The 24th Letter ((Mystery/Thriller)) (12 page)

“What are you saying, Sean?”

“I’m saying that unless we get something very fast, maybe a read on an imprint from the Sam Spelling paper, or a name that Lyle Johnson may have given to his wife…Charlie Williams is good as dead.”  O’Brien paused.  “Dan, I’m telling you this because we worked together.  I trust you—trust your confidence.  I’ll need your help.”

“No problem, but what do you mean?”

“I might have to force some people to talk.  It’ll be the fastest way to the truth.  I don’t like operating this way, but if I don’t, Williams will die.  I can’t let that happen.”

Dan said, “I’m going to question Johnson’s wife.  Where will you be?”

“In prison.  It’s time I spoke with Charlie Williams.”        

THIRTY-THREE

Starke, Florida, is one of America’s death capitals.  Starke is the home of Florida State Prison, a place where the death penalty has been challenged and upheld more times than any prison in America.  Some of the more notables listed on the roster of death include Ted Bundy and female serial killer Aileen Wuornos.

            It took department of corrections guards about fifteen minutes to bring Charlie Williams to the meet O’Brien.  He was escorted by three guards, one on either side and one behind him.  Chains kept his stride to a minimum.  His hands were cuffed. 

O’Brien almost didn’t recognize Williams.  He walked with a rhythm of distrust in his body language.  Suspicious eyes.  Shoulders rounded.  Skinny.  His spirit now nothing more than a defense posture.  Eleven years in prison—eleven years on death row, had turned the raw farm boy from North Carolina into a man with a hard face and apprehensive eyes. 

Both men took seats on the opposite of the no-contact glass.  O’Brien could see a faded scar leading from the left side of William’s forehead vanishing into his thinning hair, turning gray before its time.

O’Brien picked up the phone-like receiver first.  Williams sat there, staring though the thick glass.  Finally, he slowly lifted the receiver. 

            O’Brien said, “I’m glad you agreed to see me, Charlie, how you holding up?”

            “How do you think I’m holding up?”

            “Look—”

            “What the fuck do you want, O’Brien?”

            “To save your life.”

            “You’re a little late, Detective.”

            “I’m not a detective anymore.”

“Then what the hell are you?  Why are you here?”

“I believe you didn’t kill Alexandria Cole.”

Williams mocked a laugh.  “It only took you eleven years to figure that out?”

“A horrible mistake was made.  I want you to know that I feel awful about that.  The evidence was so compelling.  I want to tell you how sorry I am for—”

“Bullshit, man!  You wanted me here.  It’s because of you, Detective O’Brien that I’m here.  It’s because of you that I’ve been beaten, stabbed twice, raped, and now they’re gonna stick needles in my veins and let poison slowly shut my organs down.  All because you wanted another closed case.”

“You have every right to be angry.  But listen to me a second.  Please.  Just listen.  We don’t have time—”

“We don’t have time!  What are you—”

“I’m saying we—you and me, have to stop this execution.  I know you didn’t kill Alexandria.  To set you free, I’ll need your help.”

“Leave me the fuck alone!  What’d you do, find God or something, huh?”

“No, I found two people dead.”

Charlie William’s dry lips parted.  Eyes filled with confusion.  “What?”

“Two people dead.  What they had in common was this: they knew who killed Alexandria.  One was a priest, a close friend of mine. The other was an inmate.  Did you know Sam Spelling?”

Williams was quiet a long moment.  His eyes focused on the handcuffs around his wrists.  Then he looked up through the glass at O’Brian.  “Sam Spelling.  The guy who was shot when they were taking him to testify in the coke trial?”

“That’s the one.”

“I’d seen him around.  He hung with more of the sleaze balls than I was comfortable with…not that you have a good bunch of normal people in this shithouse.”

“Tell me about Spelling.  Did he ever talk with you?  Can you remember conversations…anything about your past or his?  Did he prod you about the murder?”

Williams thought, his eyes searching.  “One thing nobody really talks about in prison is why they got here.  The sexual deviants, the ones who molest children, they find out about them.  But the others…everybody’s innocent, right?”  Williams sneered.

“Think!”  O’Brien almost shouted, embarrassed by his tone.  “Can you think of anything Spelling may have casually mentioned, or something you might have said that may give me a clue as to who murdered Alexandria?”

“Sometimes I’d catch Spelling looking at me, when they let me get some exercise.  Thought he was gonna shank me.  So one day, I asked him what his deal was.  He said I didn’t
look
like I really belonged in here.  Told me his mother had him reciting Psalm Twenty-Three when he was four.  He said if I memorized it, believed it, then there was no way I’d be alone when they strapped me to the gurney.”

“Charlie, Sam Spelling knew who killed Alexandria.”

“How’d he know?”

“He saw the real killer hide the weapon.  Spelling blackmailed the killer.”

Williams was quiet.  He closed his yes and inhaled deeply.  “Why me?”

“In a deathbed confession he told a priest that you were innocent.  The priest asked him to make a statement in writing.  Spelling did.  He was killed.”

“I heard he died from the shooting.  Shot so he couldn’t testify.”   

O’Brien told Williams why he believed Spelling was killed and added, “The perp found out Spelling had revealed his identity to the priest, and the location of the murder weapon.  Spelling was killed in his hospital bed recovering from surgery.  And the perp then left the hospital, went to the church, and killed Father John Callahan.”

“How’d Alex’s killer come out after so long to whack Spelling and this priest?”

“Father Callahan said the guard, a guy from right here assigned to transporting Spelling, overheard some of the confession in the emergency room.  I believe he stole the statement Spelling wrote for Father Callahan, and he contacted the perp.”

“Why would he do that?”

“To blackmail him or her.”  

“So let’s get these iron bracelets off me and let me walk outta here.”

“I need something I can take to the DA.  Some physical evidence that will prove who really killed Alexandria.”

“You got two people dying’ what more do you need?”

“But I can’t directly tie them to Alexandria’s murder.  The fact that Spelling made contact with you shows that somewhere in his mind guilt was bothering him.”

“Yeah, but obviously not enough to tell anybody I was innocent.”

“Charlie, think back to the time of Alexandria’s death.  Did she confine in you then?  Maybe mention something that was bothering her?  Scaring her?”

“Not really.  But her attention span seemed different.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, kinda like she was looking over her shoulder all the time.”

“Do you think she was afraid of her manager, Jonathan Russo?”

“He was definitely using her, like a tick in a mare’s ear.  I hated the bastard.”

“I don’t know why Russo would kill someone he was using as a cash flow.”

“Alex told me she was firing him.  She had a new agent lined up in New York.”

Williams used the back of his cuffed left hand to wipe perspiration off his forehead.  He said, “Since I’ve been here, they’ve executed seven men and one woman.  Every one they led outta their cells were scared shitless.  You can memorize any Bible verse you want, but when you’re strapped down, they open those curtains so others can watch you suck in your last breaths.  All that really matters, O’Brien, is what you are inside.  You can tattoo a Bible verse on the inside of your eyelids.  But unless it’s inside your heart—not some last minute finding God crap, then you might was well take a seat at the devil’s table.  Now I’m gonna be sacrificed in a place that the devil’s blessed—the execution chamber.  And I’m innocent!”

O’Brien shook his head.  “I know you are, and I’m going to get you out of here.”  

“How, man?  I got sixty-seven hours to live!  They’re telling me to decide what I want for my last meal.  And guess what, O’Brien…it can’t total more than twenty dollars.  My lawyer’s given up.  He told my mama he’d help with the funeral arrangements.  So, what the hell are you gonna do to keep the state from killing me?  Tell me, huh?”

“I’m very, very sorry for what’s happened to you.  I’m going to do everything I can to right a terrible wrong.  If you can think of anything that might—”

“I can’t even think, O’Brien!  Can’t sleep.  I’m scared, man.  And I’m innocent!”  Tears streamed from William’s eyes.

O’Brien said, “I’ll find who did it.”

“Bull shit, man!  You got sixty-seven hours ‘till they poison me.  How are you going to find the killer in sixty-seven hours?  Huh?  Tell me?  Took you eleven years to find out I didn’t do it.  What the hell can you do in sixty-seven hours?”

O’Brien said nothing.   

“Tell me, O’Brien!” Williams screamed.  “Are you gonna work as hard to get me out as you did to get me in?”  He dropped the receiver, blinking tears out of his eyes, lower lip trembling, saliva in the corner on his mouth.  Two guards ran over and lifted him, kicking, out of the metal chair.  As they dragged Williams back to death row, O’Brien could hear him screaming, “I loved her!  I loved Alex!  What’re you gonna do now O’Brien!  Tell me!”          

THIRTY-FIVE

In his rearview mirror, O’Brien could see the white buildings, guard towers, and razor fence of Florida State Prison as he drove away.  O’Brien lifted his cell phone and called information.  “Connect me, please, to the office of Florida’s Attorney General.”

“Hold for that number.”

He was transferred three times before O’Brien reached the Attorney General’s executive assistant.  “May I help you?”

O’Brien explained why he was calling.

“Hold, please.”

After listening to a more than one minute of a tape-recorded message from of the governor, the assistant came back on the line.  “Attorney General Billingsley is in a meeting.  Then he has a cabinet meeting.  May I take a number?”

“Time is running out for Charlie Williams.  If the attorney general is busy, please get me the deputy attorney general.”

“Hold, please,” her voice now agitated.

“O’Brien listened to recorded message of the governor discussing his accomplishments in education and job creation.  Then a man’s voice came on the line, “Carl Rivera, can I help you?”   

“Are you the deputy attorney general?”

“No, but I am an assistant attorney is this office.”

O’Brien fought the urge to throw the cell phone out the Jeep window.  “I’ll be quick and to the point.” 

The assistant attorney listened without interruption.  He said, “Mr. O’Brien, as tragic as the murders are, it’s not within the capacity or jurisdiction of this office to intercede.  The original case was tried in Miami.  I’d suggest you begin there.”

“The Attorney General’s office is the first to hear a capital case appeal.”

“Indeed, but this isn’t an appeal.  It’s a stay of execution.  Only the governor can issue that order.”

“I’ve been listening to his tape recorded message every time someone in your office puts me on hold.  Stay on the line and put me through to the governor’s office.”

“I can do that, but I can also tell you that Governor Owens is out of the country.  He’s in Saudi Arabia on a fact-finding trip.”

“The facts in this case spell death for an innocent man.  The governor needs to know it.  Media could have a field day while he’s away.  I’m leaving you with my cell number.  I need to speak to the attorney general.  He can at least examine the new revelations in the case and make a call to the governor.  We have satellites and phones; all it takes is someone to make the call.”

“What’s your number, Mr. O’Brien?”

O’Brien gave it to him, disconnected and immediately called the Miami FBI headquarters.  As his call was being put through, he thought about what the attorney general’s assistant had said.  And he wondered how the cabinet could be meeting without the governor in attendance.  “Special Agent Miles,” said the voice on the line.

“Lauren, this is Sean O’Brien, how are how?”

“I’ll be damned…if it’s not Sean O’Brien…maybe Miami-Dade PD’s best dropout.  What do I owe the privilege?  Last time you resurfaced was the Miguel Santana case.  After you two met, we never even found a trace of his body.”

“And I spent seven days in a hospital, too.  Lauren, I didn’t ask to investigate Santana, but I had no choice.  I have no choice in another very urgent matter, either.  I could use your help this time around.”

O’Brien heard her inhale quickly.  “I don’t know.  What do you want?”

“I’m bringing something to you.  Don’t have time to explain on the phone.  I’m catching a flight to Miami today.  I’ll come by your office this—”  

“Wait a minute, Sean—”

“Lauren, please.  It is truly a matter of life and death. I’m emailing a picture I took of a message left in blood.”

She sighed and said, “I’ll be here.”

“Thanks, Lauren.” O’Brien hung up and called Miami PD for Ron Hamilton.

“Detective Hamilton, homicide.”

“Ron, this is Sean.”

“Hey, ol’ buddy.  You’re supposed to be moving on with your life.  Aren’t you teaching at UCF, or running a charter fishing boat by now?”

“I wish.  Remember the murdered supermodel Alexandria Cole?”

“Sure, how do you forget a loss and a face like that?”

“The kid I arrested and convicted didn’t do it.”