Death Row

by William Bernhardt

Spatters of blood and brain tissue were very much in evidence. Other than the mess on the bed, though, there were no signs that anything was amiss. Water still in the bath. (Evidently not a very soothing soak, Mike noted.) Phone on the hook. No sign of other persons. Just one little girl—or young woman, if Baxter insisted. One very sad young woman.

  On the far side of the bed, Mike spotted a familiar figure looking away, toward the bathroom. He was thin, medium height, with straight brown hair and an increasingly sizable bald spot on the back of his head.

  “Freeze,” Mike said. “You’re under arrest.”

  As he turned around, Ben Kincaid’s face was wide-eyed with astonishment, followed by a moment of recognition, followed by a grimace. “Very amusing.”

  Sergeant Baxter looked concerned. “You know this man, Morelli?”

  The corners of Mike’s mouth crinkled. “He turns up a lot. Kind of a murder junkie.”

  Baxter approached Ben, all business. “This is a restricted crime scene, sir. Unless you’re with the department—”

  “I’m a lawyer,” Ben tried to explain.

  “Is that supposed to count for something?”

  Mike proved once and for all that he really did have a mean streak. “To be precise, Sergeant—he’s a defense attorney.”

  Baxter’s hand slid inside her jacket, touching her weapon. “What are you doing here?”

  “Tomlinson waved me up. I just wanted to have a look around.”

  “Why?” Baxter said, her face cold. “So you could rearrange things? Walk off with some incriminating evidence? Taint the scene so you can later allege police incompetence? This is my case, asshole, and I’m not going to let any legal crapola screw it up.”

  Ben adjusted his gaze wearily. “Mike, who is this woman?”

  Baxter answered for him. “I’m Major Morelli’s new partner. Sergeant Kate Baxter. And you’re trespassing on a crime scene in violation of—”

  “Relax, Baxter,” Mike said, pushing between them. “Counselor Kincaid here is a friend. What’s your interest in this case, Ben?”

  “Do you have to ask? Ray Goldman’s appeal is still pending.”

  Mike rolled his eyes. “You’re kidding me. Are you still beating that dead horse? How long has he been on death row?”

  “Seven years. Which is seven years too long.”

  Mike tilted his head toward Baxter. “Mr. Kincaid is referring to the sadistic bastard who tortured and killed Erin Faulkner’s entire family.”

  “Ray Goldman is no sadist,” Ben rejoined. “He’s an educated, cultured, sensitive man. He’s a gourmet cook.”

  “Oh, well, that proves he’s innocent. Give it up, Ben. Your man did the crime.”

  “No,” Ben said firmly, “he was just convicted of it.”

  “We had him dead to rights.”

  “The only thing you had was the testimony of the late Erin Faulkner. And yesterday, she showed up in my office and told me everything she said on the witness stand was a lie.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. She said DA Bullock pressured her, and she was young and malleable, and she made an identification she wasn’t sure about. And as a result, Ray Goldman has lost seven years of his life.”

  “Wait a minute,” Baxter said, forcing her way into the conversation. “Now that the woman has turned up dead, you’re claiming she recanted her testimony?”

  “You got it.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “Another lawyer in my office.”

  Baxter turned away, shaking her head. “I’ve heard of some sleazy defense-lawyer tricks in my time—”

  “It’s not a trick.”

  “Bull. You’re trying to take advantage of the woman’s death to get your creep off the hook. That’s despicable.”

  “I’m telling the truth.”

  “Right. And the day after she cleanses her soul—to a defense lawyer of all people—she turns up dead. Now isn’t that convenient?”

  “No,” Ben said, turning his eyes toward the bloodstained bed. “I don’t find it convenient at all.”

  “Look,” Mike said, holding up his hands, “I don’t know what’s going on here. But I’ve known Ben since college and I know damn well he wouldn’t make up a story like this just to get his client off.” He’d come up with something more credible, Mike thought silently.

  Baxter stared at Mike, outraged. “So you’re siding with the defense lawyer?”

  “I’m not siding with anyone. I’m just telling you the facts. Ben’s no liar. Of course, even if Erin Faulkner said it, that doesn’t mean it’s true.” He dug his hands into his coat pockets, came up with nothing. Times like this, he really wished he hadn’t quit smoking. “C’mon, Baxter. Let’s finish working our suicide.”

  “How can you be sure it was suicide?” Ben asked.

  Mike stopped. “What, you, too? She was found with the gun still in her hand.”

  “Hers?”

  “No record of Erin Faulkner owning a gun. But it’s hardly surprising she would have one. Given her past, she must have suffered from . . . mental disturbances. Survivor guilt. Hell, maybe she really did think her testimony was false, and she felt bad about it. Any of those could lead to suicide.”

  “I’m still not convinced,” Baxter said.

  “Look around you. Do you see any sign of a struggle? Any indication whatsoever that anyone else was here? No. And there’s a reason for that. It’s because no one else was here.”

  “Or maybe the assailant tidied up afterward. He had plenty of time.”

  “I’m with your partner,” Ben said. “How can you be so sure?”

  “Listen to me, kemo sabe. I’ve seen you when you get that I’m-on-a-mission-from-God look in your eyes, and I know it never turns out well. I also know you’ve been working on this Goldman case for years and that you’d do anything to get him off death row. But there’s nothing here for you.”

  Ben stared at the bed. “I have to explore every possible avenue.”

  “Fine. You do what you have to do. But at the very least, you should let Christina work on a case that has a paying client. Otherwise, you’re going to end up practicing out of the back of your van.”

  “Thanks for the financial advice.”

  “I’m just trying to help. I’m your friend, remember? I’m family. Sorta kinda.”

  “Yeah. But the fact that you’re still carrying a torch for my sister doesn’t mean you’re right.”

  Baxter’s head turned at that.

  “I can tell you this for certain,” Mike replied. “As soon as I get back to the office, the Erin Faulkner death is going to be a closed file.”

  “Is that so?” Baxter said, one fist on her hip.

  “Yeah. That’s so.”

  “In that case,” Ben said, “since there’s not going to be any official police investigation, can we at least agree to share information?”

  “You’re not listening to me, Ben. There’s not going to be any information to share.”

  “You never know. Something might turn up. Let’s keep each other informed of what we’re doing.”

  “If it will make you happy, Ben, fine.”

  “It will.” He smiled slightly. “I’ll put a good word in for you at the family reunion.”

  “Please don’t. The only person on earth your sister is less fond of than me is you.”

  “Good point.” He crossed the room and extended his hand. “Pleasure meeting you, Sergeant Baxter.”

  “Was it?” She didn’t shake.

  Ben drew in his breath, then gave Mike a smile. “And good luck with the new partner, Mike. I think this is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

  Chapter

  9

  Did they know what he had done? Gabriel Aravena wondered. Did they know it was him?

  Everyone who entered the FastTrak today seemed to be staring at him. Perhaps he was just imagining it. The delusion of a guilty conscience, that’s what Dr. Bennett would say. But no matte
r how hard he tried to tell himself that—there were still those eyes! Those damned eyes, staring at him, constant, unrelenting. He’d like to rip them out and—

  He clutched the cash drawer, trying to steady himself. Get a grip, Gabriel. You are too close. Too close to spoil it by doing something stupid now. So what if they are staring? If they’re staring at anything, it’s probably your great big womanlike breasts. It’s probably the—

  “Like . . . do you carry bras?”

  Aravena’s eyes narrowed as he peered down at the two blonde teenage girls leaning across the counter. “Why do you ask?”

  “How about . . . because I need a bra?” the one on the left said. “Duh.”

  Aravena lowered his gaze, making no attempt to hide where his eyes were going. As far as he could tell, she actually had very little need for a bra.

  Of course, he liked them like that.

  “I’m sorry, miss. We don’t carry clothing. This is a convenience store.”

  “I know what it is, Professor. I just thought, maybe, you might have a private stash of bras around.” She began to giggle, then she and her friend skittered out the door, laughing all the way.

  “Obnoxious little tramps.” His assistant manager, April, had returned from the storage room. “What do they think this is, Sears?”

  “I believe they were making a little joke. Or so they thought.”

  “I’m sorry, Gabe. Girls can be such bitches sometimes.”

  She would know, he supposed. April was only seventeen herself. She was five feet three and trim and athletic; he could tell from her arms that she worked out regularly. “It’s nothing. Really.”

  “How was the doctor appointment yesterday?”

  “Oh fine, fine.” April had never asked, but she must suspect that the doctor he took off work to see once a week was a psychiatrist, just as she must have guessed that medication was enlarging his breasts and causing his hair to fall out. How much did she know about his past? he had often wondered. The owner knew, of course, and the flunky who had hired him. He had no way of being certain, but he suspected they had also informed April. A corporate variation of Megan’s Law—inform the young female employee that the man she’s working with is a former sex offender. Convicted of a crime involving an eleven-year-old girl.

  If April knew, she didn’t appear to hold it against him. To the contrary, she made a point of being open, casual, friendly. Joking around. Making a show of the fact that she could handle it. That he didn’t make her uncomfortable. Except of course that the fact that she had to make the show proved that he did.

  And she wasn’t the only one putting on a show. He was performing, too, every day they were together. He also had to be open, casual, friendly—but not too. And it was hard work. Because he liked April. Very much. She was almost exactly his type. Dark hair, dark eyes. A little old, but in truth she didn’t look her age. Sometimes, when he was certain she wasn’t looking, he’d cop a look at her bending over in the storage room, or adjusting her sports bra in the mirror. And when he did, he’d feel something. Very definitely. Something.

  Not like he used to. Not like before the medication. But the Depo didn’t eliminate sex drive, as Dr. Bennett had reminded him countless times. It only suppressed it. And as long as he had gone without . . . release, all the drugs on earth couldn’t suppress everything he was feeling.

  “D’you do anything fun last night?” April asked.

  Why did she want to know? His head jerked around. “Nothing much. Watched television. You know.”

  “Yeah. D’you see that deal on PBS about the spiders?” She shivered. “I hate spiders.”

  As she shivered, her whole torso, even those petite little titties tucked away in that sports bra, shimmied in a way that made him feel as if he must knock her to the floor and take her right now. Take what he wanted, what was his. Lick her and bite her and do her, hard. Over and over again. Do her over and over again until she was unconscious. Just rip the damn uniform off her and take her—

  “Is something wrong?”

  Aravena shook himself back to earth. “No, nothing. Why?”

  “You seemed . . . I don’t know. Lost in thought or something.”

  “I’m just distracted. A lot on my mind. I’ve had . . . some troubles, lately.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” She reached forward and gently placed her hand against his cheek. “Is there anything I can do?”

  That just about did it, right then and there. The warm, electric touch of her hand on his cheek, coupled with those magic words. Is there anything I can do? He was fully erect now. It had been weeks since he’d felt like this. “No . . . I—I’m fine.”

  “Really?” She removed her hand. “ ’Cause you don’t look fine.”

  Aravena took a deep gulp of air. Control, he told himself. You must stay in control. There are security cameras in here. He couldn’t risk blowing everything. Not when he was so close. “No, I’m okay.”

  “Whatever. Want me to get the receipts?”

  “Sure.” An easy answer, since he wasn’t allowed to handle the receipts. He could take the money and put it in the register, but he was never allowed to take it away. Not that the boss didn’t trust him, as he had once explained. He just wanted to make Aravena’s life easier by removing temptation. Standard procedure for all ex-cons.

  She stepped beside him and popped open the cash register, then began putting most of the cash into a designated zip-top FastTrak money bag. As she reached across, her breasts inevitably brushed against him. Aravena experienced a surge even greater than before. He could feel the blood pumping, rushing through him, stiffening him even more. He had to uncross his legs, just to keep from exploding. He was sweating, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to restrain himself much longer. Hurriedly, clumsily, he pushed off the stool.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” April said.

  “That’s fine. I’m . . . parched. I’m going to get a drink.”

  “Nothing too strong now,” she said, grinning. “Don’t dip into the company booze.”

  “I don’t drink liquor,” he said, not adding: I’m not allowed.

  Aravena entered the men’s room and shut the door. He splashed water on his face. It didn’t help. He was just going to have to take care of this problem the old-fashioned way. He unzipped his slacks and sat down on the toilet stool.

  While he worked he closed his eyes and thought of many women. Dr. Bennett, Erin. Even that bratty teenager who asked about the bras. And April. She was the central vision in his fantasy life, today anyway. He dreamed about the way she talked, the way she walked, the way she put bags of potato chips on the high shelf. What he had felt when she touched him. How she looked. Each and every magnificent feature.

  But most of all, he thought about her eyes, her deep dark rich eyes. He loved those eyes. He wanted them. He wanted them for his very own.

  Chapter

  10

  When Ben returned to his office, he found his staff huddled around a desk passing Polaroids.

  “Baby pictures?” Ben guessed.

  Jones pulled a face. “C’mon, Boss. Paula and I have only been married a few months.”

  “Yes, but I know how industrious you are.” He snatched one of the pics. “Somebody buy a house?”

  “Loving,” Christina answered. “A cabin. Out in the woods.”

  “Cool,” Ben said, eyeing another photo. “A weekend retreat? Fishing and hunting and water sports and such?”

  Christina shook her head and silently mouthed, “No.”

  Loving pushed himself up on the desk, flexing his considerable biceps. “It’s a retreat, you got that right. But not for playin’ around.”

  “This is where Loving plans to live,” Jones explained. “After the impending global economic holocaust.”

  “Ah.” Ben nodded. “I’ve been meaning to get a place for that myself.”

  “It’s fully stocked,” Christina explained. “Freeze-dried food, bottled water, and gold coins.”
r />   “Gold coins?”

  “It’s the only currency that’s gonna be worth a damn,” Loving explained. “After the holocaust, I mean.”

  “And when are we expecting this holocaust?”

  Loving’s voice dropped. “It could be any day now.”

  “Don’t I remember you saying it was starting a few years ago, when the bottom started dropping out of all the tech stocks? It didn’t happen.”

  Loving raised a knowing eyebrow. “Because they didn’t want it to happen.”

  “And they being . . . ?”

  “The international banking cabal. They sold short all those tech stocks before the crash, then raked in the money.”

  “How could they know the prices were going to drop?”

  “Because they’re the ones pulling the strings. They’re the ones making it all happen.”

  “Do you happen to know these people’s names?” Ben asked. “Because I’d like to put them in touch with my stockbroker.”

  “Of course I don’t know their names,” Loving said solemnly. “If I knew their names, I’d be dead.”

  Somehow, Ben suspected he wasn’t going to get the best of this conversation. And frankly, he didn’t have the time. “Staff meeting in the main conference room in ten minutes. I want everyone there.”

  “I won’t claim this case will be easy,” Ben said, standing at the head of the table.

  “They never are,” Jones groused.

  “The odds against getting a prisoner released via habeas corpus are staggering. And we have some procedural problems, too.”

  Christina nodded. “You mean the Antiterrorism and Effective Death Penalty Act.”

  “You got it.” Ben passed copies of the document around the room. “This was enacted in 1996 in the aftermath of the bombing in Oklahoma City. It placed extremely tight restrictions on habeas relief. Once, habeas petitions could be filed anytime. No longer. Now there are tight deadlines. As soon as the state postconviction proceedings end, the time limits on federal relief start ticking.”

  “Which is why we filed our petition,” Christina explained. “Even though we had nothing new to say. But now we do.”

  “I thought you weren’t allowed to introduce issues in federal appeals that weren’t presented to the state courts,” Jones said.