Andrew Klavan - True Crime

“Doncha see?” I asked him. “She’s still wearing the fuckin locket.”

“Who, man? Who are we talking about now?”

“Miz Russel. Warren’s granmother. Can that be? Is that right?” I ran my hand down over my face, rubbing my eyes hard. But the idea would not go away. I stared at Neil. I reached a hand out and clasped his shoulder. “The locket, Neil-o! Jesus. Jesus.”

“Take it easy, Ev.”

“I gotta go. I gotta go. Where am I?”

“Hold on, hold on, you’re drunk.”

“Christ, I know I’m drunk. What’m I, stupid? I’m smashed outta my fucking head. But thas why he shot her, see?”

“Warren’s grandmother?”

“Amy Wilson!”

“What?”

“Doncha see? I saw him. Her father. He was on TV. I saw him. He said-he said the killer tore the locket off her. The one he gave her when she was sixteen. He said that.” Thunderstruck, my grip on the bartender’s shoulder went weak. I let him go, sliding back down onto my stool. “That’s what happened,” I said. “She’d already given Russel the money, but he wanted the locket and that’s why he shot her in the throat. It all makes sense. They gotta see it. What time is it? Where the fuck am I going here?”

“Wait a minute, let me get you some coffee.”

“No, no, no!” I cried, waving my hand at him wildly. “Neil. Jesus. Listen. Listen! It’s all true.”

“Sure it is, buddy. Everything is true. It’s all a matter of how you look at it.”

“Yeah, but this is, like, true true.” I shook my head, wondering. Even I couldn’t believe what I was saying. I tried to think it out, to make sure it wasn’t just the fantasy life of despair. But it was hard to think straight now. The bar heaved and hoed and my stomach heavehoed with it. “He was holding up the store, right? And she gave him the money,” I said to no one in particular. “But then he saw her locket, he wanted her heart locket with the initials on it. For his grandmother, see. Because they were her initials, the same initials. Angela Russel. And Amy said, ‘Please, not that!’ Not the locket. Porterhouse heard her. And Russel shot her-in the throat because he was pointing at the locket with the gun.” I hauled myself to my feet again. “And she’s still wearing the fucking locket. The grandmother. For him, Warren, to remember him. Jesus Christ. What time is it?”

“Five of eleven.”

“Jesus Christ! Put me in my car!”

I took a step-and I tripped on something-a thick piece of air, I think-and the next thing I knew I was on my hands and knees, my glasses hanging sideways across my face, my stomach bubbling thick as lava. Neil was next to me, kneeling next to me. The other guy was there too-the guy who’d been watching TV. The two of them had me by the shoulders. They were helping me to my feet.

“It was her maiden name,” I was mumbling, drool spilling down the side of my mouth. “Her father gave it to her when she was sixteen. Mr. Robertson. It was her maiden name. A.R. And Russel wanted it for his grandmother.”

I grabbed hold of Neil with both hands now as the two men righted me.

“I could do it with the locket, Neil,” I said. “I could show that to Lowenstein. If I could prove it’s Amy’s, if I could prove Warren gave it to his grandmother. That would do it. That would be just enough.”

“Awright, pal, awright, but now you gotta sit down.”

Neil had me by one arm, the other guy was taking hold of the other. The floor beneath my feet seemed an open drain with all the barroom swirling down into it.

But all the same, I broke away from them. My violent twisting movement took them by surprise, my gym-trained muscles broke their hold on me. I stumbled into the center of the room and swung around to face them. The two men moved in on me, poised to spring. I backed away from them toward the door. I righted my glasses.

“All true,” I said breathlessly.

“You cannot drive, man,” said Neil.

“Gotta try,” I said.

“You’ll kill yourself.”

“Innocent. Guy’s innocent. Gonna kill him, Neil-o,” I said. “Gotta. Gotta.”

“Ev, listen …” said Neil. He moved toward me. The other guy reached for my arm, but I swung it out of his way.

“Else I’m nothing,” I said. “Else I’m just nothing.”

I turned my back on them. I was at the door in two strides. I grabbed the brass handle and yanked it open. The door’s edge smacked into my forehead.

“Ow, shit!” I commented, reeling backwards, clutching my face.

“Ev!” Neil shouted.

But I didn’t let him get me. I charged at the door again, holding my forehead with one hand, grabbing the handle with the other.

I felt the blood, viscous and warm, seep down from my brow and between my fingers, as I staggered across the threshold and out into the night.

Four guards escorted the gurney to the door of the Deathwatch cell. Luther Plunkitt led them. When he reached the door, he paused and gestured to them to wait. The guards stood where they were, two on each side of the gurney. They were heavy men and each carried a black plastic riot shield strapped to his arm, each had a long rubber truncheon dangling from his belt. The men were called the Strap-down Team. They were there to get Beachum dressed; get him onto the gurney and belt him down; and roll him back into the death chamber.

The lead guard was carrying a brown paper package. Tilting his head at the door, Luther tapped the guard on the chest with one knuckle. Then he nodded at the Deathwatch guard and the door was opened. Luther went in and the guard with the package followed him. The other three waited outside with the gurney.

Beachum was sitting on the edge of his cot, his head hung down. Reverend Flowers was on the chair beside him, leaning toward him, hanging over him, murmuring steadily in a low, mournful voice.

“You gotta put your hand in God’s hand,” the reverend was saying. “God is with you, look to Jesus and you can face this thing. He will walk with you, He will walk with you to glory …”He murmured without thinking, the words burbling up from a tarry anguish inside him, a mindless litany with which he nearly succeeded in hypnotizing himself.

Beachum’s hands kept coming up to his face to wipe his dry lips, kept dropping back between his legs again, coming up again. He stared at the floor, shaking his head. “1 swear to God I didn’t do anything, Harlan,” he kept repeating. “Nothing. I swear it. You gotta tell them. Jesus. My Bonnie. Gail My little girl. I didn’t even do anything.”

Long minutes ago, they had both passed the point of reason.

Now the door snapped open, and Beachum made a small, terrified noise; bolted upright as if a jolt of current had gone through him. His eyes darted back and forth between the clock and the door as Luther Plunkitt came in. Eleven, only eleven, it wasn’t time yet, he thought wildly. There was still an hour-a whole hour-left to go.

With a brief nod at Benson, Luther approached the cage. His step was firm, his expression was set in that meaningless smile of his. He was determined, he knew his duty and his mind had entered a zone in which there was only action. It was something he could count on himself to do at times like this: in battle, under pressure, in charge. For the next hour or so, he would be nothing more than the things he had to say, the things he had to do. He would become his job, and he would do his job.

He moved close to the bars. He saw Beachum get to his feet, the reverend beside him get to his feet. He spoke the words he had to speak in the tone of compassionate necessity that he deemed to be the voice of the state of Missouri.