saw him that day? I didn’t know that. Did you get called as a witness in the trial?”
“I testified about it, briefly,” Rauno said.
I must not have reached his testimony in the court recording yet. “Tell me about it?” she asked.
Rauno sighed. “There’s not much to tell. I came over to your house, I just wanted to check in on him. I was worried about him. He was leaving as I got there. I offered to take him to dinner, something to take our minds off the whole situation. But he refused, he kept insisting that he had to leave, immediately. So he left, and I went back to my own house. The next thing I knew, the sheriff’s deputy was knocking on my door, wanting a statement.”
“Did you see anything suspicious when you were at our house?” Vina asked.
Rauno shook his head. “No. Just that your father was acting very alarmed. But he wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. I assumed he was just agitated about the kidnapping – he didn’t tell me about the me
ssage from Tevka.”
“Did Dad ever have a run-in with Sheriff Buckniel before that?”
“A ‘run-in’?” Rauno asked. “Do you mean, was he ever in trouble with the law?”
“No, with Buckniel in particular,” Vina said. “Or his brother.”
Rauno frowned. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Did they know each other?” Vina asked.
“I imagine,” her grandfather said. “It’s a small town. They’d probably met, a few times.”
“Did they ever get into an argument about something, maybe?”
“I don’t think so.” Rauno turned the wheel, turning off of the rural highway and pointing the car toward the buildings of the town center. “Why?”
“It just seems odd to me that the Buckniels were on opposite sides of the law,” Vina said. “The sheriff and the public defender. And I don’t think Tarpon did a very good job of defending Dad.”
“You think the Buckniels had it out for your father?”
“I think it’s possible,” Vina said. “I don’t know why, yet. But I’m working on it.”
Rauno slowed down for a stoplight. “Well, if your father had a disagreement with the Buckniels over something, he never told me. But again, he was a very private man.”
The light changed, and Rauno pressed on the accelerator again. Vina could see the bookstore ahead, nestled between the bank and the florist’s shop.
“There were rumors, years ago, about Sheriff Buckniel,” Rauno said, after a moment.
“Rumors?” Vina asked.
“He had a reputation for being heavy-handed,” he said. He guided the car into a parking spot in front of the store, and shut the engine. “Some people complained, early on.”
“Really?” Vina asked. “That is interesting.”
Chapter 16
Falken crossed the plank back to the balcony, where he found a grinning inmate waiting for him, holding a knife. Falken held his arm out, and was surprised to find three old scars – the hash marks from his first three fights – on the back of his forearm.