Blind Justice

by James Scott Bell

  Strangely enough, I believed him. He was, after all, the DA of a small county. That gave him tremendous power. And even though he had socialized with Hazelton, I didn’t think that would prevent Benton Tolletson from trying to get to the bottom of things. He didn’t strike me as a man who would let a minor item like social graces get in his way. The fact that he had made his reputation bringing down another local hero, the football coach, made it seem plausible that he’d do it again.

  There was another reason this was so strange. Technically, I was a criminal defendant in a drunk driving case that Tolletson’s office was prosecuting. It’s not often that a defendant rides around town with the DA. It was almost comical.

  As we made our way toward the Hazelton estate, Tolletson’s mood was far from frivolous. “If there isn’t anything here,” he said, “you better be ready to face the music.”

  “What sort of music?”

  “Hazelton has money. He can make your life hell. He might sue you for defamation, for starters.”

  I huffed. “He’s welcome to go after my deep pockets. Maybe he’ll get my VCR.”

  “What went wrong with you?” Tolletson said, taking a sharp turn into the personal. “You were a good attorney.”

  Suddenly I was in the car with my father. The disapproval and disappointment were heavy in his voice.

  “I’m still a good attorney, Benton. I just have to find my way back.”

  “You got a long way to go.”

  “I know that.”

  “We’re almost there,” Tolletson said. I’m sure he didn’t want to go any deeper with me. What had started as an attempt to establish superiority had turned into a discussion about the meaning of life. Benton Tolletson was not ready to go there, especially with me.

  At the large, black iron gate Tolletson pressed a keypad and announced himself through the speaker. Apparently he had called ahead because the gates slowly swung open without any further comment.

  The same security guard was waiting for us as the front entrance. He showed us in. The Hazelton mansion looked familiar, but at night it was oddly dark, even with the lights on. Sort of like a medieval castle illuminated with torches. I started to wonder where the torture chamber was.

  We were shown into the same library where Lindsay and I had confronted the captain before. It had the same, musty smell. Hazelton himself seemed not to have moved or changed clothes since that encounter. Even the fire in the fireplace seemed perpetual.

  “Benton,” Hazelton said in his raspy voice. He was standing by the mantle tamping tobacco into his pipe. He said nothing to me, giving me only a glare.

  “Thanks for seeing us on such short notice,” Tolletson said.

  “Of course. Anything to help the DA’s office. Sit down.” He motioned us to the leather chairs in front of his desk and then sat in his own chair. He lit his pipe with a wooden match.

  “Warren,” Tolletson began, “you know Mr. Denney, I believe.”

  Squinting at me through a veil of smoke, Hazelton said, “Oh yes.”

  “That’s the reason I’m here tonight. Mr. Denney thinks he has some information on the murder of Rae Patino.”

  I had no idea where Tolletson was going with this, but I was surprised he would be so direct. A good prosecutor doesn’t show his cards while the investigation is going on.

  “And what sort of information would that be?” Hazelton asked me, appearing unconcerned.

  “Maybe Mr. Tolletson can tell you,” I said.

  “No, Jake, why don’t you go ahead?” Tolletson said. I felt like he was leaving me out to dry.

  But I didn’t care. “All right,” I said. “What was your relationship with Rae Patino?”

  For a moment Hazelton’s sunken eyes quivered. They quickly resumed impassivity. “Who is he?”

  “Come off it, you know who I’m talking about.”

  “Benton?” Hazelton said with seeming confusion.

  Tolletson turned to him. “The young woman who was -murdered.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Hazelton, the liar. I hoped Tolletson wasn’t buying this sham. “I didn’t know the girl.”

  “This is a pretty small town,” I said.

  “Quite so.”

  “You’re a pretty big wheel.”

  “True.”

  “And you claim you didn’t know her at all?”

  “Mr. Denney,” Hazelton rasped, “there are two worlds in existence. There is the world I occupy, which has very few people in it. All the rest live down there.” He motioned toward the window with his bony hand.

  “You mean you’re sort of like a god, up here on Olympus.”

  “In a way,” he said with complete seriousness.

  “Pardon me if I find that a bit deranged.”

  The remark did not amuse Warren Hazelton, even though a demented half-smile edged across his face.

  “Maybe we can start by asking where you were on the night Rae Patino was murdered.”

  Hazelton looked at Tolletson and said, “That’s enough.”

  Tolletson looked at his feet.

  “Enough what?” I asked.

  No answer. And then it hit me. “You’re in this with him.”

  Tolletson raised his head and looked at me. His eyes were dead.

  Hazelton stuck out an osseous finger, pushed a button on a small console, and said, “Bring Mrs. Hazelton in.”

  A moment later Heather Hazelton walked into the library.

  She looked older than I’d expected. I had a picture in my mind of the youthful hippie tromping through the flowers with skin like milk. What I saw now was a middle-aged woman, dressed completely in black. Her dark hair was streaked with white lines and fell to the middle of her back. Most striking was her face. It was not that of an innocent flower child. She had a darkness about the eyes. Around her neck she wore a large, silver pentagram.

  “We’re ready,” Hazelton said tonelessly.

  Heather walked to the middle of the room, staring. The look held more than contempt. It was deadly and chilled me to the spine.

  I turned to Tolletson. “What are they talking about?”

  “Sorry, Jake,” he said.

  “Sorry about what? What is this?”

  At that moment the security guard, as if on cue, walked through the door. His gun was in his hand, and in two seconds it was at the base of my neck.

  Heather reached up on the mantle, pulled down a black box, and held it out to Tolletson.

  Stunned beyond belief, I watched as Benton Tolletson, district attorney of Hinton County, pulled from the box a set of handcuffs. He then pulled my arms behind me and locked them there.

  “You’re all crazy,” I said.

  “Silence,” said Heather.

  Tolletson pushed me to a chair and sat me down. A rope was looped around my body. The security guard was tying me to the chair.

  “Benton,” I said, “I can’t believe this.”

  Tolletson said nothing.

  Warren Hazelton walked to his wife and stood with her in front of the fire. They joined hands. Then Warren Hazelton closed his eyes and said, “A diaboli et Rege!”

  It was more a chant than anything else.

  “Adeste diaboli!”

  It sounded Latin to me.

  Heather said, “Receive this sacrifice, O father.”

  Sacrifice?

  Me.

  “Benton, this is insane!” I said.

  “Shut up,” he said.

  Heather reached up to another box on the mantle. She opened it and pulled out something of glistening silver—it looked almost beautiful until I realized it was a knife with a six-inch blade.

  “A sacrifice, O father,” Heather said, holding the knife up in both hands, “so you will grant me the daughter I seek.”

  In the grip of this surreal scene, a picture formed in my head. “It was you,” I said to Heather. “You were the one who killed Rae Patino. She was going to have a child for you.”

  Heather froze. Warren Hazelton looked
stunned. “Who else knows about this?” he wheezed at Tolletson.

  “No one, I’m sure,” Tolletson said.

  “Everyone,” I said. “I’ve been feeding this to the FBI and a reporter on the Hinton Valley News.”

  “He’s lying,” said Tolletson.

  “Try it, Heather,” I said.

  She intended to. She gripped the knife in a plunging position. Then she took a step toward me.

  “Adeste diaboli!” she cried, raising the knife even higher.

  The boom was like the sound barrier being broken, only right next to my ears.I was knocked backward in the chair, feeling like every part of my body was being hit simultaneously by some colossal compactor. As I hit the ground, I saw a pillar of fire, shooting straight up through the roof.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  I THOUGHT I’D lost consciousness. I was just numb. My head was bonging so loudly, I thought it might crack. My lungs started to fill up with smoke.

  And I felt the heat of the fire.

  The place was in flames.

  Instinctively, I thrashed out with my legs, trying to move away from the danger. I moved only a little.

  I thrashed some more and turned in a half circle. And came face to face with Benton Tolletson. He was covered with blood. His eyes, though open, seemed sightless. His body twitched in some wild paroxysm, as if he were trying to escape his own body.

  Sensing the flames growing hotter, I tried to move again. It was useless. All I did was roll over on my back.

  Black smoke swirled around me.

  And then, out of the smoke, she appeared.

  Heather Hazelton.

  I could tell it was Heather only because of the hair and the dangling pentagram necklace. Her face was another matter. It was scowling and horrific. Maybe the very face Howie Patino had seen on the night Heather murdered Rae. She raised her hand. In it was the silver knife.

  What I heard next sounded like a gunshot. It was hard to tell with the whoosh of flames all around me. But Heather Hazelton went down.

  Stuck where I was, I couldn’t see what was happening. My eyes started to burn, and I was sure I would soon be dead of smoke inhalation.

  A knife flashed over my head.

  I thought it would find my chest.

  Instead, it cut the cords that held me. I strained to see who it was. I saw an unfamiliar face, an older man, who said, “Let’s get out!”

  I was aching all over but managed to struggle to my feet. My arms were still cuffed behind me. The man who freed me grabbed my shirt and led me out of the doorway, through the big hall, out the open front doors, and into the night.

  I sucked in the fresh air, coughed so hard I doubled over, and went down on one knee.

  “Easy there,” the man said. “Take it easy.”

  After a minute or so, I regained some equilibrium. The man was standing a few feet away, looking at the house on fire, admiring it.

  “Morris,” I said.

  “I told ’em,” he said, and then he laughed. “They didn’t think I could do it!” He clapped his hands in applause for himself. I saw the butt of a revolver sticking out of his pants.

  In the distance came the sound of a siren.

  “They’re coming,” Morris said with a smile.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Wait for ’em, of course. I want ’em to know I did it!”

  The cops took both of us in. They put me into a cell by myself, and a little while later, sent in a tray with a frozen chicken sandwich, a carton of milk, and an apple on it.

  I sucked on the sandwich and drank the milk.

  I was in no hurry to get out of there. The cell offered me a respite, which I desperately needed after everything that went down. I could spend the night and then figure out what to do.

  After finishing my sumptuous meal, I lay on the cot and looked at the dull illumination of the ceiling. For what it was worth, I said, “Thank you” into the air.

  The heavy door at the end of the hall swung open, and I heard footsteps coming my way. Two people.

  I looked up and saw Sylvia Plotzske next to the officer on duty.

  “Let me in,” Sylvia said.

  “I’m not supposed—” the officer started to say.

  “Just do it, Mark, and leave me with him. I want to question him alone.”

  The authoritative tone in her voice was surprising. I’d never heard her like that before. Apparently, neither had the officer. He unlocked my cell, and Sylvia walked in. He then locked us in together and left.

  “You look terrible,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  “You want to tell me what happened?”

  “Do you know?”

  “Tolletson’s dead.”

  “He looked it.”

  “Along with Mr. and Mrs. Hazelton.”

  “Wow. A clean sweep.”

  “What can you tell me?”

  “Sylvia, it’s going to blow your mind.”

  I told her the story.

  When I finished, she shook her head almost like she had expected it. “I knew Tolletson was into something bizarre. I saw a pattern in the way he handled things relating to the Hazeltons. Refusing to file against Darcy, for one thing, on an assault. The evidence was pretty convincing, but he got rid of it. Then there was the lifestyle . . .”

  “I got to ride in his Cadillac.”

  “His new one. He gets a new one every year. Or did.”

  “And Hazelton paid for it all. In return, Tolletson kept the Hazelton family legally safe.”

  “That’s it.”

  “And kept people from knowing what they were into.”

  “That too.”

  “Sylvia,” I said, “what do you know about the innocence of Howie Patino?”

  She suddenly looked vulnerable behind her severe glasses. “A lot.”

  “Tell me.”

  Sylvia sighed and spoke quietly. “Howie happened to be the perfect victim, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Tolletson took over the case from me when you didn’t make a deal, and he made sure you lost.”

  “How?”

  “You remember that supplemental medical report, the one that said Rae Patino was pregnant?”

  “Of course I do. So did the jury.”

  “I planted it.”

  That’s when I stood up. I could not believe what I was hearing. I ran my fingers through my hair, shaking my head.

  Sylvia continued, “I did it during one of the court recesses. It wasn’t hard to do. Tolletson told me the best time to do it.”

  “Why, Sylvia?”

  “I’m a night-school grad, Jake, not a fancy Harvard type. I wasn’t going to any big firm. But I was going to make it. I was going to climb. Tolletson picked me because of that, I’m sure. And he had me convinced your client might walk and that we had to make sure we nailed him.”

  “Well, you did. Now what?”

  “I tell what I know. He’ll be out on a habeas in no time.”

  I looked at her. She was sitting very still. “But that’ll be it for you as a lawyer.”

  “I know.”

  I sat back down across from her. “Why are you doing this?”

  She looked at me squarely. “I haven’t been able to sleep much. I guess I just want to be able to sleep again. Especially after Delliplane.”

  “My witness? Was Tolletson behind that too?”

  “I think so. I think if I dig a little bit, I’ll be able to connect him.”

  Then I did something I had never done to a prosecutor in my life. I reached out and patted her hand.

  We sat silent for a few moments as I thought. “Sylvia, there may be another way.” She regarded me quizzically. I said, “But first we have to do one thing.”

  “What?”

  The next day Sylvia had Darcy Hazelton brought in for -questioning.

  He was, at first, combative. Having me in the same conference room as Sylvia and Detective Garth Watts of homicide didn’t sit well with him. But
it didn’t take long to break him down. He wanted to spill it.

  Yes, he confirmed, his stepmother was the one. Rae was Heather’s surrogate since Heather was well past child-bearing years. The baby Rae was carrying was a boy, fathered by Warren Hazelton, conceived artificially.

  “But the witch wanted a daughter,” Darcy spat as he recounted it. “Had some crazy idea about raising a supreme goddess or something. When it turned out to be a boy, Heather told her to get rid of it. Rae refused an abortion unless she got more money.”

  And that was why Rae ended up dead. Darcy heard Heather spilling it all out to his father one night. Rae was holding them both up, Heather said. Threatening to go to the media. Heather went to see Rae one night to have it out—the night Howie came home.

  Hearing him pound on the door, Heather grabbed a knife from the kitchen. She told Rae to get rid of him and hid in the bathroom. While Howie was pouring his heart out to Rae, Heather listened, then finally acted.

  Heather was good with a knife. She got Rae and Howie both. Howie apparently passed out immediately. That gave her an idea. She gave Rae more whacks, wiped her prints off the knife, and went out the bathroom window—without her clothes. Soaked with blood, she balled them up and held them as she fled.

  “One question,” Sylvia said. “Why didn’t Heather put the knife in Howie’s hand, for fingerprints?”

  Darcy shrugged. I said, “Howie may have been coming around, and she had to get out, or Heather may have thought one step ahead of the cops. Howie’s prints could actually have bolstered a story of a setup. Could have argued the knife was put in his hand. With no prints, it looks like Howie was careful not to incriminate himself.”

  “That’s it,” Darcy said. “That sounds like Heather. She was a smooth one.”

  “Darcy,” I said, “were they really into devil worship?”

  Darcy laughed scornfully. “I guess they’re getting their chance now, huh?”

  Just before leaving Hinton, I met with Sylvia in her office. She told me I could plead to a misdemeanor DUI. I’d go into an alcohol program, which was fine with me. I needed it.