William Bernhardt - Death Row

He drew in his breath. “When Erin knew there was someone out there who needed an organ, she let no path go unchecked. She made it her personal quest to find what they needed.” He paused, and his voice grew silent. “You can see why we all loved her.”

Mike remained silent. Professional or not, he found himself touched by the man’s obvious grief. And he noticed that, at last, the doctor had referred to Erin in the past tense. But he kept the observation to himself.

Ben pressed his fingers against his forehead. “So if I follow this correctly, you’re saying the second killer was basically a stand-up guy?”

“Well, compared to his partner,” Christina replied.

“Then why would he be at the Faulkners’ house in the first place?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t want to be. Maybe he was forced. Maybe he was there for some other reason. But he was there-and he appears to have been doing whatever he could to make the situation better.”

“He did damn little enough.”

“Granted. But he was still there. I think we should tell the police.”

Ben frowned. “To what end? They’re not going to believe you. And they’re not going to reopen the case. They got a conviction, remember?”

“Then I’ll call some of my journalistic buddies. Karen, or LeAnne, or-”

“The police are never going to admit they made a mistake. And even if you get everyone convinced there was a second person on the scene, the police will just say Ray was one of the two and execute him all the quicker. In a way, you might be playing into their hands-it’s a lot easier to believe Ray was your killer with the conscience than that he was a solo psychopath. Either way-it doesn’t help Ray.”

“Unless we find the second person, or for that matter, the first. And find out what happened.”

“Which we’ve never even gotten close to doing before.”

“Because we never really understood what was happening before. Now we do. A little better, anyway.” She closed the file. “And that, for the first time, gives us a fighting chance.”

At St. Michael’s Alley, seated in a back booth that resembled two high-backed church pews from an eighteenth-century English chapel, Mike and Sergeant Baxter began rummaging through the contents of Erin Faulkner’s desk.

“ Erin kept busy,” Baxter remarked. Mike was impressed at how she managed to simultaneously consume the baked Brie, the stuffed mushrooms, the pâté, and her white wine-without getting any of it on the evidence. A hardy appetite had Sergeant Baxter. And good table manners, too. “Looks like she had at least fourteen ongoing seriously urgent organ searches.”

“Hell of a line of work,” Mike said, between beer and pretzels. “You can see how doing that sort of thing day after day could cause a serious depression.”

“Are you still insisting on your pathetic suicide theory? Just because she was in an emotional line of work? You’re such an… investigative opportunist.”

“Dr. Palmetto thinks I’m right.”

“Dr. Palmetto thinks she’s still alive in Nirvana or whatever. I’m more interested in reality.”

“The reality is, Erin Faulkner killed herself.” Mike polished off his beer and signaled for a second. “Look, Baxter-I don’t know why you keep pushing this. Maybe this is some feminist sisterhood thing. Or it’s that you want to make a good impression in Tulsa. Or that you’re just plain obstinate.”

“All three.”

“But you’re barking up the wrong tree. You want to prove yourself-let’s get a real case.”

“This is a real case.”

“I mean, a homicide. As in, Major Mike Morelli of the homicide department.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re such a jerk.”

“Did you know there was a murder in Broken Arrow last night? Some old guy on his way back from the Y. And they assigned it to Prescott. The biggest idiot on the force. Catch a murderer? He couldn’t catch a cold! But he got the case. And you know why he got it?” Mike rose an inch off of his bench. “Because we were still mucking around with this suicide!”

Baxter resolutely shoved another mushroom into her mouth. “This was not a suicide, Morelli. And I’m going to prove it.”

“You’re delusional! I mean, it’s a sad story, I grant you. But the woman was depressed and lonely and she didn’t want to live anymore!”

“Really.” Baxter yanked a receipt out of the box and waved it under Mike’s nose. “Then please explain to me, O Master Detective, why four hours before her death, she spent a small fortune of her own money to redecorate her office?”

Gabriel Aravena stared at the man in the tacky suit sitting across from him. Was it really polyester? Surely not. But it seemed like it. If it wasn’t polyester, it was something almost as bad. Not that he was any fashion plate himself; the FastTrak salary didn’t permit such indulgences. But he never looked this pathetic. At least he hoped not.

“And although many parolees find the experience liberating, some also confront serious adjustment problems, once the final tether is broken and they are full-fledged citizens once more. It’s a difficult time for most. I remember a case…”

Aravena could hardly stand it. How long could the man possibly rattle on by himself, without the slightest encouragement from the person to whom he was ostensibly speaking? But this was the last time, he thought, calming himself. The last time ever.

“… getting new bank accounts. Finding a neighborhood. Building relationships with other people. That’s the challenge. But that’s also the great joy. Because in a very real way, you’re building your whole life again from scratch. How many people have that opportunity? Not many. I know a few billionaires who wouldn’t mind having a chance to start over again. Now, I remember one case where…”

How many times had he been forced to come to his PA’s office since his release? Two hundred? Three? He wasn’t sure. It seemed like a million, trapped in this tacky cubbyhole he called an office, reeking of coffee and cigarettes. Listening to the man’s interminable stories…

Melvin Feinstein wasn’t really a bad sort, not once you got past the terminal ennui. As PAs went, it could be a lot worse. Or maybe Aravena had just gotten used to him after all these years. The food-stained shirts. The loud wide ties. He was a package. And despite some wariness, he seemed to genuinely believe Gabriel was over it, that he was going to try to make good now.

Fool.

“You know, Gabe, you ought to get yourself some kind of hobby.”

“Hobby?”

“Yeah. Something to do in your spare time. Something to take your mind off other things.”

Like little girls?

“Like me, see, I collect snow globes. Don’t ask me why or how. I just love ’em. Even the cheesy ones.”

They’re all cheesy ones, Aravena thought silently.

“I guess my mom gave me one when I was twelve, when she and the old man got back from some big trip to Hawaii. I’ve been collecting them ever since. And I take care of them. Dust them, clean them. Rearrange them. Play with them. Gives me something to do when I’m not working. Something to relieve the pressure. You oughta have something like that.”

How about your daughter, you smug son of a bitch? “Well… I like to watch television.”

“Pfff.” Harvey pushed the air with his hands. “TV is for morons.”

Whereas snow globes were for Mensa members. “My work at FastTrak does not leave me a great deal of spare time.”

“Yeah.” Harvey shifted around so he could look at the file on the table before him. “I can believe that. Your supervisor thinks you walk on water, you know. He’s very impressed. Thinks you’re going to be considered for promotion again in no time at all.”