Covington strode to the press pool in the north wing of the Justice Center. His speech was in his pocket, but he wouldn’t need it. He knew every syllable by heart.
10:58 a.m.
“This says he can,” the ACLU lawyer barked, rattling the judicial notice allowing his client, the Reverend Chris Andersen, to use his prop at his press conference.
“It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Branch said. “People will stampede.”
“Not my problem,” ACLU said. “I have the court order, and I demand you obey it.”
Branch read it twice, shook his head in disbelief. Gave it to the city attorney. She read it thrice. Called the courthouse, talked to the chief judge.
“It’s legitimate,” she said. “We have to honor it.”
“It’s a big mistake,” Branch said.
“I know,” she said. “But his honor disagrees.”
“Gotta call Ken on this,” he said.
“No argument here,” she said.
“I demand immediate recognition of this court order,” the lawyer said.
“I demand you shut up,” Branch said.
Cross answered on the first ring. Listened intently.
“Not a chance,” he growled. “Confiscate it on my authority.”
Branch did.
“Be right back, Reverend,” the ACLU lawyer said. He unleashed his cell, stepped outside.
Four minutes later, Branch’s cell rang. He listened, face tightening.
“Well?” the ACLU lawyer said.
“Make sure it’s empty,” Branch snapped to the head of the bomb squad.
Who ran it through the explosives sniffer, then past his German shepherd’s highly trained nose. The sniffer didn’t beep. The shepherd yawned.
“Just a metal shell,” the bomb guy declared, sticking a pencil up its hollow bottom. “No explosives. Definitely a prop.”
Branch handed the grenade to Andersen. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“So do I,” said the Reverend Daniel Monroe. He didn’t enjoy deceiving the officer or the lawyer about his name, but had no choice if he was going to bring down Covington. “So do I.”
“Geez, what happened?” the city attorney asked when the door slammed shut.
“We got bigfooted,” Branch said. “By the chief justice of the Illinois Supreme Court.”
“Wow,” she marveled. “When’s the last time Ken didn’t get his way on a security matter?”
“Never,” Branch said. “Then again, this whole damn thing’s Bizarro World.”
10:59 a.m.
Emily headed for the witness room to search the chairs a third time. Considering that not even a housefly could get inside the Justice Center without pat-downs, she found the precautions overly dramatic. But orders were orders.
11:00 a.m.
“Three . . . two . . . one . . .” the press room director mouthed.
“Good morning,” Wayne Covington said, heart soaring from the Zen purity of this moment. “I’m Illinois Governor Wayne Covington, and today the spiritual heirs of Abraham Lincoln gather on these fruited plains to visit justice upon a man who gives none.”
“Oh, barf,” the Chicago Tribune reporter groaned.
“Must be his own speech,” the Daily Herald reporter agreed. “Angel Rogers would drink hemlock before she’d write that.”
Covington shifted to camera two.
“His name is Corey Trent. He kidnapped and disemboweled an expectant mother. He ripped away her baby boy. He broke the baby on a tree.”
He felt the poisonous anger from 1966. He fought it. Nothing could mar the tempo of the most important speech of his life. He forced himself to focus. Felt the red tide retreat.
“In fifty-nine minutes, I’ll rid the planet of this beast. If another takes his place, I’ll exterminate him, too. I’ll use the electric chair, not lethal injection. Monsters don’t deserve to merely fall asleep and not wake up. They need to boil and bubble, because they steal our innocence and never give it back. I know this personally, profoundly, and all too well.”
He felt the aluminum comb in his pocket. Scorched and twisted, half its teeth missing. His only connection to the never-aging corpse in the family plot. His personal rosary from 1966.
“His name was Andy Covington,” he said. “He was my kid brother . . .”
11:06 a.m.
“A hand grenade?” the State Police commander sputtered. “You outta your mind, Branch? Did Ken sign off on this?”
“He had no choice,” Branch said. “Just like the rest of us.”
11:07 a.m.
“Naperville Police,” Officer VapoRub announced through the door he’d just lock-picked. “We’re here to help you with the flood. Is anybody home?”
No answer.
“Hope this guy’s insured,” he said, shaking his head in sympathy as he splashed through the ankle-high water. “Fixing this mess will cost him a fortune.”
“Us, too, after he sues,” the director of public works said. “Got four more just like this on Royce Road. Old plumbing that popped when the pressure boost kicked in.” He stuck his head out the door. “OK, guys, we’ll start in the rec room. Pray it’s dry.”
The evacuation crew hefted tools, hoses, and pumps, and headed down the stairs.
11:08 a.m.
“Are they insane?” Annie said.
“Yes,” Cross said. “But that’s beside the point. Make sure your people know.”
“Understood.”
She clicked to the tactical frequency. “Castle to all units. A minister will conduct a press conference shortly at the main gate. On orders of the Illinois Supreme Court, the minister will use a deactivated hand grenade as a prop. The bomb squad confirmed it’s inert. Repeat, inert. Do not shoot when you see it. The minister has permission to use this grenade as a prop. Acknowledge verbally, not with clicks.”
Everyone checked in, and Annie went back to her binoculars, swearing.
11:09 a.m.
“Not again!” the Guardsman groaned as last night’s catfish supper made its fourth encore. He raced for the Porta-Potty, M-4 flailing against his chest, praying he’d make it. He’d already ruined two good sets of cammies.
“Listen up, ladies!” a sergeant bellowed as he stormed from the command tent, not noticing Catfish running away. “Some crazy preacher’s holding a press conference at 11:45. Gonna wave around a deactivated grenade as a prop. One of those pineapple jobs from World War Two.”
The troops began muttering. Only an idiot waved a grenade willy-nilly. Too much possibility of being zapped by friendly fire.
“What can I tell ya?” the sergeant said, shrugging. “Man’s got a court order. So don’t shoot the sumbitch. Keep your fingers on yer peckers where they belong.”
They saluted with one hand and grabbed crotch with the other, laughing.
Marty checked the Caller ID as he stepped off the shuttle bus. Sheriff’s number. Winslow called him as promised. He didn’t blame her - he’d have done the same in her position. But he had different priorities. I tried to answer, honest, he said to the phone. But the reception’s so busy. All that thick concrete.
He walked inside.
11:10 a.m.
“So what do you do?” the Executioner asked the seventh witness.
“Operations manager at Southern Illinois Airport,” she said, bright red talons pinching the handle of the teacup. “My husband teaches physics at Carbondale High.”
“Are you friends as well as financial supporters?”
“Certainly,” she said. “We see Wayne and Kit all the time.” She tilted her head, let her bangs brush her eyebrows. “And how about you? What kind of work do you do?”
“I’m in the food business,” the Executioner said.
“Pastry chef?” she teased, smiling at the Danish in his hand.
“Cattleman,” he said. “I supply custom steaks and roasts to restaurants around the world.”
“Really?”
“M
m-hm,” he said. “I started at the bottom, on the cutting-room floor. Now I own the place. When chefs from New York to Paris need the perfect cut of Midwest beef for an important client, they call me.” He flashed a radiant smile. “The last inaugural showcased my work. The First Lady was very complimentary.”
“How interesting!” she said, moving closer. “Wayne throws parties for his friends all the time at the Mansion. How could I possibly have missed you?”
“My travel schedule allows little time for socializing,” the Executioner said. “I’m forced to keep in touch the old-fashioned way.”
“Contributions,” she said.
The Executioner winked. “I got involved with Wayne two years ago. I was deeply impressed that he was building this Justice Center with only private funds. So I wrote him a check for . . .”
He named the figure.
“No wonder you’re here today,” she said, curling a strand of hair around her finger.
“I’m sure there was no connection,” the Executioner said, “between my modest fund-raising efforts and Wayne asking me to read the death warrant at his kickoff execution.”
“Just like I’m here because I know how to spread salt on runways,” she said, holding his forearm a moment longer than strictly social. “Perhaps we should have lunch when this is over. Talk about politics.”
The Executioner smiled. “Nothing I enjoy more than a long discussion.”
11:11 a.m.
VapoRub felt like he’d been zapped with a cattle prod.
By the expressions of the pump operators, they did, too.
He swept his eyes across the twenty-by-thirty-five rec room. The walls were covered with cork, and square-eyed from casement windows. Glossy acoustical tile and full-spectrum fluorescent tubes brightened the dark brown carpet. The steel bench that filled one end of the room was jammed with milling equipment, cutting oil, arc welders, grinders, polishers, and other tools, powered by a bank of 110 and 220 outlets. A Wells Fargo floor safe sat at right angles to the bench. A leather razor strop hung off the back of the Aeron chair.
The photographs dotting the cork were framed in lacquer black. They showed cattle in various stages of rendering, from the bolt gun that stunned them senseless to the white-coated knife teams that sliced off everything but the moo. Each photo dangled from a worn-out knife hammered into the cork. A photo collage over the workbench showed Emily Thompson, Martin Benedetti, Wayne Covington, and a dozen other people.
“And that’s not even the bizarre part,” VapoRub mumbled.
That particular honor went to the granite slab in the center of the room.
Which contained an electric chair.
Nine feet high.
Six feet square.
Made entirely of stainless-steel Bowie knives.
“They’re welded together,” the water crew chief said, squatting for a closer look. “There’s hundreds of ‘em. Finger-size to monster.” He pointed to the wired device on the eighty-knife seat. “Any idea what this is?”
“Telephone answering machine,” VapoRub said, opening his cell to call in the cavalry. He didn’t know if this was related to the execution, but no other explanation made sense. “Vacate the house. This is now a crime scene.”
11:16 a.m.
“Governor George Ryan was misguided when he released all those monsters from Death Row,” Covington said to camera three. “So I put them back. The result is this magnificent center, and the justice it will deliver to Corey Trent today.”
Breathe, swivel, continue.
“Some of you may wonder, Why Naperville?” he said. “Why not some poor town in rural Illinois, out of the public eye?” He nodded. “Well, I’m happy you asked.”
11:30 a.m.
“Please fill each row before starting the next,” Emily said, escorting the official witnesses to the chairs facing the nine-by-twenty viewing window. Her excitement over meeting Covington had long evaporated. While she was still happy at Trent’s impending dispatch, this wasn’t a celebration. A baby was still dead-
“Marty?” she said, shocked, as she spied him in the back. “What are you doing here?”
“Need to see this through,” he said.
“Did Barbara approve your leaving the - never mind,” she said, fearing the answer.
Marty winked, then went to the back row to sit.
Right on time, the Executioner noted with approval.
11:31 a.m.
“We got a hit,” the intelligence officer said. “Danny Monroe switched buses in Iowa.” He reeled off the new plate and description.
“Find it,” Branch ordered.
11:33 a.m.
“Naperville is the envy of the nation,” Covington said to camera two. “With its strong schools, proud businesses, close-knit families, and stunning lack of crime thanks to the ever-vigilant cop on the beat” - a salute to Ken for putting up with all this - “Naperville is the zenith of the American dream. So when people ask, Why Naperville? I ask, Why not?”
The reporters snickered.
“You laugh!” Covington thundered, seizing the opportunity to ratchet the drama. “You think I’m ashamed to put an electric chair in the nation’s most celebrated suburb? Well, I’m not. I’m honored. As are the people of Illinois. We built a cathedral of justice on a mountaintop, and the world turned out to worship.”
He pointed toward the ululating mass at the base. “I didn’t select a lonely hamlet that reporters deign not visit. I selected Naperville, dead center of the American experience.” Passion foamed out his lungs and over his lips. “I will never shirk my responsibility to visit justice upon America’s evildoers. Never. Never. Never.”
He touched the flag pin on his lapel.
“So it gives me great pleasure to announce that I’m going to build on today’s success, and next week’s, and next year’s, and bring the Justice Center concept to the rest of the planet. It will take decades, and all the energy I can muster. But I will never rest. Never falter. And one day I’ll look back in pride and say, ‘We did it, Andy. The Covington boys won.’“
11:34 a.m.
“Morris Wolf, please.”
“May I ask who is calling?”
“Katherine Covington.”
“Right away, ma’am,” said the chief receptionist of Chicago’s most powerful matrimonial law firm. “Please hold.”
She muted Wayne as she waited.
“Kit?”
“Hello, Morry,” she said. “How’s your squash game?”
“Rusty,” Wolf said. “Business is booming and I don’t have time to practice. I’ve got Wayne’s speech on CNN.”
“Then you know why I’m calling.”
Wolf cleared his throat. “You’re the two loveliest people I know. Are you sure you want this?”
“Yes,” she said, staring at the TV. She loved her husband. The thought of living without him made her physically ill. But dead people didn’t fight fair - they took and took and never gave back. She could no longer compete. Neither could the kids, who’d finally quit asking where Daddy was tonight. “File the papers.”
“Now?”
She sighed. “Wait till Monday. Wayne deserves his Sunday Times.”
11:35 a.m.
“Dead man walking,” the head guard announced as they shuffled Corey Trent from the cell.
11:36 a.m.
“Just leaving Monroe’s hideout,” Cross told Branch as he raced toward the Justice Center. “It’s a small split-level on Royce Road. Not too far from the gravel quarry. Neighbors see the owner occasionally, but have never met him.”
“Who found the place?”
“A water crew checking a flood. They asked us to open the house because pipes had burst. They found an electric chair in the rec room. It’s made of arc-welded Bowie knives.”
“Bowie . . . knives?”
“Hundreds of them, perfectly milled,” Cross said. “So highly polished the chair’s one big mirror - you could shave in front of the thing. Monroe’s an expe
rt craftsman.”
“Explains his expertise with the cutting.”
“Something else,” Cross said. “A telephone answering machine was on the seat. It’s filled with messages to someone named ‘Bowie.’“
“That’s two references to Bowie,” Branch said. “Why does that sound so familiar - oh no.”
“I’ve already alerted Annie,” Cross said.
11:37 a.m.
“Turn this way, Reverend . . . a little more . . . perfect,” said the NBC field producer. His lawyer source at the ACLU promised “a speech that’ll blow up the planet.” The producer hoped so. Tiddly-winks had more violence than this crowd. “Stay like that. Speak loud and clear. Don’t squint when the camera’s on. We go live at 11:45.”
“We’re gonna be on TV, Grandpa?” his granddaughter asked, eyes dancing at the thought of all her friends watching.
“Going to,” Danny corrected. “And yes, honey, we are. The television people want me to talk about someone special.”
“Who?”
“Uncle Earl,” he said.
11:44 a.m.
“Are you sure you don’t want to pray, my son?” the priest asked.
“You ain’t my daddy, ass-eyes,” Trent snapped, bucking against the harness leather. “Get the hell out of here before I kick your sissy ass.”
There’s the man we know and hate, he saw the guards think as they hustled the priest away. Exactly as he’d hoped. Too much niceness would raise suspicion.
11:45 a.m.
“Three . . . two . . . one . . .” the director mouthed.
“Good morning,” Daniel Monroe said, clutching a Bible. He wore funereal black, a minister’s collar, and a cross. His granddaughter played at his feet, and his congregation hummed around them. “On June 29, 1972, a young man named Earl Monroe died in the Illinois electric chair. But he didn’t commit the crime.”
The NBC producer scowled. This is why he convinced network to cut away from the electric chairs line-dancing at the east gate? An innocent-man blubberfest? Sheesh. He’d give this clown fifteen seconds, then cut back to the dancers.
“The man who threw the switch is here today. His name is Wayne Covington, the governor of Illinois. He killed a completely innocent man in 1972, and I have the proof here with me.”
Protesters rushed over to listen, followed by network anchors. The congregation switched from humming to “Onward Christian Soldiers.”
Cut to the Bone Page 24