Benefit of the Doubt: A Novel (32 page)

The two-minute conversation left McKenzie shaking his head wondering when he was going to catch a damn break. He hung up the phone craving a drink and a smoke. McKenzie needed to make arrangements for what he knew would be Sawyer’s next move.
And his last one, if I have anything to do with it.

McKenzie poked his head back inside the old man’s room and saw Bernice Erickson had now pulled up a stool. The old bitch was already on the phone speaking to someone about an unauthorized visitor. Defeated for now, McKenzie scowled at Lars. The old man looked back with what seemed a sideways
fuck you
sort of glance. McKenzie headed down the hallway with pressing matters at hand. He’d deal with Lars Norgaard another time.

FIFTY-FOUR

The Gothic building jutted against the morning skyline. Seeing it, Ben thought,
Now, that’s a prison.
Red Cliff State Penitentiary was the remotest of all Wisconsin’s prisons, cut into the southwestern corner of Lake Superior. The severe structure would have looked forbidding even if you didn’t know it was a prison—the whole building seemed to have a piss-poor attitude.

Built in the late 1800s, Red Cliff looked nothing like the campus environments of modern correctional facilities. The towering walls were thirty-inch-thick stone and topped with six feet of looped razor wire. Perimeter positions equipped with floor-mounted binoculars and industrial-grade air whistle alarms were built into the walls every fifty yards and on each corner. Inmates and visitors alike passed through thick steel gates that Ben estimated were thirty feet high. Ominous gray stone gargoyles stared down on all who entered, as did the flesh-and-blood guards who walked along the top of the wall, their high-powered weapons clearly visible. Ben drove through the gates with a sense of foreboding, thinking sarcastically that at some point in the prison’s history someone must have decided to fill in the moat.

The night before, he’d driven across the top of Wisconsin, following the two-hundred-mile southern shoreline of the world’s largest freshwater lake. When exhaustion overtook him, he’d pulled into a deserted rest stop and slept fitfully for a couple of hours, lulled to sleep by the lapping waves of Lake Superior outside the minivan. Alex haunted his dreams, calling out from a dismal jail cell, begging him to come back. At one point Ben woke to see Alex’s face pressed against the window of the van. He screamed and sat up, and the image disappeared. Shaken, he’d driven to a nearby café, not because he craved food but because he realized it was either eat or stop functioning. He powered down a plate of eggs and a pot of coffee before resuming his journey, tracing long, winding roads through the virgin forest of towering pines.

The sun was halfway to its noon position when Ben arrived at the prison and took his place deep in a long line of would-be visitors that stretched a hundred yards or more along the exterior wall. Frustrated, Ben craned his neck to try and see the front of the line, without success. Soon enough, the guards announced that the number of visitors had reached the maximum permitted, and no one else was allowed to join the line. Ben felt a wash of relief as he watched the news fall heavily on late-arriving families, who, he assumed, had probably driven hours to spend time with a loved one.

“There’s a Motel Six four miles up the road.” The guard’s voice was robotic. “If you want to come back tomorrow, you should get here by six
A.M.
to guarantee a spot.”

“But visiting hours start at one o’clock,” a woman said, sounding perplexed.

“Fine.” The guard shrugged. “Show up at noon. See how much good that does you.”

Ben stood in line outside for over two hours, then waited in a reception area for another forty-five minutes. He filled out the prison visitation request, using his real name and address with no mention of police affiliation. He endured a near strip search without complaint. He’d get in on his own merits or not at all.

Ben was certain McKenzie had made his search at the sheriff’s office come up dry, but there was no way McKenzie could have anticipated Ben’s conversation with Gus. Learning of Petite’s existence and location was just plain old dumb luck, the cornerstone of any successful investigation. Ben figured he had a few hours at best before McKenzie learned of this development and figured out a response.

A guard entered the room and began to summon the next round of visitors.

“Jacobs, Allison, Myers, Diaz, Monroe, and”—the guard ran his finger down the page and Ben sat up, hoping—“Whitfield. Step forward for visitation.”

The guard continued giving instructions, but Ben tuned him out, remembering his early visits to Alex in jail, before Tia flexed her muscle. Ben had spent years locking people up, and it had never crossed his mind to wonder what happened next. You throw a crook in prison for ten, twelve years and then what? The guy is going to have family, he’s going to have folks who care about him. Those people, Ben thought, are right here. They’ve driven hundreds of miles, waited in line for hours, to have a chance to spend a few minutes with a loved one. What kind of system allows that? Ben answered his own question.
Your system. You spent your life in it.

Alex. He tried to send good thoughts her way, then dozed fitfully until a voice said, “Are you Sawyer?”

Ben opened his eyes and saw the guard staring down. “Yeah,” he said, straightening up. “I’m Ben Sawyer.”

“You get forty-five minutes. Clock’s ticking.”

Ben got to his feet and fell in with his group as they were hustled through a series of tunnellike corridors lined with men in dark uniforms. Their footfalls echoed ominously against the hard surfaces of the floor, walls, and low ceiling. In the distance Ben could hear the loud voices of anxious men shouting among themselves. The vulgarity reminded him of the way cops talk when they’re alone. From the changes in the sound, it seemed that the men were being shuffled along much like the visitors. Suddenly the voices grew louder, then stopped.

The guards guided the group of visitors through a door and into daylight. Ben was surprised to find himself in an open yard, surrounded on all four sides by walls three stories high. The walls were intersected by a “ceiling” of thick chain-link fencing that created a caged-in effect over the entire yard. The crisscross pattern was tight enough to keep anyone from squeezing through but loose enough for a sniper to track a target. Underfoot was hard brown dirt with short tufts of dead grass. Several chair-sized tree stumps served as evidence that nothing was allowed to interfere with a sharpshooter’s line of sight. Several old wrought-iron park benches and two dilapidated, drab green picnic tables were the only furniture. Guards roamed the yard, tapping billy clubs in their palms or against one leg. Looking up and around, Ben saw rifle barrels extended from the highest windows, swinging in one direction, then another.

In the center of the yard stood about twenty men. All wore dark blue trousers and light blue collared shirts with a six-digit number stenciled over the right pocket. When the visitors arrived, the men cheered in unison and sought out their loved ones, hugging and kissing the new arrivals. Ben watched, happy to see that this simple pleasure was allowed. Alone in the middle of the yard stood an odd-looking character who looked to be a few years older than Ben and of slighter build. His clothes were much darker and crisper than those of all the other inmates, and his nervous energy was apparent. His skin was smooth with a deep tan, but he bore fresh bruises under both eyes and his lip was swollen with an ugly welt. His haircut was neatly feathered and looked like one of those two-hundred-dollar jobs from an upscale salon. He reeked of fresh meat. Ben walked straight over to him.

“Mr. Petite?”

“Who are you?” The voice was educated but nervous, the diction precise. Every bit the convict lawyer.

“Mr. Petite, I’m Ben Sawyer from Newberg. I appreciate your being willing to see me.”

Petite’s gaze roamed over Ben’s face, his voice sharp with worry. “Newberg? I told your people I’m not going to make any trouble. Why are you here?”

Ben did his best to hide his confusion and play along.

“Uh … they sent me to check on you.” Even he heard the bullshit in his voice, but he kept trying. “So how are you doing?”

“What do you mean how am I doing? How do you think I’m doing? I’ve been here less than a week. Somewhere around three thousand days to go. I was told I’d be left alone. Just do my time, right? Unless—” There was hope in Petite’s voice. “Has something changed?”

“Changed?” Ben couldn’t hide his confusion. “No. Everything is uh … everything is still like we planned.”

Petite’s pinched face hardened a bit. “Who did you say you were? Who sent you up here?”

Ben took a stab in the dark. “Doyle McKenzie sent me.”

“Never heard of him.” Petite looked around nervously. He turned and began to walk toward the door marked
INMATES ONLY. VISITORS STAY BACK 100 FEET.

“I’m going back to my cell. We’ve got nothing to talk about.”

“All right, Petite. I’m on my own. I want to talk to you about Harlan Lee.”

Petite stopped. After a frozen moment, he turned slowly to look at Ben.

“Say that again? You want to talk about
who
?”

“Harlan Lee. Do you remember the case?”

“Why do you want to talk—” Petite shook his head as if clearing away a bad idea. “I don’t know any Harlan Lee and I don’t think we should be talking, so if you will excuse me…” He turned away again.

Ben called out, “Okay. I just thought the Lee case might be related to something going on down in Newberg. Damnedest thing. My wife? She’s locked up on a murder rap just like you. She’s locked up in a county facility. She’s not in prison yet.”

Petite stopped and looked back, a perplexed expression on his face. “What do you mean?”

“My wife, she’s locked up on a murder charge, but I can guarantee you, she didn’t kill anyone.”

“Your wife?” Petite asked. “Murder?”

“Alex Sawyer. She’s the daughter of Lars Norgaard,” Ben said in a matter-of-fact tone. “He arrested Harlan Lee. Still don’t remember?”

Petite turned his head in both directions, then reluctantly moved back toward Ben. When he was close enough, he whispered, “What do you mean, your wife didn’t do it?”

Ben kept his voice low to keep from spooking the man. “My wife is being framed for murder. She didn’t kill anyone.”

“But what has that got to do with—” Petite caught himself. “With this person you mentioned. This Harlan Lee.”

Ben knew he was getting to Petite.

“Because of another cop involved, Henry Lipinski. Don’t tell me you don’t remember him.”

“What about Sheriff Lipinski?” Petite’s interest grew.

“Mr. Petite, Lipinski was arrested for some very serious charges involving child pornography. A charge he denied, by the way. Then he was found hanging in his cell in the Chippewa County Jail. They’re calling it a suicide.” Ben shrugged and let the idea take hold. “Course you never know. Maybe he did kill himself.”

Petite stood silent, staring into space.

“A man named Donaldson is on the hook for a murder down in Illinois. I’m betting he also played a role in the case against Harlan Lee. Does that help your memory, counselor?”

“Donaldson? Gerald Donaldson’s been arrested for murder?” Petite sounded flabbergasted.

Ben continued. “Mr. Petite, I have information that says after being arrested in Newberg, Harlan Lee was transferred to Florence County and charged with murder. You were the district attorney in Florence County at the time. I checked. There were no other homicides that year.” Ben leaned in for effect. “Here’s the wild part, Mr. Petite. I went to the County Clerk’s Office. There is no arrest record for Harlan Lee. No court record. I can’t even find a booking photo. Nothing. How do you figure that?”

Petite stumbled to one of the nearby benches and sat, mumbling to himself. Ben joined him and spoke in a quiet but rapid-fire pace.

“My wife didn’t kill anyone, Mr. Petite, but someone sure does want people to think she did. Donaldson? He says he didn’t kill anybody either. We’ll never know about Lipinski. How about you, Mr. Petite? Did you actually kill someone, or did you get set up too?”

“It makes sense.” Petite stared at the hard dirt, his face white. “Of course, it makes perfect sense.”

“Good,” Ben said. “Then tell me. Tell me how any of this makes sense.”

Petite looked up.

“I can’t talk to you about this. I have a family.” Petite laughed at himself. “I had a family … but I still have children.” Petite’s voice changed in tone. “I pled out quick and got manslaughter two. I’ll be out in eight years. They’ll still be young. I was assured that if I cooperated, they’d be taken care of. I’m not going to jeopardize that.”

“Assured?” Ben asked. “Assured by who?”

“Never mind, Sawyer.” Petite was firm. “I’m not going to talk with you about this. If you don’t already know, that means you don’t need to know.”

“Did McKenzie put you up to this? I can handle him.”

“I told you. I’ve never heard of this McKenzie.”

“You’re going to do eight years for a crime you didn’t commit?” Ben asked. “What about Lipinski? What happens if you end up like that?”

“I don’t want to talk with you, Mr. Sawyer. You don’t know what you’re up against.”

“Look,” Ben said, “just tell me about Lee and I’ll leave you alone. I’ll go back to the family of the victim. Just tell me who he killed.”

“I’m not going to get into this with you, Mr. Sawyer. You want answers? Talk to Lars Norgaard. Let him tell you about how things work at Newberg PD.”

“He can’t, Mr. Petite. Lars had a stroke. Anything he knows is locked away somewhere I can’t get at it.”

“Then look beyond Norgaard. You got this far. Figure it out. But leave me alone. Please.”

“Mr. Petite, I’m a cop. I can protect you. We can protect your family. You can’t pretend none of this is going on.”

“Yes, I can and I will,” Petite said. “The last thing I need is more help from cops. Just leave me alone.”

Ben pulled the paper from his pocket and held it out for the man to see. The composite sketch from Danville.