Stefan Petrucha - Dead Mann Walking

“Nice dress,” I said with my best grin as the guard locked the door. No lie. It was sleek and auburn. Was it already fall? She’d carry it nicer if she wasn’t weighed down by the heavy bag. It threw off her posture, made her look like a schoolgirl struggling with too many books.

“They wouldn’t let me bring you new clothes,” she said apologetically.

I shrugged. “Be like lipstick on a pig anyway.”

She tsk ed, put the bag down, and opened it. “You don’t look so bad. Nothing I can’t fix.”

Inside I saw books and papers. I started to ask, but Misty made a face like she didn’t want to talk about that yet. Instead, she pulled out her own sewing kit and some Krazy Glue.

She started with the foot, checking pictures in an anatomy book to see where the pieces should go, then using the glue on the bone. Whenever she got a piece together, she’d hold it tight for a slow count of sixty. I knew better than to make a peep until it set. It might dry wrong, or get stuck to Misty’s hand.

Half an hour later, the bones roughly in place, she was the one who started talking.

“New law was passed this morning,” she said, threading the needle.

“I heard the guards grumbling about something. Camps or fires?”

She shook her head. “It was a close vote. Everyone had to compromise.”

“Camps, then fires? The other way around would be ridiculous.”

“All chakz have to register, carry photo ID. They’ve got a test worked out, supposed to tell how likely it is for a chak to go feral. You take it once a month. Pass and you’re free for another thirty. Fail and you’re . . .”

“In the camps.”

“Yeah. Or the fires.”

Triage of the dead. It was almost like the cells in Green’s basement. I tried to whistle, but that trick never worked. What I managed was more like blowing a raspberry.

“Doubt I’d pass now.”

She looked up from her work. “I’ll help you study. We’re in this together, right?”

I smiled, tried to make it warm. “Right. Thanks. Sorry about the Dumpster.”

The muscle reconnected, she stitched the skin. I felt the needle go in and out, but there wasn’t much pain to speak of.

“Was it worth it?” she asked. “Nearly getting yourself buried?”

“Got any easier questions I can answer first?”

“No.”

“Fine. Yes and no. I didn’t find the recorder, but if I hadn’t tried, I would’ve gone crazy.”

“And that girl chak pulled you out,” she said. Now it was her turn to smile. Finished sewing, she waved at my foot. “Come on; try it out.”

The little flap of muscle still working, I managed to move my ankle. I even stood and circled the cell. I didn’t say anything, but my foot didn’t feel exactly right.

She nodded. “Better stay off it for forty-eight hours until the glue completely sets.”

I sat on the cot and tried not to look disappointed, but Misty could read me.

As she loaded up another line of nylon thread for the smaller gash in my neck, she said, “They say if a chak gets ripped a second time, old wounds can heal. Even bone.” She looked up at me. When I didn’t say anything, she added, “We do still have some money.”

An image of Ashby’s powdered bones shivering in the moonlight popped into my head, along with a thought. Maybe Boyle had saved enough to get the kid an extra RIP, hoping to fix his brain, and that was the unexpected result.

“I’m already worried I can’t ever really die. Why push it?”

She tsk ed. “I can’t keep patching you up like this. Could you think about it, at least?”

“One crisis at a time, okay?” I answered, indicating the jail cell.

The neck only took a couple of stitches. “How’s your tongue?”

I clucked it against the roof of my mouth. “Dry as chalk, but working. Any idea what happened to that chak-girl , aka Nell Parker? Unless, of course, you’re jealous.”

“I have half a mind to stitch your lips up.”

“I wouldn’t blame you. But . . . ?”

“She was released last week. That’s all I know. The police have been trying like crazy to connect you to the bomb, but they can’t. Every time they try to make a circumstantial case, there’re articles in the paper tearing them apart.”

I was about to ask why, but she put a finger to her lips and shushed me. She lowered her head and whispered, “I can’t let anyone hear this, but I think I figured out Turgeon’s real name.”

I nearly bolted to my feet, but she held my shoulders and kept me down. “Hess, they can’t know I’m telling you this. I didn’t exactly get the information legitimately. I had to get friendly with one of the guys in records.”

I flashed her an angry look. She slapped my forehead. “Don’t judge me! He was nice, treated me with some respect, and I’ve done worse for lots less. We’re even going to NA meetings together. Anyway, that’s why I’m not supposed to know what I know. I don’t want him getting in trouble for letting me use his computer.”

She’d already done whatever it was she’d done, and I didn’t feel like I was in a position to lecture her. Besides, the part about the meetings sounded good. “What did you find?”

“Took me a while, going through records of spousal murders. There’re thousands, Hess; it’s like everyone gets killed by their lover.”

“I know, I know. Get to the point.”

“Fine. About seven years back, this guy James Derby was executed for beating his wife to death. He had a history of abuse. There was a bloody golf club with his prints and DNA all over the handle. He pled guilty, so no one looked too close. His stepson, Lamar, inherited his business. Inside of a year Lamar sold everything and vanished with a shitload of cash.”

The next part, like it usually happens with exonerations, was almost an accident.

“Then a university crime lab class gets ahold of the case for practice. A student notices some bruising on her neck, like strangulation. Those wounds were swabbed, too, but never tested. They gave him the extra samples, thinking he’d just find more James Derby DNA. Maybe he started choking her and moved up to the club. But it wasn’t his DNA. It belonged to Lamar. Hess, the bastard murdered his own mother, then planted his stepfather’s golf club at the scene. Why would someone do that?”

I whispered back, “Because he blamed her for driving away the men in his life, his daddies. At least, that’s what he said.”

“But it still doesn’t make sense. Why would James Derby go to the death chamber to protect him?” she said.

I shrugged. “Guilt? He abused the kid’s mom, right? Probably felt responsible, even if it wasn’t him. Didn’t realize the boy was a sociopath. Or maybe he’d just given up on life. It happens, y’know.”

“You think it’s him?”

I nodded. “Sounds like it. It fits. Good work. No, great work. Lamar Derby. Shit, no wonder he changed it to Turgeon.”

I sat up and gave her a hug.

“So maybe you can double back? Find the same evidence and get Lamar convicted posthumously?”

“It sure as hell is something to do. But first Booth would have to let me out of here.”

She made a face. “I’m trying, Hess. There isn’t a lawyer in the city who’ll take your case, and the bail is more money than we’ve got. I could sell some stuff, try to borrow.”

“Don’t. Save the money. They can’t keep me here forever, and it turns out I’ve got more patience than I thought.”

She nodded, but I wasn’t sure she meant it.

“Misty,” I said, grabbing her wrists. “You’ve done a lot for me. More than I can say, but stop now. Don’t you spend that money on bail. And no more being ‘friendly’ for favors.”