“Well, now,” said the condemned man, “hadn’t we better get this down on paper or tape where it can be studied?”
“I’ll have our tape recorder brought—”
“Better yet,” Johnson went on, “why not call in the officer heading the investigation? The local cops covered it, and it should still be an open file.”
The warden looked at the witnesses again. He imagined that they could see the sweat running down his spine, hear his heart pounding.
The reporter — what was his name? Stonehill! — was staring hard at him. He nodded at the warden.
“All right. I’ll call police headquarters.”
He stepped back inside his observation room. The prison doctor was seated where he could watch the proceedings before going to pronounce the final verdict. He was a small, thin man with a full head of gray hair and an eternal poker face.
“Doc,” said the warden, “do me a favor. Get out of here to the nearest outside phone and call the governor. Fill him in on what’s goin’ on. Assure him that we’ll go ahead and fry this bastard as soon as this farce is over.”
The doctor got up. “Got you by the shorts, doesn’t he? But it’ll end up only one way. Okay.”
The warden was on the phone. When an alto voice answered, “Police Department,” he said, “This is Warden Peters, state penitentiary. Connect me with the chief...”
In the witness room, everyone had settled down in their chairs, talking. The nurse, whose name was Florence Taylor, gestured toward the man in the electric chair.
“This Warren Johnson — I can’t help having heard of him because of all the delays he’s caused — getting people on his side and other maneuvers. Still, not much, really. Am I right that he’s supposed to be very intelligent?”
Stonehill nodded. “Some people claim it’s just highly developed cunning. However, he’s been one of those people who never get a college degree, but keep taking course after course at community colleges.”
“But he’s supposed to be a serial killer, isn’t he?”
“Credited with six. All women. All badly cut up. Always left a taunting note. Cheap paper, childish writing. But done in fountain-pen ink.”
She looked surprised. “Fountain-pen ink? Why is that unusual? Everybody has a pen.”
Stonehill grinned. “Most of those pens are ballpoints. The ink is like printing ink, no water. Fountain-pen ink is water-based. That was one thing that nailed him. He had a fountain pen. The ink was the same as in the notes.”
“But they had to suspect him first.”
“Somebody noticed that the victims were all community college attendees, although Johnson was never in any of their classes. A policewoman was set up as bait on a wild hunch, and it worked.
“Of course, he denies it,” he said, as an afterthought. “Claims it was mistaken identity — she wanted to make the collar too much — won’t admit she could be wrong.”
“Is there a chance that he’s innocent?”
“Not likely. The pen? Useful, but not conclusive. But he did have a ring that had belonged to number six.”
She changed the subject. “The Bedford case. I’m not too familiar—”
Stonehill smiled. “Maybe you know it as the Robin Hood murder.” There was no time for more discussion. Warden Peters had entered the execution chamber, carrying a folding chair. A guard followed with a card table.
The guard opened the table and set it in front of Johnson. The warden placed the chair behind it.
He spoke to the condemned man. “The police are sending over Lieutenant Gates, the officer in charge of investigating the Bedford murder. Don’t try to pry privileged information. Don’t make any speeches. Don’t intrude your own predicament in any way. If you do, it comes to a dead halt, and we go ahead with your execution. Is that understood?”
Johnson’s voice was a pleasant baritone. “I’m perfectly willing to abide by your rules.”
“Then all we have to do is wait for Lieutenant Gates.” Peters turned and left the chamber.
Peters was not a nervous man. He had endured nearly every problem that a prison could produce. His apparent unemotional bearing was even now threatening to drive a wedge between himself and his wife. This time, however, he was searching his mind for a hint of what was behind Johnson’s stunt. Maybe his own fiber was beginning to deteriorate, maybe he was on the first step down.
He went into the hall, that place of hard surfaces, where no comfort ever made itself known. Two men were walking rapidly toward him, a guard and a blocky man who had to be the detective.
He stepped forward when they reached him. “Lieutenant Gates? Warden Peters.”
“Sir. I’m told you’ve got a problem.” They shook hands briefly.
“No problem. Just a delay. You might get something out of this. I wouldn’t count on it.”
Gates scanned him with gray eyes that gave nothing away. “We’ll see.”
The warden took Gates into the execution chamber. “Johnson, this is Lieutenant Gates, who’s in charge of the Bedford case. He’s here to listen to you. Lieutenant, you’ve heard of this man.”
“My pleasure,” Johnson said.
Gates acknowledged him with a nod, but said nothing. He put a tape recorder on the table, then sat down in the chair. He pushed the switch to start the recorder, dictated the date, time of day, and his name. “This will be a discussion with one Warren Johnson about the murder of Sarah Bedford,” he finished, then laid a notepad and pen by his right hand. He then pointed a large forefinger at Johnson. “Now, talk.”
Johnson leaned forward. Earlier, his expression seemed to mock; now, it was grave and truth-seeking.
“I must make it clear at once, Lieutenant, that I have no part in the Bedford crime. None of what I have to say came to me by way of the prison grapevine. My speculations came from what I have read in the newspapers, plus some analogies derived from things I’ve noticed in recent years. I can’t ask you to tell me information known to the police but not to the public. Please correct my mistakes, if possible. Comment on my accuracy, if advisable.
“All right. The Bedford family. Husband, Arnold. Wife, Sarah. Both in their mid-thirties. Two children, a boy, Arthur, ten, and a girl, Lynne, eight. A typical middle-class family until eighteen months ago.
“Arnold Bedford had been the manager of a better-class fast-food house, part of a small chain. It had been very successful, partly because it was situated only one block from one of the two local high schools. The enrollment of both schools fell, restaurant maintenance rose, and both schools merged — at the other location. Obviously, business at the restaurant declined, and none of Bedford’s marketing skills could bring it back. The chain closed that location, and Arnold was out of a job. He is still unemployed.
“Of course, they were living comfortably until then, so Bedford tried to find work. There was nothing for him in the restaurant business. The competition is so ferocious that all have to fight to keep open. I don’t know what he tried to do to maintain his household. The papers have never said.”
“Telephone solicitation — telephone surveys — you name it. Nothin’ that pays much,” Gates said. “A few investments. Marginal.”
“Just so,” Johnson went on. “Then, as is sometimes the case, the roles in the household reversed. Sarah had some skills as a legal secretary, and she was hardworking. She was also attractive and intelligent. She had no difficulty in becoming the breadwinner.
“She was a very good-looking woman. I’m sure everybody’s seen her picture in the paper.”
“Well, her husband’s no wimp, himself,” Gates commented. “She had the money, and he didn’t. Or isn’t that important?”