True Crime (19 page)

So the plan was to grab a few extra pads and get the hell out of there as fast as I could. I hurried back across the room, hugging the wall. Mark Donaldson, another news side hack, looked up from his paper as I passed and tried to flag me down for some gossip about Michelle. I gave him a nervous wave and walked right on. I could see Donaldson watching me, running his tongue around under his lip, wondering what was up. I suspected it would not be long now before he knew, before everyone in the whole place knew.

A few seconds later, I pushed through the supply room door and stepped in. The room wasn’t much more than a closet really. A narrow space with metal shelves on every side. The shelves ran up to the ceiling stacked with pads and boxes of pens, printer ribbons and printer paper and so on. I didn’t think they’d let me bring a tape recorder into the Death House, so I wanted enough fresh pads to last me the
day. I grabbed two from a pile and shoved them into my back pocket. I also picked a couple of Bics out of a box and clipped them to the pocket of my shirt.

Then I turned around and found myself facing Bob Findley.

Uh-oh
, I thought.

He had entered the little room silently. He was standing just within the threshold, silent, still. His round pink face was set and expressionless and I was dead in his eyes; I could see it. His hand was on the edge of the supply room door. He swung it shut in back of him. There were about three feet between us, and no room to pass on either side.

In fact, for a moment or two, I thought Bob might just launch himself at me. It made a funny picture: two grownup, college-educated men wrestling with each other in the supply room as pens fell off the shelves and papers flew. But I realized quickly there was not much chance of that. Bob was civilized; he was modern; he was caring. He wasn’t just going to slug me. Not when he could torture me slowly to death.

His cheeks reddened, but he smiled. It was a mirthless smile of disbelief, of moral amazement. He shook his head. He spoke in that soft, controlled tone of his.

“You know—I don’t know what to say to you,” he said. “All day, all last night, I’ve been trying to think of what I wanted to say to you.”

And he had to say it now? But what could I do? I lifted one hand and let it fall to my side. “I really am sorry, Bob. I really am.”

A silent laugh broke through his lips. “You know,
I
really don’t think you are. I actually don’t think you’re capable of it. Of being sorry. Of really feeling anything for other people.”

“No. No, hell. I feel stuff. I feel bad,” I said.

His lip curled, turning the smile into a sneer. He eyed
me as if I were a bad smell. He stood in his khaki slacks and his blue workshirt and his cheerful pink tie, one hand in his pocket and the other clenching and unclenching at his side. And I wished he
would
hit me. It would be faster, anyway, and I really had to be going.

“Well, I’m glad you feel bad, Steve,” he said bitterly. “But I don’t think you really begin to understand. I mean, I want to know
why.”
These last words broke from him—if anything ever broke from him—if he ever let anything just break from him unconsidered, these last words did.

“Why?” I echoed.

He looked away, shaking his head again. I think he was sorry he’d said it.

But I did my best to give him some kind of answer. “These things, you know. They just happen, man. I was lonely. I didn’t think. It was an impulse kind of …”

“Christ!” In a typically youthful gesture, he brushed the shaggy forelock back off his brow with one hand. As he did, in the cramped space, his elbow touched one of the shelves and it shook ominously, rattling a box of pens. He had not raised his voice, but all at once his eyes looked tormented and damp. “You think I mean
you?”
he said. “You think I want to know why
you
did it?”

“I don’t know, I …” A trickle of sweat ran down the back of my neck. What time
was
it anyway? I didn’t dare look at my watch.

“I want to know why
she
did it. With you. Christ. I can’t imagine what she was thinking of. Was it just … the sex?”

I didn’t answer. I shifted from foot to foot. I was embarrassed, to be honest. I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t tell—as always, I wasn’t sure—how much of his emotion was real, and how much was display, a show of drama, a way of beating me up with his pain. Was it possible, I thought, that he was actually losing control here?

I considered him another second or two, and I thought that maybe he was. That maybe all day, and all last night, he had been sitting on this, fighting it, holding it back, and now—now, curse my luck, when I had to get out of there fast—he finally couldn’t stop himself. He wanted to
know
. Sure. That was it. It had to be. He must’ve hated himself for doing this, for asking me flat out this way—but he wanted to
know
, he
had
to know. The basics. The core of it. Was it good—for me and Patricia in bed? Was it better than it was with him? Did she talk about him, did she tell me about whatever weird little things he liked? Did we laugh about him before I rammed into her and balled her blind?

“No,” I lied. “No, hell. It was no big passionate thing. It was nothing like that.”

I saw the shadow of relief cross his face but it was quickly gone. “Then what?” he said, more urgently, more desperately than he could’ve wanted. “She doesn’t love you?”

“No, of course not.”

He smiled his mirthless smile again, but his lips were quivering. “She can’t think you’d be good for her, for Christ’s sake. Faithful to her. That you’d be there for her, or you’d help her with her work, or run interference with her parents, or have kids with her or help her raise them. She can’t think you’d help her grow and develop as a human being.”

I laughed before I could stop myself. “No, I guess she couldn’t think that.” I stopped laughing when I saw his expression. I cleared my throat. “No,” I said more softly. “She doesn’t. I’m sure.”

He gazed at me now with a sort of emptiness that was almost innocence, that looked almost like innocence in a way. His eyes were dry now. They were more than dry, they were arid. They were dark. They did not reflect me, as if I
weren’t there. And I felt, with a certain sickness, how stupid, how dangerous it was, to make a man like Bob your enemy.

“You have a wife. Doesn’t your wife …?” he began, and his voice sounded dull, as if he were speaking in a trance. “Does she just tolerate it? Does she like it this way with you?” That horrible smile flickered at his lips. “I mean, maybe I take her too much at her word. Are you like her father, am I supposed to be more like that bastard was with her? I mean she says she wants something …”

“My wife …?” I said. “I’m sorry, I don’t …”

“I mean, what do they want?”

“Who? Oh.” Women, he meant. We had reached that stage of the proceedings. Fortunately, though, I wasn’t drunk enough to start speculating about what women want. So I simply raised a helpless hand again. “Look, Bob, I’ve got to go.”

Rage struck through his face like lightning, passed away like lightning.

“It’s that interview. At the prison,” I said quickly. I did look at my watch now. “Christ.” It was after three. “I’m going to be late if I don’t get going.”

After a moment, Bob nodded. His slim frame rose and fell with a deep breath. He didn’t say anything. It was spooky, the way he looked at me, the way his eyes erased me. But he didn’t say anything at all.

“Well …” I said.

He turned without a word, his back pressed against the shelves. It opened up a little pathway to the door for me. I squeezed through it, past him, and pushed the door open while he stood there silently.

But I couldn’t just leave it at that. As much as I had to go—as much as I wanted to go—I couldn’t just leave it at that.

I turned, holding the door open. “How did you find out anyway?” I asked him.

He snorted without looking at me. “She told me,” he said.

“She …?”

“She left your cigarettes in an ashtray by her bedside table. That was her way of telling me.”

I think I gaped at him. I felt as if I had been blackjacked and I think, for a while, I just stood there and gaped. I had always cleaned the ashtrays out myself. I had always emptied them into the toilet. Patricia would have had to have salaged the butts somehow, would have had to have hidden them from me and then replaced them in the ashtray herself. Which made perfect sense, of course. Because it was about Bob. It had always been about her and Bob. She could have used anyone to do this to him. To send this message to him, whatever the message was. She could have used anyone. It only happened to be me.

When I was finished gaping, I nodded. Bob stood still, his back pressed against the shelves, his eyes trained on nothing. I left him there and hurried off across the city room, closing the supply room door behind me.

A
t about that hour—around three o’clock—the Reverend Harlan Flowers was allowed into the Deathwatch cell again. He stood just within the door, his hands folded in front of him, and watched the Beachums through the bars of the cage.

Frank and Bonnie were sitting close together on the bed, holding one another’s hands between them. Gail was seated at the table, drawing with her crayons. There were bowls of popcorn on the table and the floor, some paper soda cups and a half-eaten hot dog on a plate. As the child drew, she kept up a low monologue about this and that—her friends at school, what her teachers had said—and Frank answered her and asked her questions.

After a minute or two, Bonnie lifted her eyes and saw Flowers standing there. She spoke in a whisper to Frank. “It’s time for Gail to go.” They had arranged it this way. So that Bonnie and Frank would have a few hours alone together before the six o’clock end of visiting hours. Later, Flower’s wife was coming down to Osage to take care of Gail during the execution, when both Bonnie and Flowers would be witnesses.

“I don’t want to go,” Gail said at once. She heard everything, of course. And her lips were already beginning to tremble as she looked at her parents over her shoulder.

Frank got up off the cot. He moved to stand beside her.

“Can we come back again tomorrow?” said Gail. “Can we stay at the motel again? Do we have to go all the way back to St. Louis?”

Frank put his hand on her cheek. It was wet under his palm.

“You’ll be going back home in the morning,” he said.

Gail’s severe little face seemed to crack open. “I don’t
want
to go back,” she said, crying. “I want to stay with you.”

Frank knelt down on one knee next to her, their eyes almost level. “Hey,” he said. He stroked her brown hair, tied back tightly stiff and brittle under his fingers. She sniffled. “Lookit, Gail, you’re a big girl. You know what’s happening here, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said in a small voice.

But he knew she didn’t really. She’d blocked it out in some way. When Frank looked now into her eyes, the brown deeps of them, he saw a kind of daze, shock he figured, a world of pain but all fogged in, as if she were a child wandering alone through the smoke of a bombed-out city. She had been so happy, he thought, playing in her turtle-shaped sandbox, whapping her shovel against the sand.

“So lookit,” he said, licking his lips. “You know, after today … After today, you won’t be able to see your dad anymore …”

She threw her arms around him suddenly, buried her face in his shoulder. He held her, clenching his teeth, closing his eyes.

“But I’ll be there,” he said, his voice unsteady. “Listen to me, sweetheart, okay? Listen to your dad. You won’t be able to see me, but I’ll be there. I swear to God. You’ll always be able to talk to me. All right? You can talk to me any time you want, and I’ll hear you. Any time, any time you need to. You just say what’s on your mind and I’ll be right there, listening. I promise. Any time you need.” Hitting the
sand with her plastic shovel, he thought. Gurgling and babbling so happily as Bonnie came to the screen door with the empty bottle of A-l. “Look—I wrote you a letter …”he began to say, but he couldn’t finish. It seemed like such a stupid, useless thing to him now. A goddamned letter. What good was that to her? “I promise,” he said again. Then he just held her, his cheek against her hair. He smelled her baby shampoo and the skin of her neck, a little girl’s smooth skin, not like her face which had grown worried and dazed and old. He could hear the sound, the whap, whap, whap, of her shovel against the sandbox sand. He could feel the heat of the sun in his backyard.

He patted her back resolutely and began to draw away. “Go on now,” he said. “It’ll be all right.” But she held on to him. Flowers had come forward, and Benson was moving toward the cage with his key. When the girl heard the barred door slide back, she pulled her head off her father’s shoulders. She stared into him.

“Why can’t you just come home?” she said.

Frank opened his mouth. “I can’t …”

“You should just
kill
all these people and come home. We would get a helicopter and fly you away and they wouldn’t be able to find you.”

He put his hand on her cheek again. Flowers put his hand on her shoulder.

“You should kill
all
of them!” the girl cried out.

Frank got slowly to his feet as Flowers drew the girl out of her chair. She stared at Frank as the preacher took her out of the cage. Her face twisted and reddened as she cried.

“Why
don’t
you, Daddy?” She spun on Benson and shouted at him. “He
will
too!” she said. “He’ll kill you. You wait. He’ll kill all of you and we’ll have a helicopter!”

Flowers led her across the room. She walked after him, looking back. She only dug in for a moment, just at the door.

“He’ll kill all of you,” she said again.

Frank raised his hand to her. The child sobbed. Flowers drew her to the threshold.

“Good-bye, Daddy,”
she cried out.
“Good-bye, Daddy.”

Flowers took her into the hall. Benson shut the door behind them. He glanced over at Frank who still stood watching, his hand upraised. The duty officer made a small, sympathetic expression as if to say: poor kid. Then he walked back to his desk, sat down and began typing the event into his chronological report.