Andrew Klavan - True Crime

Shillerman, probably sensing the mood, added importantly, “Of course, Sam Tandy in the governor’s office has asked me to keep in personal contact with the prisoner throughout the day.”

Luther smiled more blandly than ever. His gray eyes glinted out from their depths in his putty flesh with a light that was downright metallic. This was the crux of it right here. Sam Tandy. The governor’s aide and, just by coincidence, Shillerman’s brother-in-law. No doubt Mr. Tandy was right proud of himself for having placed his relation in such a good position-that is, in such a good position from which to observe the model prison in action. And to report back to the governor’s office directly. The whole staff knew that Shillerman was the governor’s spy.

The others busied themselves with their lunches while Luther, ever smiling, struggled against the impulse to squash their resident holy man like the bug he was. Then, having mastered himself, he continued.

“Anyway, the chaplain-Flowers his name is-will be in the cell by twenty-two hundred. The prisoner has so far refused a sedative but-” Luther sighed, “-like the chaplain here said, I don’t think he’s likely to offer up any resistance.”

Now, no one spoke again until Luther was finished. He took them all the way through the operation, though they knew it as well as he. The bigwigs from Corrections would arrive soon after the chaplain. The department director himself would recheck the equipment and phones and would even carry a portable radiophone in case the electricity failed. A hearse would be on hand to carry Beachum’s body to a local funeral home from which his wife Bonnie could pick it up for burial.

Shortly before 23:30, the Strap-down procedure would begin. Beachum would be secured to the gurney and rolled into the execution chamber. After frequent rechecks of the phones and clocks and so on-and after the department director called the governor’s representative to ensure there were no last-minute reprieves-the blinds in the chamber would be lifted so that the witnesses could see in through the glass. Luther would read the death warrant out loud; the prisoner would be asked for his last words. At 00:01, the lethal injection machine would be set into operation.

Luther took another bite of his sandwich. It was good-the rye bread was fresh and there was just the amount of Russian dressing he liked. He chewed slowly, swallowed and went on talking. He detailed the cleanup procedure for after the execution, and the meetings with state officials and so on. In spite of their familiarity with the protocol, the men around the table showed their most serious, most businesslike faces. They nodded almost in unison as Luther spoke, Shillerman along with the rest.

Yeah, thought Luther, looking from one to the other of them. This was the way to do it. Just like in the army, just like in battle. The system got you through, the team got you through. You were part of them and you worked together and you got the job done.

The image of Frank Beachum’s face had almost entirely ceased to trouble him for the moment. This was going to be all right, he thought. He thought he was going to get through this just fine.

It was about two-thirty when I walked back into the St. Louis News . Bridget Rossiter met me at the city room door, her freckled face urgent. “Have you heard about Michelle? She’s been in a temble accident.”

Being the Trends editor, Bridget always got the news a little later than everyone else. I nodded and patted her shoulder. She shook her head sorrowfully.

“You know, alcohol figures in over fifty percent of all traffic fatalities,” she said.

“Is Michelle still in a coma?” “She’s in a coma? Oh my God,” she murmured, as I walked past.

The city room was busy now. Reporters sat at various places within the maze of desks, leaning toward their computer screens, tapping their keyboards, or kicking back with a coffee in their hand and a paper open on their legs. At the city desk, Jane Marsh and William Anger, the minority affairs editor, stood flanking Bob Findley’s chair, bending over him in conference. For a moment, I thought I might sneak in and out of the place without Bob spotting me. But it was not to be. I’d hardly taken three steps into the room, when Bob raised his head as if a radar blip had sounded. He pinned me, across the long room, with that expressionless stare which told of how his heart had erased me from the Book of Life.

I forced a pained smile and went past the desk, hewing as close to the wall as I could. The door to Alan Mann’s office was closed, but I could see him in there through the venetian blinds. He was talking on the telephone, making expressive gestures with the candy bar in his free hand.

I didn’t knock. I just pushed the door open. I felt Bob’s eyes on my back-drilling into my back-as I stepped inside and shut the door behind me.

“Right,” Alan was saying into the phone. “We’ll do a lead editorial on that for tomorrow. What’s my opinion?” He listened, his hawklike head bobbing up and down, his candy bar holding fire in his raised hand. “Got it,” he said then. “Sure thing, Mr. Lowenstein.” He rocked forward in his chair and dropped the handset into its cradle. He looked up at me from under his bushy brows. “Stop fucking Bob’s wife,” he said. “He doesn’t like it.”

“Oh Christ,” I said. “What did he do, put it in the company newsletter?”

Alan pointed the candy bar at me. It was a Snickers, the kind with all the peanuts. “If he comes to me and wants your ass, I’m gonna have to give it to him. Then you’ll just be a hole without an ass around it.”

I pulled out my cigarettes and stuck one between my teeth. I hid behind the match flame as I lit it. “She started it,” I muttered lamely into the fire.

“Doesn’t count. You’ve got the dingus.” His big body fell back in the chair. He ripped a hunk of chocolate off and mashed the nuts savagely. He regarded me savagely. “You know what?”

“All right, all right,” I said.

“You’re a fucking womanizer, that’s what. It fucked you up in New York and it’s gonna fuck you up here. You’re fucking up your whole career and you’re fucking up your marriage and if you can’t keep your goddamned prick in your pants I’m not gonna be able to goddamned protect you. How was she?”

“None of your goddamned business,” I said. “Not bad.”

“Lucky bastard. I always liked her.”

“Shut up, Alan. Jesus.”

“Hey, don’t take it out on me, boy. You’re the one who sinned against God and man.”

I turned away from him and walked over to the wall. It was crowded with plaques and certificates, awards and appreciations. They were what he had instead of windows. There were photos too-of Alan standing with the governor, standing with the president, standing with Mr. Lowenstein, who owned the paper. I stood blowing smoke at them.

“Listen,” Alan said to my profile. “Did I ever tell you about the ADA I fell for in New York?”

“No, and if you tell me now, I’m going to throw myself across your desk and rip your throat out with my bare hands.”

“It’s an edifying tale.”

“I’ll kill you.”

“I’ll save it for another time.”

I swiveled around. He had taken another bite of chocolate and was holding the bar up to his face, eyeing a drooping curlicue of caramel with affection.

“I’ve got a problem,” I said.

“Oh, the nickel finally drops.” His beak nose bent down as he grimaced. “Christ, boy. Don’t you know Bob’s been after you since you got here? In that quiet, earnest, morally just way of his. He’s probably glad you fucked his wife so he has an ethical reason to destroy you.”