Death Row

by William Bernhardt

  Christina’s brain was racing, trying to formulate a solution to their predicament. But it just wasn’t there. Nothing that came to mind was remotely feasible. And Aravena, strong as he was, was just as helpless as she. There was nothing left for them to do. Nothing but to stand here and watch this madman pick them off one after the other.

  “You don’t want to do this,” Dr. Bennett said.

  Rothko chuckled. “Oh, I think I do.”

  “You don’t. You just think you do.”

  “Oh, puh-lese.”

  “I don’t know what happened to you. I don’t know what twisted you into the man you are now. Perhaps you were pushed too hard. The need to succeed was too great. Perhaps you have unresolved issues. Sexual problems. Maybe you made one mistake and had to go on making bigger ones to cover it up. I don’t know. But I know this—you don’t have to do this horrible thing.” She extended her hand. “I can help you.”

  Rothko scowled. “Dr. Bennett, are you trying to psychoanalyze me?”

  “I’m trying to help you.”

  “You’re saying I’m crazy.”

  “I’m not. I don’t even know what that word means.”

  “Well, I’m not crazy!” he shouted. “I’m not!”

  “Fine!” She held up her hands, the handcuffs still dangling from one wrist. “But I can help you. If you’ll let me.”

  “You’re making me sick.” He lifted the gun, eye level. “I’ve made my decision, Dr. Freud. You’re first.”

  “No!” Aravena shouted.

  “Oh, yes,” Rothko replied. He pulled the trigger.

  “No!” An instant before the shot rang out, Aravena dove in front of Dr. Bennett. The slug hit him in the chest. Blood flew through the air. He crumpled to the floor.

  “Gabriel!” Bennett screamed. Christina stared, her mouth gaping.

  “This is getting pathetic,” Rothko said bitterly. “Do you think you accomplished anything, Gabe? You didn’t. All you did was change the order.” He raised the gun again. “Say sayonara, Doctor.”

  Another gunshot rang out. Christina winced. She wrapped her arms around herself, trembling, and waited for Dr. Bennett to fall.

  But she did not fall. Peter Rothko did.

  “Is everyone all right?”

  “Mike!”

  Mike raced forward, gun still in his hand.

  “He’s hurt!” Christina said, pointing to Aravena’s motionless body on the floor.

  Mike ran to his side. “Goddamn it. Straight to the heart.” He whipped out his cell phone and called for an ambulance. “I’ve already called for backup. They might bring a medic.” He moved over to Rothko’s side.

  “Is he dead?” Bennett asked.

  “Unfortunately, no. He’ll make it.” He collected Rothko’s gun and emptied the chamber.

  Christina ran to the stove and shut off the gas. “Be careful about firing in here,” she warned. “The gas has been on a long time.”

  “Thought I smelled something.” Mike returned to Aravena. His eyes were open, but just barely. He tore the man’s shirt and looked more closely at the wound—then grimaced.

  Bennett knelt beside Mike. “Will he—?”

  Mike looked at her, then shook his head.

  Bennett gripped Aravena’s hand tightly in both of hers. “Why, Gabriel? Why did you do it?”

  Aravena’s eyes were almost entirely shut, but he still managed to speak. “I . . . am not . . . a monster.”

  “No,” she said, “you’re not,” and once again tears poured down her cheeks. “You’re a hero. You made yourself who you wanted to be.”

  Four

  What’s All Around You

  Chapter

  31

  Ben, Mike, and Christina were huddled outside the courtroom doors with Ray Goldman, in orange coveralls, his feet shackled, and two marshals standing not four feet behind him.

  Mike looked at Christina with concern. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

  Christina finessed the question. “I don’t have any choice. It’s now or never.” Her eyes briefly met Ray’s. “Tomorrow’s the day, you know.”

  “Speaking for myself,” Ray said, “I think we should go for it.”

  Despite the gravity of the situation, Christina couldn’t help smiling. She pulled an outline out of a file folder. “Here’s what I thought we’d do, Mike. Start with all the information you’ve extracted from Rothko, then follow up with the background details you’ve uncovered. If we handle it right, we’ll get a new trial. I thought I would—”

  “Wait a minute,” Ben said. His voice was quiet but firm. “I’ll take the lead on this one.”

  Christina and Mike looked at each other.

  “It is my case,” Ben added. “Has been for seven years.”

  Christina glanced edgily toward the courtroom doors. “Oh, sure. Now that we actually have a case . . .”

  “It isn’t that. I think . . . it’s time I grew up. I’m not a first-year associate anymore and I’m not going to act like one.”

  “Ben, you don’t have to—”

  “Yes, I do. All of you have confronted your fears. Especially you, Ray. You’ve been looking everyone’s greatest fear straight in the face for years. So I can damn well face Judge Richard A. Derek.”

  Christina handed him her file. “I pass the case.”

  “Well . . . don’t go too far.”

  Her eyes beamed. “You think you might need my support?”

  Ben turned toward the courtroom. “Yeah. Especially when my knees give out.”

  “In the end, it all came down to flavor,” Mike said, testifying from the witness stand. “Frank Faulkner had it. And Peter Rothko wanted it. Badly. He knew he needed something fabulous to jump-start his floundering restaurant chain and to enable him to compete with the major players in the industry. Faulkner was being hailed as the Einstein of the field; his work was innovative, brilliant. Rothko contacted him about devising a special flavor for Burger Bliss’s upscale burgers. And Faulkner was eager to make some extra money. Unfortunately, he was bound by a long-term contract; legally, anything he devised belonged to his employers. So his work for Rothko had to be done on the quiet.”

  Ben squared himself behind the podium. “And did he, in fact, devise a formula?”

  “According to Rothko, he did. But something went wrong. Faulkner demanded more money—much more. More than Rothko could hope to raise. Contrary to what he told you, he never inherited any money, and his restaurant was bleeding cash. So if he wanted the formula, he was going to have to try a different tactic.”

  “Like murder?”

  “Exactly. Rothko enlisted a man named Gabriel Aravena. Aravena had just begun state-ordered therapy with Dr. Hayley Bennett as part of his probation. He had a history of violent sex crimes—especially involving young girls. We believe Rothko essentially hired him to take out Faulkner.” He paused. “Apparently hiring a hit man is a lot cheaper than buying a trade secret, these days.”

  “So Aravena was sent to take out the Faulkner family?” Ben asked.

  “According to Rothko, Aravena was only supposed to kill Frank. But something went hideously wrong. The rest of the family came home, much earlier than expected. Aravena couldn’t cope with this unexpected complication. He went berserk. He was an unstable, sick man—at that time—with sexual issues and a strong penchant for violence. He ended up torturing and killing all of them—except Erin Faulkner. She fit his profile of sexual desirability and so he restrained her in the basement, apparently with the idea of . . . spending more time with her once the house was secure and the rest of the family was dispatched.”

  “What happened?”

  “Rothko. He arrived at the scene—and found a slaughterhouse. He was incensed. He hadn’t wanted this. So he says. He did what he could to make the situation better—took the baby back to its crib, took some money to make it look like a robbery, smoothed Frank’s daughter’s skirt. He didn’t know about Erin being in the basement, and he certainly w
ouldn’t have allowed Aravena to hang around the scene of the crime just to pleasure himself.”

  “What about the eyes? Why were all the eyes removed?”

  Mike took a deep breath. This was not his favorite part of the story. “You’ve probably wondered why killing Frank would give Rothko the formula. Frank didn’t keep it at home, after all. Rothko needed to get into the plant, which had notoriously high security. He collected Frank’s ID card, but that wasn’t the only thing Rothko needed if he was going to sneak into the lab and steal the formula. As I believe you’ve experienced, Mr. Kincaid, this lab has a retinal-scan screening device. To get in, he needed Frank’s eyes.”

  Ben had heard all this before, but that didn’t make it any less horrific. “That explains the mutilation for Frank. Why the others?”

  “Cover. If only Frank’s eyes were missing, someone might’ve figured out the reason. But when it happened to the whole family, it seemed like the work of a sadistic psychopath. Which it was, of course. But it was not random violence. It was violence with a very specific purpose.” Mike lowered his chin. “Soon thereafter, the Tulsa PD became convinced that Raymond Goldman was the killer. And he was ultimately convicted, due largely to the eyewitness testimony of Erin Faulkner, who was under great pressure to identify Mr. Goldman as the killer. But it was an ID she was never sure about, and it haunted her thereafter. Her despondency was written off by most who knew her as the grief of a sole survivor. But it was also the guilt of someone who suspected she had been instrumental in the incarceration of an innocent man.”

  “So at this point,” Ben said, “Rothko had his formula. He used it to build his restaurant chain into the great success it is today. Another man had been convicted for his crime. He must’ve thought he was scot-free.”

  “Indeed he did,” Mike agreed. “Until he ran into Erin Faulkner at the penitentiary in McAlester the night Goldman was almost executed. He had a brief conversation with her and it convinced him that she was about to recant her identification, which of course would reopen the whole case. Rothko couldn’t allow that. He killed her—though not before she spoke to you, Mr. Kincaid—and he made it look like suicide, which in Erin’s case was always plausible.”

  “What about Sheila Knight?”

  “Sheila was Erin’s best friend. She had been with Erin at McAlester, and she’d seen and heard Rothko talking to her. He saw her, too, and he knew who she was. Just to play it safe, after he killed Erin, he kept an eye on her. Sheila had been told that the police suspected Erin was murdered, and that Erin had allegedly recanted her testimony, and when she put that together with the conversation in McAlester, she eventually became convinced that had been the reason Erin was killed. Sheila hadn’t recognized Rothko in McAlester, but being a relatively famous person locally”—he glanced at Christina—“and one of Tulsa’s most eligible bachelors, it was only a matter of time before she identified him, particularly after the hostage incident in one of his restaurants. His picture was in the World the day she died; I think she saw it and recognized him. At any rate, Rothko couldn’t take the risk. He followed her to a lakeside cabin—he had a cabin himself nearby—and found the paper open to his picture and Sheila in a frenzy. When she saw him, she panicked. Called him a murderer. Ran away. At that point, he had no choice. Another loose end needed to be tied. She had to die.”

  “Why did he try to kill Hayley Bennett?”

  “Same story, really. She spotted him in your office. She knew she’d seen him before—and not in the society pages. Frank Faulkner was also her patient. He was struggling with office stress—but also, apparently . . .” How to put this? There was no point in destroying the man’s reputation now. “ . . . also struggling with his feelings for his daughter. And her friends. Anyway, Dr. Bennett had seen Rothko with Frank Faulkner shortly before he died, and she’d made notes about the encounter in Frank’s file.”

  “Why did that seem worth noting?”

  “Well, Frank had told her he was working on something big. He was very agitated. And her house call to Frank’s home interrupted a business meeting with Rothko—just before Frank was killed. Once Bennett saw him in your office, it didn’t take her long to put it all together. Unfortunately, Rothko recognized her, too, and once again, he saw his elaborate plan falling apart. So he rounded up Aravena—who had no choice but to comply, given all that Rothko knew he had done—and grabbed her. The opportune arrival of a neighbor prevented him from killing Bennett on the spot and making it look like suicide, as he’d done with the others. But he surely would’ve killed her. If we hadn’t intervened.”

  Ben paused, letting all that Mike had said sink in. “Major Morelli, at this time, do you or anyone else at the Tulsa PD have any reason to believe Ray Goldman was involved in the murder of the Faulkner family?”

  “No. To the contrary, I’m quite certain he was not. I’ve not only investigated this in detail—I’ve also spoken to Mr. Rothko himself. He’s been given partial immunity as to the Faulkner family deaths—even if they were instigated by Rothko, they were actually committed by Mr. Aravena, who is now deceased. That still leaves three murders and two attempteds to charge him with.” Mike turned to look at Judge Derek. “But Raymond Goldman had nothing to do with any of the murders.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “I am. The whole department is sure. There really is no doubt. We made a mistake once. But now we want to set things right.”

  “Thank you, Major Morelli.” Ben closed his notebook. “Thank you very much.”

  The courtroom was deathly quiet. Ben had concluded the presentation of his evidence. Weintraub had been all but invisible; he made no real objection to anything Ben said or did. Judge Derek had been silent throughout. Not an unnecessary word had been spoken. And now, minutes passed while the handsome judge sat at his bench, not moving, not speaking.

  “What’s he doing?” Ray muttered, under his breath.

  “I don’t know,” Ben muttered back. “I wish I did.”

  “He’s going to turn us down, isn’t he? Just like the other times. He’ll find some excuse.”

  “We don’t know that,” Ben said, but in truth, he was thinking the same thing. Had he made a hideous mistake, taking the lead at the hearing? Knowing how intensely Derek hated him, had he sacrificed Ray’s chances to his own bravado? “We’ll just have to wait. And see.”

  Mercifully, the interregnum eventually came to an end. “Well,” Derek said, massaging the bridge of his nose, “this presents a bit of a dilemma, doesn’t it?”

  Ben felt Christina’s hand dart out for his under the table.

  “Your client has exhausted all his appeals. You’re aware of that, aren’t you, Mr. Kincaid?”

  Ben rose to his feet. “Yes, your honor. I am.” He was tempted to start arguing. But something told him not to. The man already knows everything you’re tempted to tell him. Just keep your mouth shut. See where he’s going.

  “But as you’re also well aware, this court sits both in law and in equity. When newly discovered evidence is brought to light, the court always has the option, in equity, to reopen a case. Most of the newly discovered evidence this court has seen in the past—including in this case—was ridiculously weak and unconvincing.” He paused. “But what I’ve heard today in this courtroom is something else again.”

  Ben felt Christina’s hand squeezing his. Come on, Derek . . . come on. . . .

  “It seems apparent to this court that a grave injustice was done seven years ago—an injustice for which Raymond Goldman has paid the price. An impossibly high price. The court cannot return those years to you, sir. All we can do is earnestly offer our condolences, and our apologies. And of course, grant your writ for relief.”

  Ray slowly rose. His knees were shaking. “Y-you mean—you mean I get a new trial?”

  Derek shook his head. “I mean you’re free to go.” He rapped his gavel. “Marshals, remove those shackles. The writ for habeas corpus relief is granted. Case dismissed.”

>   The courtroom exploded. Ben and Christina threw themselves around Ray, around each other. Flashbulbs ignited the room. “I can’t believe it,” Ray kept saying. “After all this time. I can’t believe it.” Everyone in the gallery rushed to the front. Pandemonium ruled.

  “There will be order in this court!”

  Derek stood at the head of the courtroom, banging his gavel furiously. “We may be out of session, but this is still a court of law and you will behave accordingly!”

  He glared at them all for a moment, and then, abruptly, his expression softened. “Take it outside.”

  “Yes, your honor,” Ben said, hurriedly gathering his papers.

  “Oh, and one other thing,” the judge added.

  Ben stiffened. “Yes?”

  “Nice job, Mr. Kincaid.”

  Chapter

  32

  An hour later, back at the office, a massive celebration ensued. Somehow, in the space of an hour, Christina managed to get the whole lobby area festooned with streamers and ribbons. Champagne flowed. The outer doors were locked; the office was closed for business. Everyone wore silly hats and giggled giddily—Ben and Christina and Jones and his wife, Paula, and even Loving. And at the center of it all was Ray Goldman—looking better than Ben had seen him in seven years. He was wearing street clothes—for the first time in seven years—and even if he hadn’t had a chance yet for perfect grooming, the watery glow in his eyes and the amazed smile on his face more than made up for it.

  “I still can’t believe it,” Ray said, a happily befuddled expression on his face.

  “Believe it,” Ben said. “You’re a free man.”

  “A toast,” Christina said, raising her glass. “To Ray Goldman, who the whole world now knows is innocent—as we knew all along.”

  “Amen!” everyone shouted.

  “And let’s have a moment for Erin Faulkner, one of the bravest, strongest women I’ve ever had the pleasure to know. Despite all her troubles, she tried to do the right thing. And in the end—she did.”