Jefferson Bass - Cut to the Bone - A Body Farm Novel

He stepped to the far end of the table and pressed the muzzle of his weapon against Satterfield’s forehead: the right guy’s forehead this time, no doubt about it. As he did, he heard the keening of sirens, faint at first, their pitch and volume rising as they drew nearer. “This is for Kevin,” Deck said softly, his finger pressing the trigger once more. “My dead brother.”

“Wait,” urged a voice. Brockton’s voice, from the floor. “Don’t shoot him. That’s not the way.”

“An eye for an eye,” said Decker. “A life for a life. He owes lots of lives.”

“It’ll ruin you if you do it,” said Brockton. “It would make you a murderer, too. Just like him.”

“Not just like him,” said Decker, the gun still on the guy’s forehead.

“He’ll go to prison for life,” said Brockton. “Maybe get the death penalty. Let the court do that. It’s too big a load for you to carry.”

“I’m willing to take that chance,” Decker answered, his finger tightening.

“Deck?” He heard another voice speaking now—the voice of the watch commander, Captain Hackworth, calling his name softly from the shattered glass door. “Hey, Deck, I’m coming in,” Hackworth said evenly. “How about you let me take your sidearm now, okay?” Decker felt a hand on his shoulder, then saw another hand reaching in, fingers encircling the barrel of the gun. “You got him, Deck,” the captain said as he gently raised the barrel and then freed the gun from Decker’s grasp. “You got him. It’s over.”

“It’s not over till I say it’s over,” Decker heard Satterfield hiss. “I’ll be back to finish this.”

Decker felt his fingers clench, and wished the gun were still in his hand; still pressed to Satterfield’s forehead.

PART 3

After the Fall

And the Lord God said, Behold, the man is become as one of us, to know good and evil: and now, lest he put forth his hand, and take also of the tree of life, and eat, and live for ever:

Therefore the Lord God sent him forth from the garden of Eden, to till the ground from whence he was taken.

So he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life.

—GENESIS 3:22–24

JANUARY 1993

CHAPTER 54

Brockton

“I STILL CAN’T BELIEVE IT,”Jeff squawked, for the third time—or was it the fourth?—since we’d sat down in Calhoun’s. “That guy really needs to fry.” He punctuated his opinion by licking a blob of barbecue sauce from his thumb.

“Jeff.” Kathleen’s voice was soft, but it carried an unmistakable motherly reprimand—one she underscored by wagging a finger at him. It was her pinky finger—an eighth-inch shorter than before, its range of motion still limited, but on the mend, thank God. “We’re here to celebrate,” she added,” not second-guess the jury.”

“I know. Sorry, Mom; sorry, Dad,” he said. Through the plate-glass window behind him, I watched a towboat bulling a raft of barges upriver, the wake angling out from the stern and rushing toward the pilings on which the restaurant rested. Jeff plucked a French fry from his plate and raised it toward his mouth, then began gesturing with the potato, like a symphony conductor with a baton. “But he killed six people—six people that we know of—including his own mother and stepfather. If a guy like that doesn’t deserve to die, I don’t know who does. They sure didn’t deserve to die.”

“They didn’t,” agreed Kittredge, “but it’s not just about whether he deserved it.” The KPD detective had joined us for the post-sentencing lunch; so had Janelle Mayfield, who’d fought Satterfield for her life and had won. With Kittredge’s support, Janelle had been hired by KPD as an advocate for victims of sex crimes—a brave move on the part of both KPD and Janelle, I thought. “If he’d gotten a death sentence, he might never be executed anyhow,” Kittredge went on. “There’d be appeals—years and years of appeals. Millions of dollars worth of appeals. Maybe it’s just as good, and a lot cheaper, to lock him up and throw away the key.”

I checked my watch; it was twelve forty-five. “Roxanne, what time’s your flight?”

“Not till three thirty,” she said. “If Tyler and I head for the airport by two thirty, we’ll be fine.”

“Are you kidding?” I teased. “The way he creeps along in that truck? You should’ve left forty-five minutes ago. Be quicker to walk.”

“Ha ha,” said Tyler. “You’re just jealous because I won’t sell it to you.”

“What, that old thing?” I retorted. “No shoulder harnesses, no air bags—that thing’s a death trap, man.” I grinned, but then I felt a pang. I was going to miss Tyler—miss his work, and miss his company. “You sure you don’t want to rethink, now that your thesis is done? Maybe take the spring and summer off, then decide?”

“Bill.” Kathleen’s voice was soft—even softer than it’d been with Jeff a moment before. I knew when to shut up, and the time was now.

“Another thing,” said Jeff, taking advantage of the momentary lull. “How come Satterfield gets a free lawyer? A really mean free lawyer? That guy DeVriess—‘Grease’—man, he was fierce. Made it sound like Dad was the scumbag on trial.”

“ Jeff .” This time Kathleen’s voice made no pretense at softness. This time even Jeff got the message. Across the table, Jenny’s hand reached for Jeff’s, her fingers giving his a squeeze. Chiding, or affectionate? Maybe both, I realized, when Jeff looked at her with a sheepish smile. Their communication—much of it conveyed by looks and touches—seemed surprisingly evolved for a pair of high-school kids. Was that because they’d had a brush with death? Or was it just because they were smart, good-hearted, and happy with one another? Whatever the reason, I was pleased for them.

“Show them,” Jeff said to her.

“Now?” Jenny blushed, suddenly looking shy.

“Sure, why not? Show ’em.”

“Show us what, sweetheart?” asked Kathleen.

“Oh, nothing, really,” she said. “Just . . . a couple of sketches I did in the courtroom today.” Jeff nudged her, and she reached down beside her chair and retrieved a small leather portfolio, setting it in her lap and opening the flap. She took out two pieces of drawing paper. “Janelle, one’s for you.”

“For me?” Janelle looked nervous. “Why?”

Jenny smiled. “You remember the drawing I did that day at the police department?”

“How could I forget?” said the woman. “Scared the crap out of me when I saw that awful face staring up from the page.”

“Not the drawing of him, ” said Jenny. “The drawing of you .”

“Honey, I am talking about the drawing of me,” Janelle replied, drawing a good laugh from all of us. Then her face turned serious. “Sure, I remember the drawing you did of me. I looked pretty bad, too.”

“Not bad,” said Jenny. “Scared. Hurt. Sad. Mad.”

Janelle nodded. “Sounds about right.”

“Today I drew you again.” Jenny handed her the top sketch. I couldn’t have said which sprang to Janelle’s face first, the smile or the tears. She tried to speak, but quickly gave up. Instead, she laid one hand on her heart; with the other, she held up the drawing so we could all see it. There were still traces of hurt—more lines around the mouth and eyes than a woman her age should have, and a zigzag scar across the cheekbone—but mostly, the face gazing out from the page radiated courage and confidence.

“That is beautiful, ” said Kathleen. “A perfect likeness.”