Michelle, god damn it, I thought. You idiot. You dumb, dumb broad. You would’ve been so good. You would’ve been one of the best.
Then I read the scribbled note again. Warren Russel. Seventeen. That was him, all right. It had to be. No one else was there. If Frank Beachum was innocent, then Russel must have come in after he left and pulled the trigger. I gazed at the name on the page as the writing blurred. Warren Russel, I thought. Warren Russel. I’d found him. I’d found the bastard who gunned Amy Wilson down.
I drew in a deep breath, trying to calm myself. The air was full of dust. I could feel it coating my windpipe. I tried to think clearly. Knight Street, I thought. Knight Street. Up near Olivette. I could be there in fifteen minutes, twenty tops.
I slowly lowered my hand. My eyes roved the room aimlessly until they came to Mr. Ziegler. He was slumped once again there on the edge of the bed, his head drooping, his shoulders hunched, his hands clasped between his thighs. His mouth was moving, silently. He was talking to himself. I stared at him without really seeing him.
And then what? I thought. Once I got to Knight Street. What would I do then?
There was no question in my mind of calling in the police. I had a few friends on the force, but they weren’t going to lose their jobs for me. They wouldn’t move on something like this without the say-so of the CA. But to go there alone, confront this guy, a gunman, a killer, alone. What would I do? Wag my finger at him and say, “Come on now, boy-o, fair is fair.” On top of which, the address was six years old. How many seventeen-year-old kids stay at one address for six years?
I worked my way to my feet, the notebook still clutched tightly in my hand. No matter, I decided. No matter what, I would have to try. What else was there for me to do? I would have to go out there and hope he was still around, and hope he wouldn’t shoot me, and hope he would confess. Or something.
It was after seven-thirty. I only had four and a half hours left. It didn’t leave me a lot of time to get creative. I would have to try.
“I found it,” I said, but the words hardly came out, hardly made a sound.
Still, Mr. Ziegler lifted his head. “Is that so much to ask?” he said, continuing his silent conversation out loud. “With all their fancy education, all their gadgets. Fancy medical big shots. Just one minute they could make her hear me. So I could tell her.”
I removed my glasses for a second and massaged my temples with my hand. I was getting a headache now too. “I have to go,” I said.
The energy just went out of him. His head dropped back down.
I walked to the door, pausing, bending to scoop up my tire iron as I went. I straightened then, half turned toward the bed, toward the old man. I couldn’t think what to say. I gestured with the notebook.
“I found what I needed,” I told him. He didn’t answer. “I knew she’d have it. She would’ve been a great reporter one day, she …” My voice trailed off. I stood there uselessly. I lifted my eyes to the ceiling, the cracked, filthy plaster. Jesus, I thought. And I thought of Luther Plunkitt. In the parking lot outside the prison. With that smile stuck on his face, with that terrible knowledge buried in his eyes. Nobody ever really knows what’s right, but somebody always has to press the button. That’s the way of it.
“I think she would understand, Mr. Ziegler,” I said finally. The words tasted like ashes in my mouth—how did I know whether she would?—but it was all I could come up with for him. “I think she would understand.”
The old man just let his breath out with a harsh pah. “So angry,” he murmured to the floor. “Things happen in this life. We can’t control everything, Michelle.”
I started to speak again, but I don’t think he was listening anymore. So I said nothing and, after another moment, I left.
PART SEVEN
FRANK BEACHUM’S CONFESSION
1
Suddenly, the Death House was full of life. Men hurried up and down the halls outside the prisoner’s cell. They walked in and out of the execution chamber. The chamber—where the gurney stood—was crowded with men. So was the storage room adjoining. In the storage room, Arnold McCardle—who could crowd a room single-handed—was testing the phones. There were four of them on a shelf against the room’s back wall. Each was a different color and each had a Dyma-tape label stuck to its base. The red phone was an outside line, the white phone went to the Corrections Department and the tan phone went to the communications room. The black phone was the open line to the governor’s office. At the end of the shelf was an intercom that would connect to a radio set in the death chamber.
Arnold briskly lifted the handset of each phone, puffing his fat cheeks as if playing a tuba and whispering a little tuba tune as well. The usual sparkle of humor was gone from his eyes, however. They were focused and clear, all his attention on the task at hand. He spoke into each phone for a few moments, checking the line, then hung up and moved on to the next.
Behind him, Reuben Skycock was at the delivery module of the lethal injection machine: a metal cabinet on the supply room wall. The door to the cabinet was open exposing the three syringes inside. Each syringe was wedged into a metal holder, each fed down into a tube that ran through a hole in the cinderblock wall and into the execution chamber. Reuben was testing the manual delivery system now: the third backup system in case both the electrical delivery and battery backup went down. That had never happened at Osage but Reuben went about his job with silent intensity nonetheless. He pulled out the metal pins that held the plungers in place. He glanced from the machine to a stopwatch as the plungers sank slowly into the syringes. Each time he pulled the metal pin, there was a loud sound: chunk. Each time the chunk came, Arnold glanced back at Reuben over his shoulder, holding a handset to his ear, puffing out a tuba tune on his fat cheeks.
Pat Flaherty was next to Reuben, standing at the one-way window. He was squirting Windex on the glass and wiping it off with a paper towel. He’d done that yesterday too. The glass was spotless and so was the mirror on the other side.
You could see clearly through the glass into the execution chamber. There, two members of the Strap-down Team were refastening the straps on the gurney. To their right, was the window of the witness room. The blinds here had been temporarily lifted and two other guards could be seen through it. They were setting out the plastic benches where the witnesses would sit. Two benches went on the floor just in front of the window, the other two went behind these on a raised wooden platform.
In front of the gurney, Luther Plunkitt was talking to Haggerty, who would be stationed outside the chamber door. Luther was gesturing calmly with one hand, keeping the other in his pocket. He was smiling blandly. “You want to double-check personally at the door,” he was saying. “Make sure the covering sheet is in place before he comes into the room so the witnesses won’t have to see the straps.” Luther’s eyes were marbly and expressionless. He was thinking about Frank Beachum, imagining his face looking up as he was strapped down onto the gurney. Innocent, he was thinking.
He gave the guard an encouraging slap on the shoulder and turned to other business.
2
Frank Beachum was eating his last meal. Steak, fries. A large paper tumbler full of beer. He sat at his table and ate quickly. He could hear the increasing number of footsteps in the hall outside. He glanced up at the clock.
It was after seven. He had less than five hours to live. He went on eating. The steak was thick and rare but stringy at the center, tough. The fries were undercooked. He couldn’t taste any of it and chewed dully, gazing dully at his plate. Only the beer, when he drank, was a comfort to him. Not cold, but cool enough and foamy. The taste seemed to take him back to Sal’s Tavern in Dogtown. He used to stop at Sal’s sometimes for a quick one after work. When the beer touched his lips, the dark wood of Sal’s bar, the colors of the bottles on the shelves, the smell of smoke and the sound of country music surrounded him in a visceral rush, faint but definite. He found this comforting. He didn’t want the beer to end.
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His thoughts, otherwise, were a jumble. Brief passages of memory interrupted by fear. The chill and ceaseless tremor of terror in his chest demanded attention. Whenever his mind wandered, the fear drew him back to himself. It forced him to glance up at the clock again, and the minute hand moving deeper and deeper past the hour made his throat grow narrow. Then he would look down at his food and eat and images would come into his mind, and memories. Then the terror would rouse him again like an alarm.
So he ate, and he thought of his mother. Hacking cigarette smoke at the kitchen table back home. Frank supposed she knew this was happening to him. She had sent him a postcard after his conviction, but he hadn’t heard from her since. He did not expect he would hear from her now … He glanced up at the clock.
He ate again. He thought of his father. Storming out the door into the Michigan snow. He would’ve liked to’ve known whatever happened to the man. He ached to know. He tried to imagine … Then the terror gripped him, and he glanced up at the clock.
He returned to his food, swallowing hard. And now, he thought about me. The reporter who had sat across the bars from him. My words floated through his mind. I don’t give a rat’s ass about Jesus Christ. About justice in this life or the next. About right and wrong. After I’d left, Frank had told Bonnie that he would rather be here in this cage than outside living like that, like me. Vaguely he sensed, in his heart now, that this was a lie. He glanced up at the clock.
He had envied me. He went on eating. The french fries were soft and tasteless in his mouth. That was the truth of it he knew: He had envied me—my freedom, my indifference, my life. No black, glassy eye of God was watching me, no ceaseless eye. No other world of perfect justice overhung me. That other world, God’s high unknowable country, it sometimes seemed as real to Frank, as present in the cell as this one … He glanced up at the clock. Seven-twenty. It moved so fast. He shuddered.
When he tried to swallow now, he found his mouth was dry. He lifted his paper tumbler to his lips and as he stared across the rim of it, the cinderblocks on the far wall blurred, the clock blurred. Yes, he thought. He had envied me. He had wished that he were I. Because I was out there, sure, and he was in here. Because I would be alive tomorrow, and he wouldn’t. Sure. And because I did not care.
He sensed this too, though he couldn’t phrase it to himself. He had envied me because I did not care about the things that were tormenting him. Because I wouldn’t have tortured myself as he had tortured himself to spare his wife’s feelings, to show her a strong face. I wouldn’t have endured the agony of behaving well. I would have screamed, I would have fought, I would have cried—so Frank believed. I wouldn’t have wracked my mind to find the message of God in this miserable, meaningless death. Nor would I have sought to please God, this God whose eye impassively watched him careening toward his own destruction. This God who would not intercede. I would not be submissive to that God, Frank thought, or sit here holy and quiescent and well-behaved before these guards and wardens and lawyers, these men who coolly attended the business of his murder, these bastards who had fucked with him all his life and were fucking him now right into the grave.
And which of us was better off, he asked himself, he or I?
He drank his beer. Almost in a spasm, his hand jerked up, tipping the cup at his lips. He took a long swallow and, once again, the taste conjured the aura of Sal’s Tavern in him: the dark wood of the bar, the colors of the bottles on the shelves, the smell of smoke and the sound of country music. The desolate relief.
He set the tumbler down on the table. He glanced up at the clock.
Which of us was better off? He wiped his raw lips with the back of his hand. Christ, he thought, there were men in this prison—there were men on the streets—who murdered children as they cried for their mothers, who raped and tortured women, or executed men with no more show of feeling than a dreamy smile—and they were better off than he was. They were not here. Some weren’t even condemned to come here. Some would live free men and die in the joy of their cruelties. And they wouldn’t care. As I didn’t care.
And what if …? thought Frank. And before the thought was finished, something happened to him. Something terrible, violent and illuminating. He felt it that way—it struck him almost as a physical fact.
It seemed, as he sat there, his hand around the paper tumbler of beer, that the eye of God above him winked out. Just for a second. It vanished. For a few seconds perhaps. But in those seconds, Frank felt its disappearance certainly. And he felt, at the same time, as if he had burst from dark water into open air. For those few seconds, he felt he saw things clearly. He saw that he was … here—how here—how incontrovertibly here. He was here alone, in this cage, in this insane predicament, with no one to witness him but self-interested men, with no other system to judge him but the one that had unfairly condemned him to die. There was no God to make his suffering good. There was no heaven to make it all come right. For these few seconds, the gleaming bars, the dull cinderblock walls, the clock with its red second hand in unceasing motion—they all took on a hard, glistering clarity—and they were here—how here they were—these bars, these walls, that clock—there was nothing else but these. These were the facts. These were the only facts of his life. These were the things that happened. And there were no other things.
In those seconds, he could see all this at once, altogether, as in a vision. And he could see more. He could see the things that would happen too. He could see that they would come for him. These guards, these men. For their daily bread, they would strap him down. They would pump the poison into his arm while he lay there helpless. And no God would be watching. No heaven would receive him. They would turn him off, like a light, entirely. And he would be gone. And his wife, his good Bonnie, she would not be better off, as he had told himself. They would not meet again, as he had told himself. She would be poor. She would be old before her time. She would shuffle through the world, accepting and baffled and sour. Frantically praising the Lord like a dizzy lunatic to keep from suspecting the truth that the Lord wasn’t there, that none of this mattered, that it was all in aid of nothing. And their daughter: She would find no peace. She would be scarred forever. She would keep her father alive in her bitterness only. Lacerated with rage, lacerating her children with her rage, and the uninterested world with her rage. And in the long run, of course, they would die—Bonnie and Gail, the two of them—they would die and leave it all to be forgotten except for the scars they had inflicted on others because of the scars that had been inflicted on them and on and on …
And it’s written in ink, thought Frank. Nothing will ever erase it. It’s all written in ink.
And then the vision was over. The seconds were at an end. The eye of God reopened above him. The whole mental event had barely risen to his consciousness before he experienced a spasm of revulsion—an opening inside him into a well of bottomless terror and grief—and in that spasm, the vision was forced down. His mind at once grew clamorous with his own exhortations. Hang on there, boy. You’re just losing it that’s all. Keep steady. Keep the faith. For Bonnie’s sake. For Gail. Don’t go out crazy. Hang on. Hang on.
But, of course, it was not the same as before. Once you have seen something, you can’t simply stop seeing it. The vision remained, buried though it was, smoldering beneath his self-encouragement with a blue-white fire of clarity and despair.
Frank Beachum raised his beer to his lips and his hand was shaking. He drank and set the tumbler down unsteadily. He stared at the table. He thought of his wife. How much, how much he had loved her …
He glanced up at the clock.
3
I have a superstition about disaster. Disaster, I believe, always takes you by surprise. It follows from this that if you can imagine every possible form that disaster might take, you’ll be protected. If you expect disaster, every possible kind of disaster, there’s no room for surprise, so disaster will stay away. This method has proved effective many times and the many
times it has not proved effective I’ve blamed it on myself or mitigating circumstances and gone on believing it anyway. I put it into practice as I drove out to Knight Street to meet the man who had killed Amy Wilson.
Night had fallen now—or the long summer dusk, at least, with the crystal sky growing so dark, so deep above the low buildings of the county that it seemed you could almost taste the first stars waiting to break through. The edge was off the heat at last and with all the Tempo’s windows rolled down the air blew over me pleasantly, drying my shirt, drying my face, helping me breathe easily again. I stank—after the steambath of Michelle’s apartment—and a crust of grime seemed to cling to my skin. But the breeze felt fine and it eased my headache a little, even calmed my stomach, and began to clear my mind.
I drove past the brick cafes, the tree-lined sidewalks of the broad boulevard—of the same boulevard Michelle had been driving on that very morning before she crashed. With one part of my mind, I monitored the news station on the radio, listening for information about Frank Beachum. With the rest of my mind, I imagined possible scenarios of disaster in the hope that I might avoid surprise.
He would not be there, I told myself. That was the most likely prospect. Warren Russel—my prime suspect—would have moved away and left no forwarding address. Or no one would tell me where he was. Or he would be there and would refuse to talk to me. Or he would talk to me and, at my first pertinent question, would draw an AK-47 from his belt and stitch a seam of bullets from my forehead to my navel, sending me reeling down his front stoop to lie dead in the street below me. Then—and I added this just for the sake of drama—he would spit on my carcass and sneer before he slammed the door.
Or he’d be innocent. There was another possibility. He’d tell me whatever he’d told the police six years ago and it would be clear to me as it had been clear to them that he had simply driven into Pocum’s parking lot that day to buy a Coke, and that’s all.