#
“Now let me get this straight,” said Judge Hawkins. “This man wants to take Pope’s place on Death Row?”
“He has confessed, and says he just wants to make things right,” said Quince.
They were back in the dusty courtroom, the judge, the prosecutor, the convicted – and Vernon Phillips.
“Your honor,” said Phillips, “if I may speak. It’s not that I am eager to die. By all means, I am not. But I don’t want an innocent man to pay for my mistakes, either.”
“The witness is being truthful,” said the robo-bailiff.
“And what mistakes are those, exactly, Mr. Phillips?” asked Judge Hawkins.
“I-I-when I went to Fawn Redding’s house – when I broke in – all I wanted was the stamps. I knew how valuable they were, and knew it would be easy to get them planetside to fence them. I didn’t expect her to walk in on me, and I didn’t mean to kill her. I panicked.”
“Well, this is very unusual,” said Hawkins. “I normally would be very pleased to have someone confessing in my court – tends to make my job easier – but in this case, I’d have to reverse a previous judgment.” He looked over at Pope, who looked much less nervous than he had during his own trial. “In order to do that, I will need to see some kind of evidence to back up your claims, Mr. Phillips – something that, in a sense, will compel me to overturn my previous verdict.”
“Well,” said Phillips, gulping visibly, “I don’t have any concrete evidence, exactly. But I can tell you details of the crime that only the real killer could know.”
“Such as?” asked Quince.
“Um, when I entered Miss Redding’s apartment, I went straight to her bedroom closet. The stamps were in a small green box on the top shelf, under a denim skirt. When she came in, I was just taking the stamps out of the box. I dropped them on her bed, and rushed towards her. We fell over her vanity chair and struggled. The drapes got caught under our bodies and ripped. After it was over, I left her where she was, right by the vanity, with her feet slightly under the bed. I picked up the stamps, and left the box behind. I left out the back door of the apartment building, onto Kennedy Street.”
Judge Hawkins and Quince both studied copies of the police reports on the cyberpads as Phillips spoke, confirming every detail.
“Fascinating,” said Hawkins. “You are either very familiar with this classified report, or you were at the scene of the crime.”
“Of course I was there, your honor, I committed the crime.”
Quince looked over at Pope, who looked almost smug. “So, Mr. Phillips,” he said, “how long have you known Mr. Pope?”
“I’ve never met Mr. Pope before,” said Phillips.
“The witness is lying,” said the robo-bailiff.
“Would you care to rethink your answer?” asked Hawkins.
Phillips took a deep breath and exhaled. “Mr. Pope and I met three days before the crime.”
“What is the nature of your relationship?” asked Quince.
“We’re business associates, I suppose,” said Phillips.
“Explain,” said Quince.
“I knew I would need someone to transport the stamps for me once I had them. I approached Mr. Pope with a business proposition. I suggested that I would pay him one hundred thousand credits to mail an envelope for me at GlobEx. Mr. Pope was immediately suspicious, and said he didn’t want to get involved in anything illegal. So I told him that if he didn’t do it, I’d kill his family. Of course, I wouldn’t actually do that – I’m not a killer. Well, I am now, but that was an accident. Anyway, I told him I would also need to pass sizable amount of credits through his account. A large deposit that I’d have him withdraw in portions until only the one hundred thousand I owed him was left. I’m a man of my word, and insisted on paying him for his help.”
“So what happened? How did Pope wind up arrested and convicted, and why are you now confessing?” asked the judge.
“Well, at first, when he was collared, I figured I was off the hook. And that was great. But then I realized that he was going to be executed, and I already felt bad about killing Redding. I didn’t want any more innocent blood on my hands. Your honor, I’m a thief and an extortionist and a smuggler. But I am not a cold blooded murderer or a liar. And I’m prepared to pay the price for my crimes, since this man Mr. Pope certainly doesn’t deserve to.”
“I’ve come to my decision,” said Judge Hawkins. “Mr. Phillips will be remanded into custody. Mr. Pope will be released on his own recognizance, all charges against him dropped and his record expunged. Mr. Phillips, you are sentenced to death, to be carried out at the time previously appointed for Mr. Pope – that is, at five o’clock tonight. Court adjourned.”
He smacked the gavel down and stood up.
Quince’s eyebrows shot upward. He wasn’t yet ready to buy this story from Vernon Phillips. Something just didn’t feel right. But the case was closed, and Hawkins had already vacated the bench, his white robes flowing behind him as he quickly disappeared through his private door at the back of the courtroom.
Quince grabbed his things and started for the door. He saw Phillips and Pope exchange glances as one was released and the other taken in cuffs to the cell block door.
Phillips looked sad and relieved; as you would expect him to if his story was true. But Pope looked strangely satisfied with himself, when you’d expect him to look more relieved.
Quince left and turned toward the Crater’s Shadow, something nagging at him all the way down the street.
Why would Pope be so smug if he was just the victim of extortion and false charges? Was there more to the relationship between Pope and Phillips? And what about the blood? The DNA results were due any time – maybe they’d shed some light on all of this – maybe the biological analysis would tell who was really at the scene of the crime and who wasn’t.
Quince turned a few paces from the door to the Crater’s Shadow and headed across the street, then down Grissom Lane to his office on the second floor of an old library.
“Miss Waverly,” he said as he breezed through the office door, “have the DNA results come in – from the Redding case? Miss Waverly?”
He turned the corner into his private office and found Miss Waverly.
Lying on the floor in pool of blood.
“Sandra!” he yelled, dropping to his knees beside her. He saw she was breathing, so he gently tapped her face with his palm. “Sandra,” he said, pulling up her blouse to examine the knife wound in her abdomen.
“Mr. Quince,” she said weakly, half-opening her blue eyes and turning her head slowly toward him, her red hair scattered all around her shoulders. “He destroyed the records – the DNA results. And he looked something up in the database before he left.”
“Who? Who did this to you?”
“It was Pope. Al Pope.”
Quince called for emergency services and then checked his computer. The data Pope had looked up was an address.
The address of Vernon Phillips.
“You’re going to be all right, Sandra. Don’t worry.” The EMT sirens came to a stop outside and within seconds the medics burst through the door. “She’s been stabbed,” said Quince. “Take good care of her. I have to go.”
On his way out, he grabbed his laser pistol from the top drawer of his desk. En route by taxi to the Phillips residence, which was in the Armstrong western suburbs, Quince gave a call to Judge Hawkins. “Armando, you need to stay the execution of Phillips.”
“Rufus, you know I have a reputation for dispensing justice on time. It’s two minutes past five. You’re too late – Phillips is dead.”
Quince gritted his teeth and ended the call as the taxi pulled up at the Phillips residence. He paid the auto-driver, got out, and knocked at the door. It was ajar, so he poked his head in.
For the second time in an hour, he found a woman lying on the floor.
But this one was dead.
Mrs. Phillips had a laser burn hole through her
neck. Quince looked closer and saw that she was clutching a tiny memo device in her left hand. Quince bent down and pulled it from her death grip, and hit play.
“Shelly, it’s me Vernon. Honey, I don’t have much time. What I mean is, the tests came back positive. I’m going to die of Lunar Dust Lung – probably within the month. But don’t worry – I’m going to take care of you and the girls. If you look in my tool box in the garage, you’ll find a half million credits. I’ll probably be dead by the time you get this. I did it for you, dear, and for the girls. But let me be clear: I never killed anybody. I’m just taking the place of a killer on Death Row. Tell no one of this, or they’ll take away the money and this will all be in vain. I love you, Shelly. Goodbye.”
“Huh, thanks, Quince,” said Pope, emerging from the kitchen eating a ham sandwich, a laser pistol in the other. “I didn’t see that memo device in the old lady’s hand. Now I know where to pick up my money. I’ll just be on my way.”
Quince dove across the coffee table and took cover behind a leather recliner opposite the couch. He peeked out from behind the recliner as he drew his laser pistol and took aim at Pope.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” said Pope, starting to move through the room, his own laser pistol at the ready. “All I want is my money and I’ll be on my way – right after I kill you and the kiddies.”
Quince took a shot at Pope.
He missed, the laser burning a hole in the wall next to Pope’s head.
“Oh, so you’re gonna put up a fight, eh?” said Pope, firing back toward the recliner.
His shot grazed the arm of the chair, singeing the leather with an orange glowing heat.
Quince fired back again, this time striking Pope in the right shoulder.
Pope twisted as he fell, but got a shot off in Quince’s direction. The shot didn’t actually hit Quince, but it was so close that it burned his left cheek in a line from his mouth to just below his ear.
That would leave a scar.
Quince fired as he jerked back behind the chair for cover.
The shot hit Pope in the ribs.
Quince heard Pope’s weapon hit the floor with a clatter. He stood and hurried to Pope, kicking the pistol out of his reach and leveling his own at Pope’s face as the killer lay on the floor. “So that was the plan, eh, Pope? Pay a dying man to take your place on death row, then steal back the payment?”
“Rotten . . . ain’t I?” gasped Pope, his hand covering the gaping wound in his side. “So, what are you gonna do about it, Mr. D.A.?”
Before Quince could answer, Pope grabbed Quince’s leg with both hands, one behind his heel and one on his kneecap, forcing Quince backwards.
Quince hit the floor on his back and his weapon fell out of his hand. Pope groaned as he threw himself at Quince. Quince scrambled for his weapon, found it, and fired.
A smoldering hole the size of an apple appeared in Pope’s forehead as he fell face first on top of Quince.
Quince pushed the body off of him and looked around at the carnage.
What a mess.
He thought of the young Phillips girls returning to this awful scene to find themselves orphaned and unable to take care of themselves.
And he took aim at the memo device on the coffee table and blasted it to bits.