William Bernhardt - Death Row

“Is that all?”

“No, I’m just warming up. Second, I’m not your buddy, your friend, your counselor, or your father, so don’t for a minute get the idea that I am. We work together. Period. End of story.”

Baxter’s voice was positively icy. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. I drive. Don’t bother asking if you can drive my Trans Am. You can’t. So, now that we’ve established our rules, let’s-”

“Wait a minute. We’re not done.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you haven’t heard my rules yet.”

“ Your rules? You don’t get to-”

“First, I’m not putting up with any sexist crap. I don’t care where we are or who we’re with. At the scene of a crime or in the locker room. Doesn’t matter. I won’t put up with any salacious remarks, crude innuendos, or chauvinistic character slurs. If I hear anything like that, I’ll report you in a New York minute.”

“Is that a threat?”

“That’s a promise, buster. Second, if you have any thoughts about trying to snuggle up to me or playing grabass in your Trans Am, forget it. I’m your partner, not your playmate. I’m not attracted to you and I never will be.”

Now, that was a bit harsh. “Fine. Let’s just-”

“I’m not done. You haven’t heard my third rule yet.”

“And that would be?”

She jabbed her blunt-nailed finger into his chest. “I do not, under any circumstances, want to hear any of your goddamn poems! I hate poems!” She folded her arms across her chest. “Any questions?”

“No,” Mike said through clenched teeth. “I think we understand one another quite well.”

“Good. Let’s go!”

Mike unclenched his fists and jaw, wiped the grimace off his face, and started out the door. This was never going to work. Never. Never in a million trillion years!

There are constants in the universe, Mike mused. Our echoes roll from soul to soul / And grow for ever and for ever, as Tennyson said. Or, A kiss is still a kiss , as Dooley Wilson sang. The point was, some things never changed. And one of them, he realized as he trudged into the small house on Indianapolis, was that he hated crime scenes.

Something of a handicap for a homicide detective, but he’d managed to deal with it, over the years. He’d circumvented it. But he hadn’t conquered it. And he supposed he never would.

A patrolman on duty pointed a finger. “Upstairs, Major.”

Mike nodded and started up, Sergeant Baxter close behind.

She’d been discovered when the cleaning lady came in this morning. Rigor had already set in. Her naked body had an ashen green color, and the smell-well, there was one. Mike tried not to focus on it.

Absolutely beautiful, in a chilling way. Except for the head, of course. Because that had exploded all over the bed.

Spatters of blood and brain tissue were very much in evidence. Other than the mess on the bed, though, there were no signs that anything was amiss. Water still in the bath. (Evidently not a very soothing soak, Mike noted.) Phone on the hook. No sign of other persons. Just one little girl-or young woman, if Baxter insisted. One very sad young woman.

On the far side of the bed, Mike spotted a familiar figure looking away, toward the bathroom. He was thin, medium height, with straight brown hair and an increasingly sizable bald spot on the back of his head.

“Freeze,” Mike said. “You’re under arrest.”

As he turned around, Ben Kincaid’s face was wide-eyed with astonishment, followed by a moment of recognition, followed by a grimace. “Very amusing.”

Sergeant Baxter looked concerned. “You know this man, Morelli?”

The corners of Mike’s mouth crinkled. “He turns up a lot. Kind of a murder junkie.”

Baxter approached Ben, all business. “This is a restricted crime scene, sir. Unless you’re with the department-”

“I’m a lawyer,” Ben tried to explain.

“Is that supposed to count for something?”

Mike proved once and for all that he really did have a mean streak. “To be precise, Sergeant-he’s a defense attorney.”

Baxter’s hand slid inside her jacket, touching her weapon. “What are you doing here?”

“Tomlinson waved me up. I just wanted to have a look around.”

“Why?” Baxter said, her face cold. “So you could rearrange things? Walk off with some incriminating evidence? Taint the scene so you can later allege police incompetence? This is my case, asshole, and I’m not going to let any legal crapola screw it up.”

Ben adjusted his gaze wearily. “Mike, who is this woman?”

Baxter answered for him. “I’m Major Morelli’s new partner. Sergeant Kate Baxter. And you’re trespassing on a crime scene in violation of-”

“Relax, Baxter,” Mike said, pushing between them. “Counselor Kincaid here is a friend. What’s your interest in this case, Ben?”

“Do you have to ask? Ray Goldman’s appeal is still pending.”

Mike rolled his eyes. “You’re kidding me. Are you still beating that dead horse? How long has he been on death row?”

“Seven years. Which is seven years too long.”

Mike tilted his head toward Baxter. “Mr. Kincaid is referring to the sadistic bastard who tortured and killed Erin Faulkner’s entire family.”

“Ray Goldman is no sadist,” Ben rejoined. “He’s an educated, cultured, sensitive man. He’s a gourmet cook.”

“Oh, well, that proves he’s innocent. Give it up, Ben. Your man did the crime.”

“No,” Ben said firmly, “he was just convicted of it.”

“We had him dead to rights.”

“The only thing you had was the testimony of the late Erin Faulkner. And yesterday, she showed up in my office and told me everything she said on the witness stand was a lie.”

“What?”

“You heard me. She said DA Bullock pressured her, and she was young and malleable, and she made an identification she wasn’t sure about. And as a result, Ray Goldman has lost seven years of his life.”

“Wait a minute,” Baxter said, forcing her way into the conversation. “Now that the woman has turned up dead, you’re claiming she recanted her testimony?”

“You got it.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Another lawyer in my office.”

Baxter turned away, shaking her head. “I’ve heard of some sleazy defense-lawyer tricks in my time-”

“It’s not a trick.”

“Bull. You’re trying to take advantage of the woman’s death to get your creep off the hook. That’s despicable.”

“I’m telling the truth.”

“Right. And the day after she cleanses her soul-to a defense lawyer of all people-she turns up dead. Now isn’t that convenient?”

“No,” Ben said, turning his eyes toward the bloodstained bed. “I don’t find it convenient at all.”

“Look,” Mike said, holding up his hands, “I don’t know what’s going on here. But I’ve known Ben since college and I know damn well he wouldn’t make up a story like this just to get his client off.” He’d come up with something more credible, Mike thought silently.

Baxter stared at Mike, outraged. “So you’re siding with the defense lawyer?”

“I’m not siding with anyone. I’m just telling you the facts. Ben’s no liar. Of course, even if Erin Faulkner said it, that doesn’t mean it’s true.” He dug his hands into his coat pockets, came up with nothing. Times like this, he really wished he hadn’t quit smoking. “C’mon, Baxter. Let’s finish working our suicide.”

“How can you be sure it was suicide?” Ben asked.

Mike stopped. “What, you, too? She was found with the gun still in her hand.”

“Hers?”

“No record of Erin Faulkner owning a gun. But it’s hardly surprising she would have one. Given her past, she must have suffered from… mental disturbances. Survivor guilt. Hell, maybe she really did think her testimony was false, and she felt bad about it. Any of those could lead to suicide.”