Cut to the Bone

by Shane Gericke

“No, it isn’t,” she said, pouting. “I want to go home.”

  The comment puzzled him. With the toys, coloring books, candy, and ceaseless doting from charmed older congregants, she’d been Little Miss Sunshine since Boise.

  “Why would you want to turn around, honey?” he asked. “You know how important this trip is to everyone.”

  “Because I don’t like it when you’re not happy, Grandpa. It’s icky, and I hate it.”

  He smiled. “Me, too.”

  She put her hands on her bony hips. Same way her mother did when annoyed with Reverend Daddy. “Then why go there?”

  He closed his eyes, having asked himself that 100 times since they left the farewell party. “Because I have to,” he said, hugging her close. “No matter what.”

  “Why does it make you sad?”

  He steepled his fingers, blew out his breath. “Remember Uncle Earl? He was my brother, and he loved me, and he was really unhappy he couldn’t live long enough to meet you.”

  “Sure!” she said, clapping. “I love Uncle Earl! Is that the surprise you told us about in Boise, Grandpa? Is he going to be in Naperville tomorrow?”

  “Well, no, honey. He’s in Heaven. But we’re going to Naperville because of him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Uncle Earl protected me from some very bad men when we were little. But I didn’t protect him back. I was scared they’d hurt me, too, so I didn’t help.” He studied her a long time. The choir switched to “Amazing Grace.” “You always help your brother when he’s afraid, right?” he continued. “When the thunderstorms come and he shakes and cries?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, I didn’t help Uncle Earl like that. I was too scared. I didn’t have a brave big sister to show me how to be courageous.”

  She screwed up her face, considering. “That’s why you couldn’t help Uncle Earl?” she asked. “Because you were afraid of the bad men?”

  “Yes,” Daniel Monroe said.

  He still was.

  So much had changed since he threw those hand grenades. His brother was dead. His parents were dead. The cemetery where they rested had been dug up for the expansion of Chicago O’Hare Airport. Their boyhood home was a six-lane highway, the abandoned gasoline station where Earl’s crew hung out, a bustling suburban minimart. All he had left were memories. And the dull ache in his arm where Teddy Rehnt blackjacked him to enforce Earl’s will . . .

  His granddaughter was motioning him to lean over. He complied.

  “It’s all right, Grandpa,” she whispered with Skittles breath. “I’m afraid, too.”

  “Really?” he said. “Of what?”

  “The lightning.” Her hands shook. “It scares me to death. But my brother’s more afraid than me, so I just close my eyes and sing campfire songs, so he isn’t.”

  “That’s the bravest thing I’ve ever heard,” Danny said, throat cementing. “I wish I could have done that for Uncle Earl.”

  “Are there still bad men in the world, Grandpa?”

  “Yes, honey, there are.”

  “Are they in Naperville?”

  “Yes. They’re the ones conducting this capital punishment.”

  “Are you afraid of them?”

  “A little, honey.”

  She threw her arms around his waist. “Don’t worry, Grandpa!” she cried, chopping the air with her hands. “I’ll protect you! I learned kung-fu in gym class. Bad men can’t hurt you when I’m around, ‘cause I’ll karate their noses off so they can’t smell where you are!” More chops. “Yah! Hwah! I’ll fix ‘em!”

  “I know you will, baby,” he said, kissing her flaxen hair. It smelled like peanut butter. He loved this little girl so much it made him weep sometimes. She was clearly God’s way of saying, “It’s all right, Daniel. You’ve suffered enough for your sins.”

  But he still couldn’t forgive himself. He became so guilt-racked after burying Earl and Mom that he resigned NASA for the ministry. He took over a penniless but proud church in Boise, married a good woman, begat a daughter, who begat his granddaughter, all the while hoping a life of good works would slay the beast within.

  It didn’t.

  “Nobody would protect me better, darling,” he said. “But we’re on this pilgrimage so I can stop the bad men. So I can make things right, by not being afraid. It’s what I have to do.”

  He thought of the steel lump in his bathroom bag. The kraut blaster he hadn’t thrown at those police officers because the first three worked so ruthlessly. Yes, he was guilty, and he was going to pay for it tomorrow.

  But so would Wayne Covington. If the governor hadn’t resurrected that burning barbarism and named it “justice,” perhaps he would have stayed silent, marinated in his own guilt juice till the day he died. But Covington did. He dug up Earl’s coffin and let the evil out. The man deserved what was coming to him.

  One more day, my friend. Get ready.

  The nemesis CO whistled “Tomorrow” as he walked past.

  Corey Trent twisted his face into a scowl. It masked his interior grin.

  One more day, asswipe. Get ready.

  10:22 a.m.

  A thoroughly embarrassed Emily was shushing the applause from the lobby-desk officers when she heard her name.

  She turned to see a tall, lean man staring like her nose was on fire.

  “I’m Detective Thompson,” she said cautiously. “And you are?”

  “Your serial killer.”

  She tackled him as the desk cops yanked their guns.

  “No! Wait!” he yelled as they crashed to the floor. “I mean, I’m here about your serial killer! My name is Johnny Sanders. From Springfield. I’m a state historian-”

  “The crash test dummy,” she said, immediately placing the face. She checked his ID, assured the blue flood that the man was legitimate, and helped him to his feet.

  “Sorry about that,” she said, breathing hard from adrenaline swoosh. “Between the killer and the fire downtown, we’re a little jumpy.”

  “Sure, sure, I understand,” he said. “I’d knock me down, too, the dumb way I worded that.” He brushed off his slacks. “I was in Chicago this morning on a work assignment. The moment I realized I had important information about your serial killer, I drove out here.”

  “What is it?”

  He told her. Everyone froze.

  Emily forced the frog out of her voice. “Find Branch and Cross,” she told the desk cops. “Hurry.”

  11:17 a.m.

  “Tell them, Mr. Sanders,” Cross said.

  “Johnny,” Sanders said, swiveling his chair toward the jumble of cops, clerks, CSIs, computers, coffee cups, bagel crumbs, and whiteboards, which were collaged with maps, diagrams, morgue photos, lists, addresses, phone numbers, and a handwritten sign that read Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here. He blotted his high forehead with a linen handkerchief, glad his wife packed extras.

  “I’m a State of Illinois historian,” he began. “Several months ago, I was assigned to digitize our execution records. All of them, 1779 to present.”

  “Why?” a detective asked.

  “Federal grant,” Sanders said. “The Justice Department is paying the states to put their old paper records online. So I review each document, track down missing pieces from public and private sources, and digitize it for the Internet.”

  He held up the sheet of paper that caused his lap burn at Lou Mitchell’s. “This is Appendix F from the execution held June 29, 1972, at Stateville. When you see it, you’ll know why I came here.”

  Emily passed out copies. Hands slapped desktops and foreheads.

  “Damn! It’s our serial victims,” a detective said.

  “Correct. We finally have our common link,” Cross said. “Go ahead, Johnny.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sanders said as Branch handed him water. “A few days ago, I was at home in Springfield, reading the morning newspapers. I saw the obituary for Frank Mahoney. The barber whose throat was cut in Arizona?”

  H
eads nodded.

  “Another story mentioned Sage Farri’s death in Los Angeles and Zabrina Reynolds’s here in Naperville. At the time, they didn’t mean anything to me.”

  The cops drummed fingers, inhaled coffee, studied the handout.

  “At breakfast this morning, I reviewed the next document on my list,” he said, rattling Appendix F. “It contains the names of the twelve official witnesses to that June 29 execution. They share the same last names as the victims of your serial killer.”

  “What’s an ‘official’ witness?” a computer tech asked.

  “The ordinary citizens who volunteered to witness the execution as representatives of the people of Illinois,” Sanders said. “There’s twelve, same number as on a jury.”

  “In addition to the reporters and relatives?”

  “Yes, ma’am. An entirely separate group.”

  Cross took over.

  “Johnny saw the names, remembered the newspaper stories, put two and two together. He drove here to let us know.” He flicked his foam cup into the overflowing wastebasket. “Every victim is the grandchild of a person on Appendix F. Name for name.”

  “Why didn’t this F pop up when we ran the victims before?” a CSI asked.

  “It’s never been digitized,” Sanders said. “It gathered dust in a records warehouse for more than three decades. That’s what my project’s about. Making documents Internet friendly so you guys can search them from anywhere.”

  Branch thumped his cane. “Thanks to Emily’s burnt-match posting on NCIC, we’ve already backgrounded eight of them. Now we’ll get the rest.”

  Cross extended his hand. “Thank you, Johnny. I’ll inform the governor personally how vital your help was in finding this killer.”

  Sanders beamed.

  “The officer will escort you to your car,” Cross said, waving over a uniform. “As I mentioned earlier, keep this information to yourself. Tell no one. If reporters call for comment, plead ignorance. It’s crucial we keep the killer in the dark about how much we’ve learned.”

  “I will, sir,” Sanders said, flushing from the applause. “Just catch this maniac.” He recalled the roses in Sage Farri’s windpipe. “Nobody should die like that poor boy in LA.”

  The officer touched his arm, and they walked out.

  “Questions?” Cross said.

  The CSI raised his blue chin. “Sanders said twelve witnesses. Only eleven on this handout.”

  “That’s ‘cause you ran out of fingers,” the detective said.

  “I still got this one,” the CSI said, raising it.

  Emily smiled. Wisecracking eased the strain of killer hunting.

  “I left it off for security,” Cross said. “I haven’t told him yet he’s a target.”

  “Told?” the CSI said. “He’s alive? We can save Twelve from this freak?”

  “If we don’t,” Cross said. “Everyone in this room can start looking for a new career.”

  Deep breath, blowout.

  “Starting with me.”

  June 29, 1972

  Hello?” Danny Monroe said, frowning as the word echoed without response. It was unlike Mom not to be on the stoop, purse in hand, when he pulled into the driveway. “I’m here!”

  No sound but the ticking of the grandfather clock.

  He and Verna were driving to Stateville Prison this morning - her to witness the execution of her eldest son, him to wait in the car, per his long-ago agreement with Earl. For years, he’d tried to talk her out of it, but she remained adamant that “my baby not die alone.”

  “We’re going to be late!” he said. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

  Still nothing.

  Shrugging, he checked each room as he made his way to the back of the house. Window air clicked off, on, off. Dust motes drifted over the snowflake shakers Mom collected on family vacations. Yellowed snapshots of him and Earl grinned from faded eggshell walls.

  Everything normal. Nothing out of place.

  Just Mom.

  He poked his head into the bedroom he and Earl shared as kids. It was cramped for two growing boys, but a lot more fun then when Dad put on the addition and they got separates. He smiled, remembering their all-night whisperings about girls, parents hollering to get to sleep before you-know-who got their butts you-know-what . . .

  “There you are,” he murmured to the sleeping beauty curled on Earl’s old bed. She was in her Sunday best - pearls, heels, hose, hat. Her omnipresent purse leaned against the maple headboard, handles up like rabbit ears. She hadn’t slept an hour the past three nights, she’d confessed, even with the pills her doctor prescribed. He knew how she felt. She must have laid in Earl’s spot “for one quick minute” after getting dressed, and that was that.

  “Up to me, you’d sleep all day,” he sympathized, walking around the bed. “But you’d never forgive me if I let you miss Earl’s-”

  Blood dripped from her left wrist. Her favorite kitchen knife quivered point-down in the beige shag. Her face was bleached, her fingers stiff, her delicate features collapsed. Her pill bottle was empty on the bedstand, next to a half-drunk glass of water.

  “Mom!” he cried, grabbing her up and shaking her hard. Blood from the carpet pool squished into his shoes, splattered his clothes. “Oh my God, wake up! Talk to me, please!”

  She was cold as soft-serve.

  He ran gagging to the bathroom.

  “What in the hell is this?” Earl Monroe asked, lips curling in disgust.

  “Fresh underwear,” the prison doctor said.

  “Looks like a diaper to me.”

  A barely noticeable shrug. “If you like.”

  “I don’t. Man, I can’t wear diapers to my-”

  “You ain’t a man,” growled the crew-cutted guard in the corner, unfolding his arms with undisguised menace. “So put ‘em on.”

  Earl snickered. “Whaddaya gonna do if I don’t, sweet cheeks? Kill me?”

  Crew-cut flicked his head. The other muscled guards moved in, happy for the chance to pound the scumbag into compliance one last time.

  Doc held up his slim brown hand.

  “He’ll cooperate. Won’t you, Mr. Monroe?”

  The condemned prisoner grinned. “Sure, Doc. Since you called me mister and all.”

  “Time to go watch a monster fry,” Wayne Covington said.

  “Be strong, darling,” Katherine Covington said.

  “Got no choice,” Wayne grinned, kissing her. “Andy will swoop down and kick my keister if I’m anything but.” He walked out, twirling his car keys.

  Something in her pinched expression made him come back.

  “I promise this is the end,” he said, squeezing his wife’s hands. “The long hours, the time away. It ends today. No more obsession.”

  “I hope so, Wayne,” Kit said, more sharply than she’d intended. But it had been a long, lonely six years. “Your family needs you back.”

  “Whatcha got?” the Supreme Court clerk greeted his compatriot. “Baseball pool?”

  Compatriot held up the envelope. “The Furman decision.”

  “Already?” Clerk said, blinking. “I didn’t expect that for months.”

  “No one did,” Compatriot said. “But five minutes ago, the chief justice called me in and said disseminate this PDQ.”

  “So what’d they decide? Thumbs-up? Or down?”

  Compatriot unwound the envelope string, looking around for justices who’d kick him back to freshman law for peeking. “Only one way to find out.”

  In the end, I simply didn’t have the courage, read the note she’d taped to the bathroom mirror. Earl needed me at that dreadful place today, and I couldn’t go. I couldn’t watch him die. Not my firstborn, not that way, burning to death in that hideous electro-chair.

  You think I’m strong, Danny. I’m not. I couldn’t be there at the end for your brother, or for you. For that, I’m truly sorry. I left this note in hopes you’ll understand why I couldn’t face you this morning. I’m ashamed at h
ow you’ll find me, and I wouldn’t blame you for hating me forever. I pray you don’t. I hope Jesus doesn’t either.

  By the time you read this, I’ll be with your dad. In a few hours, Earl will join us. Do not despair at our deaths, darling. You’re a wonderful man. Kind, brave and unafraid. Get married, have children, continue your important life. Think of us when you’re able. Because of you, the family name will have pride and honor. Not the shame Earl and I brought to it. And at the end of your days, you’ll join us in this better place.

  Your loving mother, Verna

  Danny cried so hard he hiccuped.

  Earl dropped his prison-issue trousers, then slid down his boxers. Flashed crew-cut with an Elvis wiggle-waggle of the hips. It drew a hate-filled scowl.

  He chuckled, then stepped into the crudely sewn “underwear.” It was thick as one of his mother’s quilts and dyed the same dirty gray as the trousers. He tugged it over his bony knees and into his torso, making sure nothing pinched.

  “Gawd!” he complained, waving his hand like airing out a bathroom. “What’s that stink?”

  “Aftershave,” Doc said. “We don’t have any more deodorizer.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Governor’s been busy burning up your friends,” crew-cut said. “We’re fresh out.”

  Doc’s look said, Shut up. The guard did.

  “I had to use Hai Karate,” Doc said. “It’ll do fine.”

  “Diapers and aftershave,” Earl said, shaking his head. “And they say I’m evil.”

  He pulled up the trousers, then tucked in his T-shirt. A good buddy in the laundry shrunk it extra-tight to show off his muscles to the witnesses. No use wasting all that barbell work.

  Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding.

  The Chicago Sun-Times copy boy trotted to the Associated Press teletype, which condensed the planet onto six-inch-wide rolls of paper.

  “SCOTUS/FURMAN/TK,” the bulletin read.

  “Hey, Red,” he said, ripping it off for the front-page editor. “Supreme Court’s gonna release that Furman death penalty decision.”

  “Good,” Red said, stuffing his pipe with burley. “I need a new lead for Kup’s edition.”

  “Be funny if they banned it, huh?” the clerk said. “What with the fry job at Stateville?”