Death Row

by William Bernhardt

  “And her father was the molester.”

  “That was . . . what she said. Yes.” She took a shallow breath. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “Actually, yes. I’ve quit and I don’t care to be tempted.”

  “It would really calm me.”

  All the more reason to say no. “Sorry. Departmental policy.”

  She was wearing a vivid red dress that stopped at midthigh. Very attractive, but not very professional. Certainly not the image of the icy lady psychiatrist. Mike wondered if she had been planning to go out on a date. Or maybe hit the singles bars. “Erin was conflicted, and this dark chapter in her past only made it worse. Of course she grieved for what had happened to her family, and she felt a good deal of guilt about having survived when the others did not. But I sensed there was also a certain amount of . . . relief.”

  “Because the man who had been molesting her was gone?” Baxter suggested.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Did she give you any details?” Mike asked.

  “She did. But do you really want to hear them? As she explained it, the abuse initially just involved touching. Inappropriate touching. But as she got older, it . . . progressed.”

  “To intercourse?”

  “I don’t think so. But there was definitely intimate contact. Sexual contact.”

  Baxter nodded. “And did you believe Erin?”

  Bennett hesitated before answering. “I have learned to be cautious about such accusations. Especially when they originate under hypnosis. She seemed very convincing. But there have been cases of false accusations.”

  “Did you think Erin was lying?”

  “No, I certainly didn’t think she was lying. But it is possible she was . . . mistaken.”

  “Okay,” Mike said, “did you think she was mistaken?”

  “No. But I’m not a human polygraph. I can’t eliminate the possibility. And in a case such as this one—when the complainant has been through a great deal of emotional trauma, when the accusations only arise years after the incident, when the accused molester is long gone and utterly unable to defend himself—there is cause for concern.”

  “You’re being very diplomatic, Doctor,” Mike said, “but not terribly helpful. Did you believe her?”

  “Yes,” Bennett said, raising her chin. “I did. But I’m not anxious to tarnish a dead man’s memory without objective proof.”

  “Is there anyone else who knew about these accusations?”

  Bennett shrugged. “I don’t know. It seems unlikely. As I said, they only emerged under hypnosis.”

  “And when was that?”

  “About six months ago.”

  “But you can’t rule out the possibility that she told this to someone else.”

  “I suppose not. Why?”

  Mike pushed away from the table. “Because it opens up a whole new world of possible motives, Doctor. That’s why.”

  “Can you think of anyone else Erin might’ve told about this?” Baxter asked.

  Bennett pondered a moment. “Well, she was seeing a young man for a while. James Wesley.”

  Mike nodded. “We’ve spoken to him.”

  “But the relationship didn’t progress far. They never became intimate. Frankly, I don’t think Erin was ready for that yet. And I can’t imagine the subject coming up casually over dinner.”

  “What about Sheila Knight?” Baxter asked.

  “It’s possible. Sheila knew Erin for years—even before the tragedy. She could conceivably have known about the abuse when it was happening.”

  “Then that’s our next stop. Thank you, Doctor.”

  The relief on her face was evident. “Am I free to go? I have an engagement tonight.”

  “Let me check with my superior officer,” Baxter said wryly. She turned her head. “Can she go?”

  “Yeah, you can go,” Mike said, then added, absolutely straight-faced, “But don’t leave town.”

  Did he really look that much worse than the last time? Ben wondered as he peered at the man on the other side of the glass. Or was this just the product of an overactive imagination, perhaps augmented with feelings of guilt and senseless responsibility? It had only been a few days. Maybe it was the harsh glare of the overhead lighting, the clouding effect on Ben’s contact lenses.

  Or perhaps Ray really had aged in the hours since Ben had seen him last. Think of all he had been through recently. Almost executed. Then the key prosecution witness recants. Then she dies before she can tell the authorities and the judge declines to grant his petition for relief. And once again, an execution date is looming, drawing near all too quickly. Maybe the recent developments had taken a toll on Ray’s body that to anyone else would simply be unimaginable. Maybe that was the reality of life on death row.

  “I wish I had more to report,” Ben said into the receiver, “but it seems as if all we uncover are more questions. Interesting questions. Important questions. But damn few answers.”

  “I like Christina’s theory about a second assailant,” Ray said. “It makes a certain sense. There was so much death, so much destruction. A second person is definitely credible.”

  “A second person with a heart of gold? Who nonetheless participated in the torture and murder of an entire family?”

  Ray hunched his shoulders. “Heart of gold might be stretching it. Some vestige of morality, perhaps. And we don’t know to what degree he participated in the killing. He or she, that is.”

  “I’m still not convinced. Serial killing is not usually a group activity.”

  “I don’t know from serial killers,” Ray said. “But it seems to me this crime breaks the mold in several respects.”

  “That’s what the psychiatrist thought, too. Dr. Bennett. She seemed to have a hard time coping with the idea of anyone being cruel enough to do this.”

  Ray grunted. “This from a woman who puts pins through butterflies.”

  “Well, yeah.” Ben glanced at his notes. “Do you know anything about this organ clinic where Erin worked?”

  “Sorry,” Ray replied. “Never heard of it. I don’t think it existed when I was last a free man.”

  “It did, actually. Although Erin didn’t work there yet.”

  “Any reason to think her workplace has anything to do with this case?”

  “Not really,” Ben admitted. “I’m just trying to be thorough. I did get a tip from my pal Mike at the police department. He says the feds have been quietly taking a look at the clinic. They think Dr. Palmetto may have been involved in some black-market organ dealing.”

  “Shades of Robin Cook.”

  “Apparently it’s a big-money racket. Organs are even being sold over the Internet, which makes it all the harder to catch the marketeers.”

  Ray thought for a moment. “If Erin was involved in something like that, it would definitely give someone a motive to eliminate her.”

  “The thought had occurred. Does the name James Wesley mean anything to you?”

  “No. Should it?”

  “He dated Erin. Said she had some . . . peculiarities.”

  “Another news flash.”

  “Granted. Although this ear-candling stuff she went in for is pretty weird. Was her father like that?”

  “Not that I’m aware.”

  “You got along with Faulkner, as I recall. Didn’t you?”

  Ray thought a moment before answering. “We got along well enough. I worked directly under him, and he could be a bit of a blowhard. Especially after he started having such success with his flavor formulae and bringing in the big bucks. But there was no ill will between us or anything like that. I’ve told you before.”

  “I know. I just wanted to see if any of this had spurred any old memories.”

  “Sorry.”

  “That just about covers it,” Ben said, closing his folder. “I don’t have anyone left to talk to.”

  “What am I, chopped liver?”

  “You know what I mean. Anyone who might have new information ab
out the murders.” Ben curled the phone cord around his finger. “I was thinking . . . I might talk to Carrie.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I said no.”

  “Ray . . .”

  “Carrie has been through enough, thanks to me. I won’t put her through any more misery.”

  “Ray, if she can help you—”

  “But she can’t. If she could, she already would have.”

  “Still—”

  “There is no ‘still,’ Ben. Listen to me. You will not talk to Carrie. Under any circumstances. And if you go against my wishes on this—you’re fired.”

  Mike drove his Trans Am crosstown, heading south toward the home of Sheila Knight. Baxter was in the passenger seat.

  “By the way,” Baxter said, staring straight ahead, “thanks for letting me take the lead on the Bennett interrogation.”

  “No problem. You were useful.”

  “Useful?”

  “Can’t be a bad cop without a good cop.”

  “Well. I’m so glad I could be . . . useful.” Out the corner of his eye, Mike could see her jaw clenching. “Thanks also for not trampling all over me when you decided to cut in. I mean, you could’ve just shoved me aside. After I was no longer useful.”

  Mike licked his lips.

  “You didn’t have to do that. After all, you are the superior officer.”

  “Baxter . . .”

  “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.” She stared out the side window, giving Mike the back of her ash-blonde hair. “You believe what Bennett was saying?”

  “I think she believes it. That doesn’t mean it’s true.”

  “Yeah. Hard to size up a woman who’s so full of contradictions. Working with criminals by day, butterflies by night. Smart, but funny. Cold, but horny.”

  “Horny?”

  “Oh yeah. She was hot for you.”

  “For me?” Mike’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “Are you making fun?”

  “I’m not. She was drooling for you, Morelli.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “I know a woman in heat when I see one. When you leaned over the table and started playing the stern disciplinarian, she turned to putty.”

  “Go on.”

  “If you’d turned her over your knee and spanked her, we’d probably have cracked the case by now.”

  Mike rolled his eyes. “Baxter, you’re full of it.”

  “Says you. Why do you think she suddenly started spilling her guts? She went from ‘I shouldn’t say anything’ to ‘Let me tell you everything I know’ in about ten seconds flat.”

  “I attributed that to my brilliant interrogation technique.”

  “Sure, Morelli. Keep telling yourself that.”

  “That shrink was not hot for me.”

  Baxter narrowed an eye. “Why? Is that a problem for you?”

  “Problem? What do you mean?”

  “Why are you protesting so much? I’m no expert on women, but she seems like a pretty darned attractive specimen to me. And she’s bound to be loaded.”

  Mike felt his palms starting to sweat. “Well . . . she’s not my type.”

  “What is your type?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Do you have a type?”

  Mike felt his face reddening. “Yes, I have a type.”

  “Does it involve women?”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t involve Dr. Hayley Bennett.”

  Baxter held up her hands. “All right. All right already.”

  They drove in silence. Baxter didn’t think she should say anything more, and Mike was almost afraid to. Until he couldn’t stand it anymore.

  “Look, are you just giving me more grief here? Or do you really—”

  “She was on fire, Morelli. Liquid flame. Undressing you with her eyes.”

  “Wow.” He continued driving, eyes straight ahead. “Guess I missed that. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “My pleasure.” After a moment, she turned herself around in the bucket seat, just enough to face him. “So, does this mean I can drive the Trans Am?”

  “Not a chance.” He paused. “But if you keep it up, I might let you touch one of the mag wheels.”

  “What, you’re going to fire me after seven years because I want to talk to your old girlfriend?”

  “You got it, Ben.”

  “Christina would say that’s a good reason to do it.”

  “Look—just humor me on this. She couldn’t possibly tell you anything of interest. Why do you think she would?”

  “Well, to tell you the truth—your old lab pal Hubbard put the idea in my head.”

  “Hubbard? Why?”

  “He told me about your social life together. When you weren’t huddled over the Scrabble board, that is.”

  “Hubbard’s full of it.”

  “He painted a fairly vivid portrait. Cruising the singles bars and whatnot. I know that was before Carrie, but still—”

  “Did you have Christina with you? He was probably trying to impress her with his tales of macho studdom.”

  “Still, if there’s any chance—”

  “Ben—I’m begging you. I know I can’t fire you. No one’s going to take my case on the eve of execution. But I’ve caused that poor woman enough torment. Don’t bother her, okay?”

  Ben looked at him long and hard. “I’ll have to think about it some more,” he said finally.

  Ray stared at him, stony-eyed. “You’re going to see her, aren’t you?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  Ray grunted. He was obviously unhappy, but no doubt realized there was nothing more he could do.

  “Anything I can get you?” Ben asked.

  “How about a cab ride to the nearest synagogue?”

  “Are you doing all right? You look tired.”

  “I haven’t been sleeping well. I still get the nightmares.”

  Ben remained silent. He didn’t have to ask what they were about.

  “You don’t know how close I came. They actually had me strapped down on that table, before the call came in from the courthouse. They had started filling the needles. I thought it was . . . was over.”

  Ben wished he could reach out, could touch, could offer some measure of comfort in some way. But of course, he couldn’t. Ben’d had a few brushes with mortality himself, but nothing that could even come close to what Ray must be experiencing—the slow, inexorable, measured approach of an all-but-certain death.

  “Now every time I close my eyes, I see that table. Right before me. The straps. The needles. The warden with his finger on the button. All of it taunting me, saying, ‘We let you go once. But we’re still here. And we’ll get you.’ “

  “That must be . . .” Ben couldn’t think of a word that began to describe it. “Almost unbearable.”

  Ray did not disagree. “I see the rabbi every day now. We get down on our knees and we say the prayers. But none of it helps. None of it makes me . . . forget. Where I’m headed. What they want to do to me. I have a burning sensation in my stomach and every day it gets worse.”

  “We’re doing everything we can,” Ben said, realizing as he said it what little help it must be. “If there’s any way to stop this, we will.”

  Ray’s dark and hooded eyes peered out from behind his fingers. “As a Jew, I should believe in miracles. But I don’t. Never have. Much as I might like to delude myself with hope—I can’t. Much as I might like to believe there’s someone up there looking after me—I know better. When the guard closes the door at night—I’m alone in the cell. And when they strap me down to that table—I’ll be alone. No more last-minute reprieves. No miracles. No eleventh-hour redemption.” He shook his head with despair. “I don’t think I believe in anything anymore.”

  Ben pressed his hand against the glass. “Believe in this, Ray. I’m not going to let those nightmares come true. Not without a fight.”

  Ray pressed his own hand against the other side of the g
lass. But he did not say anything. And the hollow, lost look in his eyes did not fade.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “Ms. Knight, we have legitimate information—”

  “From a shrink? Someone who was paid to talk to Erin?”

  “Dr. Bennett seemed very certain—”

  “Well, she got it wrong.” Sheila Knight was wearing a T-shirt and a pair of jeans with a rip in the right knee. She was wearing no makeup and her hair was in need of a wash. Just the same, she was gorgeous.

  “Apparently Erin first revealed under hypnosis—”

  “That’s a crock.”

  Mike inhaled deeply. He was tired of being interrupted. Maybe it was just him, but Sheila’s protestations seemed almost too vehement. “Is it possible Erin told her psychiatrist something she would never tell anyone else?”

  “It is not possible,” Sheila said firmly. “Erin told me everything. If I didn’t know about it, it didn’t happen. So I can state absolutely and positively—this did not happen!”

  Mike decided to change the subject. “What kind of work do you do?”

  “I’m a tech writer. Freelance. I write all those boring little manuals you don’t read whenever you buy something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, I’ve done almost everything. Instruction manuals for kitchen appliances. Construction manuals for children’s toys. Did an employee training book for a fast-food chain. That sort of thing.”

  “Stay busy?”

  “More than I want, actually. The first few years were slow, but once I got my name out there—wow. I have all the work I want now. I even farm some out to friends, subcontracts.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  Mike continued looking at her. He didn’t want to be the one who reintroduced the subject, and he hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. She knew what he wanted to talk about.

  “Look,” Sheila said, finally, “I know the police have to follow all their leads. But I’m telling you—this is nonsense. I knew Erin, all through school. I was over at her house constantly. I knew her father—for that matter, I knew every member of the family. If there had been something going on, something . . . horrible, I would’ve known about it. There’s no way I could have not known about it.”