Death Penalty (29 page)

Much to her amusement, I had to pass on dessert.

“You don't run into too many cops who can cook,” I said, sipping coffee.

“I have many talents, Charley. You've barely scratched the surface.”

“So it would seem.”

Sue had laced her coffee with brandy. She had done it
so I couldn't see, but a recovering drunk has the nose of a hunting dog when it comes to alcohol. I said nothing.

“So, Charley, have you solved your mysterious problem?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“I wish I could, Sue, but I can't. Especially not with an officer of the law.”

“Turning criminal, are you?”

“I'm trying not to.”

She frowned. “That serious?”

“Well, not really, just a touch sensitive. I'll tell you about it when I can. It's a little like the Becky Harris case. You can't discuss that, right?”

She made a face. “I'm not supposed to. Stash Olesky says you got Mrs. Wordley to agree to a lesser plea. How'd you do that?”

“I slept with her.”

“Charley, I don't like those kind of jokes.”

“I didn't really. I just let her think I would. Old women are funny like that. They'll believe anything.”

“According to Stash, you won't be able to get Evola to agree.”

“Probably not. All I can do is try.”

She sipped her coffee. I could sense she was thinking about something else. She had that quizzical look in her eyes.

“Charley, how many times have you been married?”

“I've already told you. Three. Each was a unique human experience, not unlike being in a plane wreck or having been a prisoner of war.”

She didn't smile. “That bad?”

I sighed, wishing I could loosen my trousers without looking like a dolt. “Worse in some ways. There are things alcoholics can do to each other in a marriage that would turn the stomach of a Gestapo officer. Frankly, it wasn't
all a one-way street. I developed my own nasty brand of cruelty.”

“I doubt that.”

“Sober, I am as you see me. Drunk, I am something altogether different.”

“So, I presume that means you would never marry again?”

There it was: It was
the
question. Eventually they all asked it. Even I asked it, but only of myself. I never got a clear answer, nor could I really give one.

“What's on your mind, Sue? Is this leading to a proposal?”

“No.” She looked away. “I guess experience shapes how we see life.”

“Usually.”

“My marriage,” she said quietly, “for as short as it was, was a beautiful experience. I never believed two people could be as close as we were, or share life so completely.”

I said nothing in reply.

“I suppose I miss that sharing most of all. I have a good life here, Charley. I like my job. I have a ton of friends. I get out, and I do things. But that sharing is still missing.”

“So you'd like to get married again someday?”

She nodded. “Yes, but it would have to be just as special as the first time.”

“That's a tough order. You can never truly duplicate anything in this life, at least never the way it once was. Everything is a compromise, one way or the other.”

“Don't you get lonely, Charley? I don't mean for sex, or even friendship, just to be close to someone, so close . . .” Her words trailed off.

“I understand what you're saying, Sue, I really do. I get as lonely as the next person, perhaps more. But marriage hasn't worked for me, not in that way.”

“Things have changed, Charley. You've changed.”

“I'm sober. That's the biggest change.” I looked at her.
The cheerleader vivacity seemed to have flown. There was something different in her eyes. A need I hadn't before seen.

“Sue, staying sober is my number one job. I haven't been off the stuff all that long. It takes a lot of energy, it really does. I don't know if I'd have enough left over to make a marriage work.”

“Even with someone you loved?”

“Even with someone who loved me.”

“So marriage is out, then?”

I shook my head. “Never say never. But at the moment, I'm not prepared to take the risk.”

She paused, then spoke. “At least you're honest, Charley.”

“Sometimes.”

She smiled, but it was a sad smile. “More coffee?”

“Sure.”

We sat quietly then, just talking. Various subjects, about family, old friends, schools, one subject leading easily to another.

But we didn't mention marriage again.

When the evening began, I had entertained carnal thoughts and expectations.

Now, it was late, and those thoughts and expectations had somehow evaporated.

I kissed her good night. It was a chaste kiss.

I drove home.

And I was lonely.

TUESDAY MORNING I
had a drunk-driving trial. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary, no injuries, no damages, just my man clocked at eighty miles an hour on the wrong side of the road, right after the bars closed. He had had previous drunk-driving convictions. The policeman was professional on the stand, and the standard
Breathalyzer evidence stood up, despite all my efforts to discredit the machine.

I lost, which didn't surprise anyone, including my client. He would have pleaded guilty, but mainly he wanted to cause the police some inconvenience. He got a large fine and several weekends in the county jail. He would have received more, but he had a job and a family. His driver's license was now a memory. I tried to get a restricted license for him, one that would allow him to drive only to work and back. The judge merely shook his head.

My client seemed content. I tried to interest him in AA or some rehabilitation program, but he indignantly informed me, as I knew most drunks do, that he didn't have a drinking problem.

It had been a wasted morning, but I had been paid my fee up front, so that helped ease the frustration somewhat.

I grabbed a quick hamburger and then went back to my office.

Mrs. Fenton handed me my messages.

Mallow hadn't called.

There were other calls I would have to answer, but at the moment I didn't feel like doing so immediately.

I swung my chair around and watched the traffic on the river. It was a clear and sunny day. Boats, looking like water bugs, zipped up and down past fishermen who were trolling, moving but almost imperceptibly.

A large freighter was coming up the river, gray and weathered, looking as though it had come from the other side of the earth, which was probably exactly the case.

Mrs. Fenton buzzed the phone and I picked it up.

There's a sheriff who wants to talk to you. He says his name is Miller.”

“It probably is,” I said. “Put him through.”

I heard the click. “This is Charles Sloan,” I said.

“Mr. Sloan, I'm Sheriff Miller. Cork Miller. I'm sheriff of Harbor Beach County.”

“Right up there in the tip of the Thumb, right?”

“Michigan's thumbnail,” he said. “That's what our chamber of commerce calls it.”

“What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

“Got a man here who wants to talk to you. This is his one official phone call.” He chuckled. “Long-distance, too. Hang on. Here he is.”

“Get up here!” The words were spoken hysterically. “They have me in jail!”

I knew the voice, but I couldn't resist.

“Who is this?”

He yelled in response. “This is Doctor Miles Stewart!”

“Well, Doctor, why do they have you in jail?”

“They have accused me of murder.”

Suddenly my amusement evaporated.

“Listen to me,” I said, “and listen to me carefully. I don't want you talking to any policeman, prosecutor, or anyone else. I will get up there as fast as I can. It's about a three-hour drive.” I glanced at my new diver's watch, a gift from a client. “I should be there about five.”

“Can't you call someone and get me out on bail?”

“Not until a degree of murder is fixed by a judge.”

“This is outrageous!”

“I'm sure it is. Would you ask Sheriff Miller if I can talk to him? Put him back on.”

“He wants to talk to you,” Stewart snapped. The good doctor wouldn't be making too many friends up there, not with his usual arrogance.

“Miller here.”

“Sheriff, I will be representing Doctor Stewart. I should be up there in about three hours. I've instructed Stewart not to make any statements. I don't want him questioned unless I'm present.”

“No problem, Mr. Sloan. We're a friendly bunch up here. Have you ever been to our jail?”

“No, I haven't.”

“It's not much, not by big city standards. I'll see your man gets a private cell. That's the least we can do for a celebrity.”

“Celebrity?”

“Hey, he's Doctor Death. We've all read about him. This is going to be a major event up here.”

“Who is he accused of killing?”

“I suppose by all the rules I shouldn't be telling you anything, but you'll find out anyway. Your client is said to have put old Sean Cronin to sleep.” He chuckled. “The big sleep.”

The sheriff was apparently someone who liked to talk.

“How is he supposed to have done it?” I asked.

“Injection, just like they do down in Texas to those folks on death row. One little shot and out you go, no pain, no strain. Anyway, that's what's alleged. From what I've read, your client makes a habit of this sort of thing.”

He laughed. “Jesus, he really didn't have to do it. Old Sean was eighty-eight and as sick as it's possible to get. Bad heart, bad lungs, bad kidneys, you name it, he had it.”

“Is Cronin supposed to have requested the injection?” In every other case, that had evidently been the situation.

“Oh, no. The old man was real dotty, to boot. One of his daughters is supposed to have set things up.” He stopped. “Well, it's a long story, and I guess the prosecutor will get bent out of shape if I tell you everything. Anyway, fact is, Cronin's dead. The prosecutor and Cronin's other daughter say your man did it.”

“I'll be up as soon as I can.”

“Don't worry about the doctor. Our jail isn't much, but it's clean. If one of our clients gots the money, we let them order in from a restaurant here in town. Damn
good food. Otherwise, the menu is baloney sandwiches.”

“Thanks.”

“By the way, take your time getting here,” he said, laughing. “We don't get much murder in this county, but we're tough as hell on speeders.”

IT WAS A TWO-LANE HIGHWAY most of the way, but the drive up wasn't bad. There wasn't much traffic, and what there was moved along at a good clip.

Broken Axe, Michigan, served as the county seat for Harbor Beach County. It was a nice little town. Quaint, as if time had forgotten about it and nothing had changed in fifty years. The business section was about two blocks long and looked like it catered to farmers and their needs.

The courthouse and the jail were relics, two plain limestone buildings, and if Abe Lincoln himself had come walking out of either one of them, it wouldn't have been all that surprising.

Above the jail, giant oaks stirred in the breeze. There was a serenity about the place that you could inhale.

I took in a lungful, and went into the jail.

The wooden floor was worn, but other than that, everything was well kept. A sign saying
OFFICE
hung out over an open door.

I stepped in. There was a counter and several signs instructing people what to do to apply for various permits. A stout woman looked up from a computer terminal.

Her smile was engaging. “Can I help you?”

“I'm looking for Sheriff Miller. My name's Sloan.”

The smile became a big grin. “Oh, you're here for Doctor Death.” She turned and yelled at another inner door, also open. “Cork, Doctor Death's lawyer is here!”

He looked like an advertisement for beer, the kind where they show the good ole boys sitting around the
local bar playing pool and acting like adolescents, all jokes and good humor.

His uniform was clean, but not pressed. He wore a black leather belt with the largest pistol I had ever seen, hanging off at an angle.

He looked about forty, maybe more. About six foot and fifty pounds too heavy, he wore a military haircut over an uneven head. His face was fat, and when he smiled, the face looked like it spread out over his collar. And he looked like he smiled a lot.

He came around the counter and took my hand in a grip that made it seem as though we were brothers who hadn't lain eyes on each other in years.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sloan,” he said.

“Call me Charley. Everybody does.”

“Good! We're real informal up here. If anyone called me anything but Cork, I'd think they were mad at me. Would you like to see your client?”

“I'd like to see the prosecutor who'll be handling the case first,” I said.

“Just one guy, the main man. This is a small county. We couldn't afford two full-time prosecutors. His name is Eddie Rand. Young guy, got elected right out of law school. Hard worker, though. You'll like him. Come on.”

He led me from the jail to the courthouse. “This doubles as our court and the county offices.”

We entered an office marked
PROSECUTOR
. A young man sat behind a desk, his feet up on it, a telephone cradled in his ear. He wore faded jeans and a work shirt. Unlike the sheriffs, his hair was long. Skinny, with long legs and an angular face, he was a flashback to the sixties.

He nodded a greeting as he spoke into the phone. “Gotta go,” he said, “looks like I got some customers who seek justice. Or whatever. I'll see you later, sweetie.”

He got up lazily, extending his hand. “You gotta be Charles Sloan.”