“You haven’t ruled it out.”
“It’s a coincidence, that’s all.”
“What if it isn’t?”
“Let it go, Spencer,” said Martha from the doorway. She came in, looking more tired than both of them, and perched on the edge of LeDonne’s desk. “I saw your car here,” she told the sheriff. “I was afraid you’d find out about this, but I kept hoping we’d solve it first. You’re in no shape to handle an investigation, and I knew you’d try, because of this Harkryder connection.”
“So there is a connection!”
Martha sighed. “Only in your mind, Spencer. Look, you need to trust us. I just finished the academy course, remember? Things have changed in the twenty years since you arrested Fate Harkryder. Back then the filmThe Collector was a creepy fairy tale; now it’s used as a training film, because there’s a whole new breed of serial killer out there. We know more about murder now than we used to. And one thing we know is that people don’t commit identical murders twenty years apart with nothing in between.”
“You’re betting a man’s life on this,” said Spencer.
“We’re following a good lead right now, and there’s no connection to the Harkryder case. This case isn’t your answer, Sheriff,” said Martha. She so seldom called him by his title that he looked up in surprise. “Why don’t you let me drive you home now?”
“No!” He was too forceful. The urgency that he had taken such trouble to conceal was now apparent, and he realized that his emotions were too close to the surface, a sign of his tenuous health. “I won’t get any rest anyhow, if I have to worry about this. I know you’ve checked over the Harkryder case, but let me double-check. For my own peace of mind. You go home. I’ll stay here and pull some records.”
“You’re in no shape to be working,” said Martha.
“I can’t help thinking.”
“It’s that damned execution, isn’t it?” said LeDonne.
“Yes.”
“Stay home then. The state wants a county witness, tell them I’ll go.”
“It has to be me. Fate Harkryder is on death row because I put him there-and I may have been wrong.”
“I doubt it,” said LeDonne, as calmly as if they were talking about a bet on an old baseball game.
“Nelse Miller was never happy about this conviction, but I was so sure of myself back then. It was my first big case, and I thought his doubts about it were just sour grapes because he hadn’t been here to solve it.”
“So why didn’t he prove you wrong?”
Spencer shrugged. “I gathered the evidence, that’s all. The district attorney and the jury were the ones who decided Fate Harkryder was guilty. And all the evidence was against him. Blood type, lack of alibi. He even had the dead girl’s jewelry on him when he was arrested.”
“You’ve got me convinced,” said LeDonne. “That’s as good as cases get, except on television.”
“I know. But it feels wrong.”
The deputy smiled. “Well, that’s bound to impress the Supreme Court,” he said.
“I know. I need something besides twenty years’ experience and a hunch. I thought the Trail Murders had the earmarks of serial killings. And they stopped after I arrested the suspect, right? If I had the right man, the killings should have stopped. But now we have this case.”
“Martha told you. Serial killers don’t take twenty-year breaks. More like twenty days. Most of them are under forty anyhow.”
“I know. I said it was a feeling. It doesn’t make sense yet, and I don’t have much to go on. But I want to look at some criminal records.” Spencer handed LeDonne a slip of paper from his telephone scratch pad. “Can we contact the TBI and get them to run these names through their computers?”
“Sure,” said LeDonne. “What are you looking for?”
“I’ll know when I see it. Get me everything they’ve got.”
The deputy handed Spencer the telephone. “You might as well go out to dinner with Martha, then, because this will take a while. I take it you want to check more states than just Tennessee?”
“I want everything.”
LeDonne nodded at Martha. “You’ll have time for breakfast, too,” he said.
The officer-in-charge stacked the cardboard boxes on the bunk in Fate Harkryder’s cell. “We might as well get this taken care of now, Lafayette,” he said, but his tone was apologetic. “They’re moving you out of Two in an hour or so. To the quiet cell. I thought you might like some help.”
Fate nodded. “Thanks.” He noticed that Berry had said, “We’re moving you to the quiet cell,” instead of “We’re putting you on death watch.” A small point, perhaps, since it amounted to the same thing, but Fate’s existence had long been built upon small pleasures and petty annoyances in the great nothingness of prison time. Little things mattered. Berry wasn’t too bad for a guard. He was just doing his job. Maybe he understood things better than the lawyers did. You didn’t have to explain poverty to someone who worked as a prison guard.
Fate looked around, measuring his possessions, the accumulation of his entire adult life. They would fit easily into the four cardboard boxes. Now he must decide what to do with them. He began to take things off the shelf. Four bottles of Prell shampoo, a carton of cigarettes, a stack of unused yellow legal pads… He thought how people on the outside would shake their heads at such a pitiful excuse for wealth. “Give those things to Milton,” he said, scooping the cigarettes and toilet articles into the smallest box. “God knows he needs it. Especially the shampoo.”
It was a feeble joke, but Berry smiled anyhow.
“What happens now?”
Berry shrugged. “You’re going to get some peace and quiet,” he said. “But the accommodations are a little sparse.”
“Compared to what?”
“The quiet cell has bars, like a jail. It has a bed, a sink, a toilet, and a writing table. That’s it. You’ll be allowed fifteen minutes a day outside the cell to shower; otherwise, that’s where you stay.”
“No exercise?”
“Not anymore. You’ll have someone to talk to, though. There’ll be two guards stationed outside the cell at all times. And you can have visitors.”
“Good. I want Milton to come over and play cards with me.”
“Sorry. No contact with other inmates. You can see your lawyers, your minister, a counselor, or members of your family. Family can go to the regular visitors’ lounge. Noncontact visitation.”
“Has anybody asked to see me?”
Berry turned away and began to take the posters and photographs off the wall. “Not that I know of,” he said. “Of course, that stuff goes through the front office. They might not have told me yet.”
“Sure.”
“I hear that a bunch of reporters want to interview you, though. Big shots from national TV, even.”
“I’ll pass.” He set the last of his possessions into a cardboard box. “Okay. That’s it. Do we move this to the new cell?”
Berry shook his head. “Most of it, no. You can take a couple of the legal pads with you,” he said. “And a Bible if you’ve got one.”
“What do I do with the rest of this stuff?” Fate pointed to the collection of letters, the documents concerning his case, a couple of books, and the signed photograph from one of the film stars who was sympathetic to his cause.