Love Her Madly (28 page)

“In the end, he ripped the stitching in the bonds that tied down his arms. Men had to use their belts to secure him to the gurney. His last words amid the curses he hurled were, ‘I almost did it. Don't none of you forget it either.' Then he spit out the key to his handcuffs.

“To this day, there's been no official explanation as to how he managed that.”

“How do you think he managed it?”

“Extra key got made somewhere along the line. The prisoner's friends or family came up with the money.”

Everywhere, always, money talks.

“Reverend, was Lloyd Bailey repentant? For the death of his victims and for his lies to the police and the courts about Rona Leigh?”

“I'm afraid, like most of the men you find here, he didn't know the meaning of the word
repent.
”

“You said God took him into paradise.”

“Yes. Because Lloyd Bailey was a victim. Because he'd been rendered senseless by drugs, by the criminals who make them available. It has been my observation that drugs first attack that part of the brain that makes a man a human being.”

“Wouldn't God punish him for taking drugs in the first place?”

“No. Lloyd's upbringing denied him the capability required to know the difference between right and wrong.”

This was one liberal chaplain. “Bottom line, Reverend, there was no remorse at all?”

He reached over and gently patted my wrist. “Do we feel remorse when we run over a possum?”

I'd never hit a possum. But I didn't mention the remorse I'd felt when I hit a squirrel a few months ago in DC.

I said to him, “Rona Leigh's chaplain married her. Became her husband. What did you think of that?”

“I wasn't surprised. She's a witch.”

A witch.

“God in his infinite mercy has never found any mercy for her?”

“Probably accurate. She controlled Lloyd. She could have stopped him from doing what he did, but as I said, he was bewitched.”

“You're saying she was responsible for his actions?”

“Yes.”

Not so liberal when it came to lady killers. I said, “But she'd been rendered senseless by drugs just as he had been.”

“A woman's constitution allows her to maintain her reason.”

Scraggs stood up on that note. Probably afraid I'd take out my gun and shoot the chaplain. He thanked the reverend and told him we had to be on our way.

Out in the corridor, in another golf cart, Scraggs said to me, “Being a chaplain for the condemned is one unconventional job. He's been around psychopaths too long, Poppy.”

“It's a good thing he's not around women. Probably would want them all crucified, the Jezebels.”

*   *   *

The warden was big and beefy, just like wardens in old black-and-white prison films. I asked him how many ducks he'd bagged. He said, “A dozen, ma'am. Each 'n' ever' one fat as a Goodyear blimp. So what's the FBI doin' here exactly? Shouldn't all your forces be concentrated on chasin' down Rona Leigh?”

“The FBI is preparing for what's to be done once she's captured.”

Scraggs said, “Texas Rangers are chasin' her down.”

“Then I'm sure the Texas Rangers have told the lady what's to be done once she's captured.”

“Lady figures she might not necessarily be captured in Texas.”

The warden leaned back in his chair. “Ain't easy to get a dyin' woman through the international area of the Dallas/Fort Worth airport.”

Scraggs said, “Ain't easy getting one out of a Texas death chamber.”

Scraggs sympathized with my irritation at the chaplain, was taking it out on the warden. I appreciated his support. I cut to the chase. “Lloyd Bailey told your chaplain—and I wonder if he told you the same thing—that Rona Leigh Glueck took no part in the killing of James Munter and Melody Scott.”

He grinned. “Man on his deathbed will say the damnedest things. Rona Leigh was Lloyd's woman. Maybe he felt less a man that his words put her on death row. Wanted to prop up his self-esteem.”

“Did he say anything to lead you to believe…?”

“He said a lot of things. Might have said the moon had cooties big as pigs. He was a sick man. He was dyin'. Man's word's not very reliable in such a condition. Lloyd had his chance in court. That's all that counts.”

“As your governor so often points out.”

“And rightly so. Now, ma'am, I have got a lot of backed-up appointments today. I can't tell you anything the chaplain hasn't already said. You mentioned you'd appreciate the opportunity to talk to Lloyd's former death row neighbors. They're long gone, a course. We execute three–four men, average, every month. Do the math, ma'am. But I got a few others you might be interested in.

“Four men are waitin' on rides to Huntsville now who knew Lloyd back before they graduated. You're welcome to talk to them. Give me the chance to make up for keepin' the FBI waitin'.”

“You did make up for it. The chaplain was very helpful. But I would be glad to speak with those men.”

“Thought so.” He clicked his intercom. “Martha, darlin'? My car right out front? Good.” He stood up, put out his hand, and we all shook.

We were driven across the prison yard.

I saw the four men. One of them recognized Scraggs. He said, “Hey, Scraggs, you still out there plantin' false evidence?”

Scraggs told him to shut up. “Lady wants to talk with you. I do not. Me and you were done talkin' a long time ago.” Max's grammar mocked the criminals.

This prisoner and each of the other three said the same thing, using different synonyms:
Lloyd Bailey was a killer (the devil / a psycho / a piece a shit). I'm not. I was framed (set up / shafted / fucked over) by my lawyer (the jury / the judge / the prosecutor). I didn't kill (shoot / stab / strangle) anybody. I am a Christian. So listen, FBI (ma'am / angel / sweetheart), why don't you see about gettin' me a reprieve?

I didn't say no, I didn't use synonyms for no, I just lied. “I'll see what I can do.” Then I asked each of them, “Did Lloyd tell you that he killed both his victims and that Rona Leigh did not?”

I got:
Damn right. / You got that straight. / Sure as hell did. / Made me write it down.

I asked the last one, “Why did he want you to write it down?”

“Couldn't write hisself. Too stupid. But he was so sick he couldn't lift a pen anyway. Had me put it in a letter to Rona Leigh's public defender.”

“And you sent that letter according to his wishes?”

“Well, ma'am, it ain't like I went down to my local post office and mailed it direct. Letters go to the censors first. If that letter got outa here, I'm a pickle in a barrel of brine.”

Scraggs and I drove back to Houston. “Scraggs, when you find her you'll take her back to Gatesville, right?”

“That's the law.”

“Do you believe she's entitled to a new trial?”

“I believe the laws that steer our courts should be looked at a little closer.”

“A lot of innocent people could die while that's happening.”

He sighed. He said, “It's out of my hands.”

“No, it's not.”

He gripped the steering wheel a little more firmly. “I cannot be distracted from this job. Which now has become finding Rona Leigh Glueck and bringing her back to justice.”

“You don't see your job as bigger than that? As a peace officer?”

“Not if I want to keep it.”

I looked away from him.

Then he said, “How many kids
you
supportin', Poppy?”

Scraggs went back to Gatesville. Had to tuck in all those kids he was supporting. I stayed another night in the Houston hotel. The globe-trotting was getting to me.

*   *   *

In the hotel room, I tried my British shrink again. He was back.

“Find her?”

“No, Doc. So what about rage?”

“What about it?”

“Can you become so enraged that you take on superhuman strength?”

He sighed. “No. You merely
think
you have superhuman strength. When you become enraged you are ready to take on the world. Enraged drivers leap out of cars so they can go and throttle the fellow who cut them off, only to be picked up by their collars and tossed to the side of the road by the big bully who rules it. Rage does not turn you into Superman.”

“It only makes you act on impulse.”

“Exactly. Yes. Poppy, people in this country watch too much bloody wrestling. They think a person can actually lift someone over his head, twirl him about, and throw him to the ground. The rage of wrestlers is, as we know, choreographed, but for some reason people have no inclination to believe that. Spoils their fun. I'm coming to understand Americans are taskmasters at avoiding reality. Do you think that's true?”

It is. I didn't tell him to go back to Liverpool. Because I'll never forget a rape victim who told me she was just such a confident person. She always felt that if she were ever accosted she would be so angry she would be able to turn on her assailant, kick him in the balls, and gouge out his eyes with her car keys. And then, unfortunately, the opportunity arose. Her attempt to fend the man off meant two black eyes and a broken jaw. For her, not him. One of her front teeth lodged in her windpipe and almost killed her. I assured her when she came out of surgery that because of the confidence she'd just described, she'd had the presence of mind to crawl across the parking lot to where he'd first hit her, pick up the three other teeth he'd knocked out, and put them in her pocket. Which meant the dentist on call at the hospital was able to stick them right back in along with the one they suctioned out of her lung. An awful lot of rape victims are reminded of their assault each time they look in the mirror to put in their bridgework. “That's not going to be you,” I said to her, as she wept and wept.

The shrink said, “Penny for your thoughts, darling.”

Ah, the British. Always too happy to soothe your soul.

“What about sexual frenzy?”

“What about it?”

“The killing of Sharon Tate.”

He actually said “Ah-hah,” like he was Sherlock Holmes. “Well, you see when Charles Manson and his followers killed those people in California, why, yes, they were all in a frenzy. Their act took on a passionate ferocity where the killers seemingly lost themselves in the joy of the killing, so excited by the violence they were perpetrating. One of Charles Manson's girls, the one who actually killed the actress, described to the police how satisfying it felt when the knife thrusts didn't hit bone. She stabbed her victim forty-five times, and about half the thrusts sank the knife up to the hilt. When that happened she said she felt satisfaction. So much satisfaction that when she hit resistance, bone—when her hand slid down the knife and she sliced herself—the pain of that did not stop her. She kept going for soft tissue. After she was arrested, the police took off the rag she'd wrapped around her hand and had to get her into surgery. Stitches alone couldn't put her shredded flesh back together.”

“So what's your point?”

“I'm talking, once again, about religious ecstasy. I've discussed it with people. You
can
have superhuman strength in a sexual frenzy, but only if that frenzy is created in combination with religious fanaticism.”

“Rona Leigh didn't find Jesus till
after
the frenzies.”

“Listen, my dear, if you Americans continue to insist on the death penalty, why not use it only when the motive has to do with personal gain? If someone kills simply because she's a bad seed, programmed by heinous circumstances beyond her control, maybe that particular sort of killer deserves to be rehabilitated. Whereas—”

“Thanks, you've been a great help.” I maneuvered myself off the phone. This wasn't about the death penalty. I was tired of explaining that. Now I was about to hit the sack when the phone rang. Joe.

“How did you know where I was?”

“I'll tell you later. There's an interview with the merry widower in
Time
magazine. It's just out, in case you missed it. I thought—”

I didn't even maneuver, I hung up. Joe would understand. I grabbed my purse, dug out my wallet, and went down to the lobby.

Gary even got a photo, big slick hair and all. Looked like he'd painted it with Kiwi shoe polish. I started reading the article in the elevator. There was an older photo of him too, taken at Melody's funeral. Two knots of mourners outside the church were separated by a few feet of empty sidewalk One group was stoic-looking, well tailored, heads held high. Fred Helton stood at its center. Gary was lost in the second group, newly cleaned up, though none of the men wore suits and all the women sported Rona Leigh hair.

In his interview, Gary mostly talked about how much he had looked forward to seeing his wife's killer caught and executed. How much he looked forward to seeing her die. He hoped that next time the drug that first puts her to sleep would be thrown out. He wanted her to feel her lungs when they wouldn't work, feel the pain of the heart attack that would kill her. Feel her life being stolen away the way Melody had.

I needed to talk to Gary Scott again. I called the AstroBar. I got a recorded message:
This here's the AstroBar. Come on down and drink to the capture of that bitch, Rona Leigh Glueck. On the house.

I looked up the name
GARY SCOTT
in the Houston phone book and dialed. The Gary Scott I dialed wasn't Melody Scott's widower. It was an irate man who shouted, “Sumbitch! This is it. I'm gittin' me an unlisted number!”

I opened my laptop. I searched the Houston papers. In the last few days, Gary had been interviewed, or at least quoted, everywhere. I found that “Bad-Ass Houston” was still in business and they'd interviewed him as well. In their interview, his direct quotes were printed semi-phonetically. He told them: