“Overnight, but beyond that I’m not sure what we can do for him.”
“He doesn’t belong to me, Doc,” Keith said. “I’m just driving him around.”
“And this is part of the very long story?”
Both Giles and Weshler nodded. Keith suggested the doctor contact the doctors at St. Francis Hospital in Topeka, and perhaps the little group could devise a plan for dealing with Travis Boyette.
“Where is he now?” Weshler asked.
“He’s in a small ward on the third floor,” the doctor said.
“Could we see him?”
“Not now, he needs to rest.”
“Then could we station ourselves outside the ward,” Giles said. “We anticipate this man being charged with murder, and we have orders to secure him.”
“He’s not going anywhere.”
Weshler bristled at this, and the doctor sensed the futility of arguing. “Follow me,” he said. As they began to walk away, Keith said, “Hey, fellas, I’m free to go, right?”
Weshler looked at Giles, and Giles studied Weshler, then both looked at the doctor. Weshler said, “Sure, why not?”
“He’s all yours,” Keith said, already backing away. He left through the ER entrance and jogged to his car in a nearby parking garage. He found $6 in his dwindling cash reserves, paid the attendant, and gunned the Subaru onto the street. Free at last, he said to himself. It was exhilarating to glance over at the empty seat and know that he, with luck, would never again be near Travis Boyette.
Weshler and Giles were given folding chairs and took their positions in the hallway by the door to Ward 8. They called their supervisor and reported on Boyette’s status. They found some magazines and began killing time. Through the door, there were six beds, each separated by flimsy curtains, all occupied by people suffering from serious afflictions. At the far end, there was a large window that overlooked a vacant lot, and next to the window was a door the janitors used on occasion.
The doctor returned, spoke to the troopers, then stepped inside for a quick check on Boyette. When he pulled the curtain by bed 4, he froze in disbelief.
The IVs were dangling. The bed was neatly made with a black walking cane across it. Boyette was gone.
CHAPTER 32
Robbie Flak and his little team stood by and watched the circus for two hours. Not long after the sheriff arrived and saw that there was indeed a grave site, Roop’s Mountain attracted every cop within fifty miles. Local deputies, state troopers, the county coroner, investigators from the Missouri State Highway Patrol, and, finally, a crime scene expert. Radios squawked, men yelled, a helicopter hovered overhead. When the news arrived that Boyette had vanished, cops cursed his name as if they had known him forever. Robbie called Keith’s cell phone and passed along the news. Keith explained what had happened at the hospital. He could not imagine Boyette being physically able to go far. They agreed that he would be caught, and soon.
By 2:00 p.m., Robbie was tired of the scene. He had told his story and answered a thousand questions from the investigators, there was nothing left to do. They had found Nicole Yarber, and they were ready to return to Slone and face a multitude of issues. Bryan Day had enough footage for a miniseries, but would be forced to sit on it for a few hours. Robbie informed the sheriff that they were leaving. The caravan, minus the Subaru, worked its way through the traffic until it was back on the highway and headed south. Carlos e-mailed dozens of photographs to the office, as well as the video. A presentation was being put together.
“Can we talk?” Martha Handler asked after a few minutes on the road.
“No,” Robbie answered.
“You talked to the police, what’s next?”
“They will keep the remains in the toolbox and move it all to a satellite crime lab in Joplin. They will do what they do, and we’ll see.”
“What will they look for?”
“Well, first they will attempt to identify the body using dental records. That should be easy, probably take a few hours. We may hear something tonight.”
“They have her dental records?”
“I gave them a set. Before Donté’s trial, the prosecution dumped several boxes of discovery on us a week before we picked the jury. Not surprisingly, the prosecution screwed up, and in one file there was a set of X-rays of Nicole’s teeth. Several sets were floating around during the initial days of the search, and Koffee had one. He inadvertently gave it to us. It was no big deal because her dental records were not an issue at trial. As we know, there was no dead body. A year later, I sent the file back to Koffee, but I made a copy for myself. Who knows what you’ll need one day?”
“Did he know you kept a copy?”
“I don’t remember, but I doubt it. It’s no big deal.”
“There’s no violation of privacy here?”
“Of course not. Whose privacy? Nicole’s?”
Martha scribbled notes as her tape recorder ran on. Robbie closed his eyes and tried not to frown.
“What else will they look for?” she asked.
Robbie frowned but did not open his eyes. “Cause of death in a strangulation case is impossible after nine years. They’ll look for DNA evidence, maybe in dried blood or hair. Nothing else—semen, skin, saliva, earwax, sweat—none of it holds up after this long in a decomposing corpse.”
“Does DNA matter? I mean, we know who killed her.”
“We do, but I would love to have the DNA proof. If we get it, then this will be the first case in U.S. history in which we know by DNA evidence that the wrong man has been executed. There are a dozen or so cases where we strongly suspect the state killed the wrong guy, but none with clear biological proof. Would you like a drink? I need a drink.”
“No.”
“A drink, Carlos?”
“Sure. I’ll take a beer.”
“Aaron?”
“Driving, Boss.”
“Just joking.”
Robbie pulled two beers out of the fridge and handed one to Carlos. After a long drink from the bottle, he closed his eyes again.
“What are you thinking?” Martha asked.
“Boyette, Travis Boyette. We came so close, and if he had just given us twenty-four hours, we could have saved Donté. Now we just deal with the aftermath.”
“What happens to Boyette?”
“They’ll indict him for murder here in Missouri. If he lives long enough, they’ll prosecute him.”
“Will he be prosecuted in Texas?”
“Of course not. They will never, ever admit they killed the wrong guy. Koffee, Kerber, Judge Vivian Grale, the jurors, the appellate judges, the governor—none of those responsible for this travesty will ever admit fault. Watch ’em run. Watch ’em point fingers. Maybe they won’t deny their mistakes, but they damned sure won’t admit them. I suspect they will just keep quiet, hunker down, ride out the storm.”
“Can they?”
Another pull on the bottle. Robbie smiled at the beer and licked his lips. “No cop has ever been indicted for a wrongful conviction. Kerber should go to jail. Koffee should too. They are directly responsible for Donté’s conviction, but Koffee controls the grand jury. He’s in charge of the system. So, criminal prosecutions are unlikely, unless, of course, I can convince the Justice Department to investigate. I will certainly try. And we still have the civil courts.”
“Lawsuits?”
“Oh yes, lots of them. I’ll sue everybody. Can’t wait.”
“Thought you were moving to Vermont.”
“I may have to put that on hold. I’m not quite finished here.”
———
The Slone Municipal School Board met in an emergency session at 2:00 Friday afternoon. The only item on the agenda was the game. Longview was scheduled to arrive at 5:00 p.m. for a 7:30 p.m. kickoff. The school officials and coaches in Longview were worried about the safety of their players and fans, and with good reason. The unrest in Slone was now routinely being referred to as a “race riot,” a sensational description that was as inaccurate as it was catchy.