David Baldacci - The Last Mile

“Well, considering how he was almost killed in prison, I don’t think I would call his paranoia unjustified,” said Decker, drawing a sharp glance from Davenport.

“If Mars had hired him to murder his parents twenty years ago why would Montgomery come forward now?” asked Jamison. “Right before Mars was to be executed?”

“The timing is a little...” began Davenport.

“Convenient,” Decker finished for her.

Bogart said, “So you think this was all planned out? By Montgomery?”

Decker shook his head. “He’s on death row in an Alabama prison. How would he have even known Mars was going to be executed?”

The others just looked at him blankly.

Decker said, “So we need to hear that right from Montgomery himself.”

“You think he’ll tell you the truth?” asked Davenport, as she watched Decker closely. “The last words of a doomed man?”

“Not even close,” replied Decker.

Holman Correctional Facility had been opened in 1969 and was filled to the brim with far more inmates than it was designed to hold. Located in southern Alabama where summer temperatures could soar to over a hundred degrees, the facility had no air-conditioning, and relied on industrial fans to move hot air around. Nicknamed “Slaughter Pen of the South” because of its reputation for violence inside the walls, and “the Pit” because of its geographical location at the bottom of Alabama, Holman housed Alabama’s death row.

Decker and the rest of the team had made the trip on a commercial jet. They all wore FBI windbreakers, creds clipped to their jackets. Bogart’s briefcase smacked against his thigh as they walked toward the prison’s front entrance.

They were cleared through prison security after Bogart, Decker, and Milligan surrendered their weapons, and were escorted to a visitors’ room by one of the prison guards.

“Tell us about Montgomery,” Decker said to the guard as they walked along.

“He’s a loner. No trouble. He bothers nobody and nobody bothers him. It’s odd, though.”

“What is?” asked Bogart.

“Well, in Alabama you get a choice on how you’re executed. And Montgomery is the only one I’ve ever known to choose the electric chair over lethal injection. Why would you want to fry versus go to sleep?”

Bogart and Decker looked at each other. They continued on and were soon seated in a room opposite a heavily shackled Charles Montgomery while two burly guards hovered in the background.

Montgomery was white, a little over six feet, and had just turned seventy-two. His shaved head had a noticeable indentation on the top left side. His eyes were brown, his teeth even but stained with nicotine, and his once hard body had softened some. His forearms were muscled and heavily tatted and his ears were pierced for earrings, but no such hardware was allowed in here.

He raised his eyes to theirs and, starting with Bogart, went from left to right and then back right to left. Then his gaze dropped to his manacled hands.

Bogart said, “Mr. Montgomery, I’m Special Agent Bogart with the FBI. These are my colleagues. We’re here to talk to you about your recent confession regarding the murders of Roy and Lucinda Mars in Texas.”

Montgomery still did not look up.

Bogart glanced at Decker before continuing.

“Mr. Montgomery, we would like to hear from you the details of the night you allegedly murdered the Marses.”

Montgomery said curtly, “Nothing alleged about it. And I already told ’em.”

The tone was not hostile, simply matter-of-fact.

“I appreciate that, but we need to hear it from you, too.”

“Why’s that?” asked Montgomery, still looking down.

Decker had been running his gaze over the man, taking in small details of his appearance and demeanor.

“Was it a beating in here?” he asked. “Or was it Vietnam?”

Now Montgomery looked up. In that emotionless gaze it was readily apparent that the condemned man was one very dangerous person.

“What?” he asked quietly.

In response Decker touched the left top of his head. “Your skull’s been partially cut away leaving that indentation. Was it a beating? Some kind of combat injury? You served in Vietnam.”

“Mortar round exploded twenty feet from me. My buddy died. I got a hole in the head.”

“Your file says you were in the Army,” noted Bogart.

“Eighteenth Infantry, First Battalion, out of Fort Riley,” Montgomery recited automatically.

“When did you come back stateside after the war?”

“Nineteen sixty-seven, mustered out a month later.”

“Didn’t want to be career military?” asked Decker.

Montgomery gave him a surly glance. “Yeah, it was so much fun and all.”

Bogart pulled out a file from his briefcase. “So you were in Texas then when the Marses were murdered?”

“Had to be, since I killed ’em.”

“Run us through that. How did it happen?”

Montgomery glanced over at him, impatience on his features. “It’s all in your file. So why do I have to do that?”

“We’re just trying to confirm everything. And we would like to hear it from you. That’s why we came here.”

“And if I don’t want to say?”

“We can’t force you,” said Decker. “But we were wondering why you came forward in the first place.”

“You know my sentence?”

“Yes.”

“So what does it matter? Get it off my chest. Maybe help with the Big Man in the hereafter.”

“I can understand that. But to get Mr. Mars off your story needs to be confirmed. The FBI can do that faster than the state folks can. So if we both want the same thing, why not cooperate?”

“You look way too fat to be with the FBI.”

“They made an exception for me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I like to get to the truth. Can you help me do that?”

Montgomery gave a long, resigned sigh. “What the hell does it matter? Okay.” He rubbed his face with his chained hands and settled back in his seat.

“You heard of PTSD?” he asked Decker.

Decker nodded. “Yes.”

“Well, they never tested me for it, but I got it. And all that crap that was burning over there? Munitions, chemical weapons. Agent Orange shit they dropped on our fuckin’ heads? And who the hell knew what the Vietcong were chucking at us. Breathing all that in, day after day. It messed me up. Surprised it didn’t give me cancer. Then that mortar round blew up next to me.” He pointed to his head, his shackles clanging as he did so. “And they had to cut out a part of my skull. Hell, maybe part of my brain, VA never said. And then the headaches started.”

“You got the Purple Heart,” said Bogart.

“Big shit. That’s all I got.”

Decker interjected, “So the headaches started?”

“Yeah. And the VA didn’t want to hear nothing about it. I got no treatment. But I tried to get on with my life. I got married, tried to keep a job, but it was no good. The pain never stopped. And when the docs wouldn’t write no more prescriptions I took matters into my own hands.”

“To get drugs, you mean?” asked Davenport. “For the pain?”

“Yeah. It was just little stuff at first. To get money to get the drugs. Then I started taking the drugs from people I knew had ’em. Cut out the middleman and go right to the source.” He smiled darkly. “The Army taught me to be efficient.”

Davenport said, “The drugs you were probably taking are heavily addictive. So you got hooked and couldn’t stop?”

“Yeah. I was a total druggie. Do anything to get more.”

“And then what?” asked Decker.

“Then things just snowballed. It was like I was a different person. Things I never woulda done before, I’d do. Hurt people, steal shit. I didn’t care. I got busted a few times on petty crap but never did no real jail time. But my first marriage unraveled and I lost my job, my house, everything. Then I just started drifting across the country, trying to get the headaches to stop.”