William Bernhardt - Death Row

“Look, are you just giving me more grief here? Or do you really-”

“She was on fire, Morelli. Liquid flame. Undressing you with her eyes.”

“Wow.” He continued driving, eyes straight ahead. “Guess I missed that. Thanks for letting me know.”

“My pleasure.” After a moment, she turned herself around in the bucket seat, just enough to face him. “So, does this mean I can drive the Trans Am?”

“Not a chance.” He paused. “But if you keep it up, I might let you touch one of the mag wheels.”

“What, you’re going to fire me after seven years because I want to talk to your old girlfriend?”

“You got it, Ben.”

“Christina would say that’s a good reason to do it.”

“Look-just humor me on this. She couldn’t possibly tell you anything of interest. Why do you think she would?”

“Well, to tell you the truth-your old lab pal Hubbard put the idea in my head.”

“Hubbard? Why?”

“He told me about your social life together. When you weren’t huddled over the Scrabble board, that is.”

“Hubbard’s full of it.”

“He painted a fairly vivid portrait. Cruising the singles bars and whatnot. I know that was before Carrie, but still-”

“Did you have Christina with you? He was probably trying to impress her with his tales of macho studdom.”

“Still, if there’s any chance-”

“Ben-I’m begging you. I know I can’t fire you. No one’s going to take my case on the eve of execution. But I’ve caused that poor woman enough torment. Don’t bother her, okay?”

Ben looked at him long and hard. “I’ll have to think about it some more,” he said finally.

Ray stared at him, stony-eyed. “You’re going to see her, aren’t you?”

“I’ll let you know.”

Ray grunted. He was obviously unhappy, but no doubt realized there was nothing more he could do.

“Anything I can get you?” Ben asked.

“How about a cab ride to the nearest synagogue?”

“Are you doing all right? You look tired.”

“I haven’t been sleeping well. I still get the nightmares.”

Ben remained silent. He didn’t have to ask what they were about.

“You don’t know how close I came. They actually had me strapped down on that table, before the call came in from the courthouse. They had started filling the needles. I thought it was… was over.”

Ben wished he could reach out, could touch, could offer some measure of comfort in some way. But of course, he couldn’t. Ben’d had a few brushes with mortality himself, but nothing that could even come close to what Ray must be experiencing-the slow, inexorable, measured approach of an all-but-certain death.

“Now every time I close my eyes, I see that table. Right before me. The straps. The needles. The warden with his finger on the button. All of it taunting me, saying, ‘We let you go once. But we’re still here. And we’ll get you.’ “

“That must be…” Ben couldn’t think of a word that began to describe it. “Almost unbearable.”

Ray did not disagree. “I see the rabbi every day now. We get down on our knees and we say the prayers. But none of it helps. None of it makes me… forget. Where I’m headed. What they want to do to me. I have a burning sensation in my stomach and every day it gets worse.”

“We’re doing everything we can,” Ben said, realizing as he said it what little help it must be. “If there’s any way to stop this, we will.”

Ray’s dark and hooded eyes peered out from behind his fingers. “As a Jew, I should believe in miracles. But I don’t. Never have. Much as I might like to delude myself with hope-I can’t. Much as I might like to believe there’s someone up there looking after me-I know better. When the guard closes the door at night-I’m alone in the cell. And when they strap me down to that table-I’ll be alone. No more last-minute reprieves. No miracles. No eleventh-hour redemption.” He shook his head with despair. “I don’t think I believe in anything anymore.”

Ben pressed his hand against the glass. “Believe in this, Ray. I’m not going to let those nightmares come true. Not without a fight.”

Ray pressed his own hand against the other side of the glass. But he did not say anything. And the hollow, lost look in his eyes did not fade.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Ms. Knight, we have legitimate information-”

“From a shrink? Someone who was paid to talk to Erin?”

“Dr. Bennett seemed very certain-”

“Well, she got it wrong.” Sheila Knight was wearing a T-shirt and a pair of jeans with a rip in the right knee. She was wearing no makeup and her hair was in need of a wash. Just the same, she was gorgeous.

“Apparently Erin first revealed under hypnosis-”

“That’s a crock.”

Mike inhaled deeply. He was tired of being interrupted. Maybe it was just him, but Sheila’s protestations seemed almost too vehement. “Is it possible Erin told her psychiatrist something she would never tell anyone else?”

“It is not possible,” Sheila said firmly. “Erin told me everything. If I didn’t know about it, it didn’t happen. So I can state absolutely and positively-this did not happen!”

Mike decided to change the subject. “What kind of work do you do?”

“I’m a tech writer. Freelance. I write all those boring little manuals you don’t read whenever you buy something.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I’ve done almost everything. Instruction manuals for kitchen appliances. Construction manuals for children’s toys. Did an employee training book for a fast-food chain. That sort of thing.”

“Stay busy?”

“More than I want, actually. The first few years were slow, but once I got my name out there-wow. I have all the work I want now. I even farm some out to friends, subcontracts.”

“That’s wonderful.”

Mike continued looking at her. He didn’t want to be the one who reintroduced the subject, and he hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. She knew what he wanted to talk about.

“Look,” Sheila said, finally, “I know the police have to follow all their leads. But I’m telling you-this is nonsense. I knew Erin, all through school. I was over at her house constantly. I knew her father-for that matter, I knew every member of the family. If there had been something going on, something… horrible, I would’ve known about it. There’s no way I could have not known about it.”

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, if you’re certain.” Mike paused. “Did you know the gun that killed Erin was coated with hyperthermal luminous paraffin?”

Baxter gave him a long look, but remained quiet.

“No,” Sheila said. “I don’t even know what that is.”

“It’s like invisible paint. Rubs off on anyone who fires the gun.”

“So?”

“So all we have to do is find the perp and put his hand under the luminal scanner. Unmistakable ID.”

“Wouldn’t it wear off after a few days?”

Mike shook his head. “Absent a special chemical bath, it wouldn’t wear off for a year.”

“So,” Sheila said, knotting her fingers together, “that stuff must’ve gotten all over Erin’s hand.”

“It was,” Mike said. “But my partner here thinks maybe… it got on someone else’s hand as well.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Yeah. I think so, too.” He slapped his knees. “But if there is someone else, we’ll catch him. No one can stay clear of the police for long. Did you know we can listen in on phone calls now?”

Baxter’s eyebrows moved closer together, but she maintained her silence.

“We can get lists from the phone company. Tells us who called who and when.”