Vincent Zandri - The Innocent

“The less you know the better,” I said. “A lot can happen between now and tomorrow night.”

As if on cue, Val and I glanced at the headline reporting Mike Norman’s apparent suicide.

“If they can get to Mike,” I said, “they can get to you and Tony. So take care of yourself. I need you.” I flicked the spent cigarette out onto the parking lot. Sparks flew up when the butt hit the pavement.

Val returned the pen and paper to her pocket, took my hand and squeezed it. She moved in closer and I breathed in her sweet smell and looked into her eyes.

“You’ll be happy I wanted it this way,” I said.

“Especially if they torture me, boss,” Val said, coming even closer, but not yet touching.

“You are one pleasant administrative assistant,” I said, my lips only inches from hers, nearly touching, but somehow better than touching.

“Pleasant,” she said, “is my middle name.” And then I laid one on her.

I GOT OUT OF the car, closed the door behind me, and leaned inside the open window.

“You sure you’re going to be okay?” Val asked. How she was able to maintain a happy face was a testament not only to her strength, but to her blind faith in me.

“I am now,” I said. “But you and Tony’s Guinea Pigs have to come through for me. Otherwise this thing is shot to hell, and I go straight to jail, do not pass go, do not clear my name, do not save my reputation or my life.”

Val pressed her lips together.

“I’ll make the necessary arrangements right now. But I have to know you’re going to be all right.” She went to turn over the ignition, but I reached inside the car and took her arm.

“Val,” I said, “do you know what they’ll do to a warden inside an iron house?”

She nodded and placed her hand on my hand.

“Don’t worry about a thing, boss man,” she said. “Not about me or Tony or those Guinea Pigs.”

I squeezed Val’s forearm gently. When I let go, she turned over the ignition and smiled again. But I knew the smile was forced. The big eight-cylinder on the Town & Country revved for a few quick seconds, then settled down to a gentle purr. Val put her hands on the steering wheel. She looked small sitting behind the big black wheel, almost fragile. But deep down, I knew she wasn’t anything like that.

“One hundred thousand bucks,” she said. “Sounds very reasonable.”

“Tony has to come through,” I said, leaning away from the window. “Tomorrow morning. Ironville post office. Attention Pasquale Marconi.” I thought about Cassandra’s testimony. I had to believe she’d told me the truth. I had to believe in the power of instinct.

“It’ll be there,” Val insisted, switching the automatic transmission into reverse.

I stood away from the car so she could back out. Then she pulled out onto the Champlain road and left me in the observation area, more alone than I’d ever felt in my life.

It was all I could do to wait until Val’s car was out of sight before I doubled over, went down on my knees, and heaved. The acid from the bile in my stomach burned the insides of my chest, my throat. The bile soured my mouth, made tears run down my face. That was my excuse for the tears, anyway. The salty tears ran between my lips and combined with the sour taste in my mouth. I left a clear brown puddle on the black lot. My body felt like it had been ripped inside out. I closed my eyes, winced from the burning pain.

I saw Mike Norman’s face. Tommy Walsh sat in Mike’s dark office in Albany. I saw Mike downing shot after shot of ginger brandy out of his I LOVE MY JOB! mug. Walsh was holding a Glock to Mike’s head, ordering him to drink up. Then, when the time was right, Tommy unbuckled Mike’s belt, slid it out from under the loops, wrapped it around Mike’s neck and ran it back through the buckle. He strapped the belt to one of the overhead steam pipes that rose up the wall and ran across the ceiling. Tommy lifted Mike up. Mike’s emaciated body was like lifting a baby for a muscle-man like Tommy. He stood Mike up on his swivel chair with that belt wrapped around his neck, and just walked away.

Out of desperation, Mike maybe managed to balance himself for a second or two on the swivel chair. He was sober suddenly, and he must have tried to shout, but no words would come. He tried to go for the 9 mm. usually kept in his leather shoulder holster. But in his position, a move like that would mean certain death. And besides, his piece would have been long gone. With his fingers he tried to make a space between the belt and the flesh of his neck, but the belt was too tight and he was too drunk. Sober, but drunk. He’d leave claw marks where the belt was. And as the windpipe in his throat closed up, he reached out for Tommy as if his killer could also be his savior. But Tommy was already gone out into the night, and Mike realized that he was already as good as dead and that the life he had left was merely a formality. That’s when Mike lost his balance on the swivel chair. That’s when he fell away, and there was no one in the office to hear the distinct, sharp crack of his neck.

Mike’s death appeared to be suicide.

But it also could have been murder.

To me, it didn’t matter what anyone called it. It was murder no matter how you looked at it.

IN A STATE OF mild shock, I drove back to the cabin. I’m not sure where my feelings had gone, but one thing was certain: I wasn’t feeling much of anything anymore. Suddenly, after having collapsed in the observation parking lot, it seemed like someone had peeled off my skin and scraped away the nerve endings. At the same time, I had to believe that I was over the hump and that Val, Tony, and Cassandra were working with me now as one big happy family. Even the Guinea Pigs were on my side. In any event, I had to keep in control, clear my head, stay positive.

I got back to the cabin at around ten o’clock that Friday morning, just four days after Vasquez had escaped from Green Haven Prison, just one day after his murder. I turned the car around in the drive and backed it into the carport, beside the woodpile. I got out and opened the trunk. Then I took the cabin key out from behind the old black mailbox and unlocked the side door. But when I went inside to find Cassandra, she wasn’t there.

I looked in the kitchen, the two bedrooms, and the closet-size bathroom. I pulled back the shower curtain, looked inside the empty shower. I looked behind all the doors, inside the closets, under the bed.

No sign of her anywhere.

The sensation of being trapped somewhere between feeling and not feeling suddenly disappeared as fast as it had hit me. Now I couldn’t help but give in to the wave of dread that swept through my veins like a three-stage lethal injection.

Here’s how lethal injection worked:

First, you were strapped down on a black gurney, arms extended like in a crucifixion. Then an execution technician (who cannot be a doctor or a registered nurse because their code of ethics forbids it) swabbed your forearm with alcohol to prevent infection, of all things, and probed your arm for a vein. When the vein was found he inserted a needle into it. The needle was connected to an intravenous line that channeled sodium Pentothal into your veins to knock you out. After that, panchromium bromide and potassium chloride were introduced. The first paralyzed your diaphragm, collapsed your lungs, and made it impossible to take a breath. The second stopped your heart from pumping. How long your brain continued to receive and transmit messages and brain waves was undetermined.

During the first death by lethal injection that I witnessed, it took nearly a half hour to kill the man. The tube that had been attached to his arm broke away. The witnesses were sprayed with the deadly chemicals and the condemned inmate began to convulse and foam at the mouth and nostrils. His eyes were wide open the entire time.