Crime After Crime Read online

  Locatelli was panting for breath between desperate attempts to get Frankie to stop. Blood filled his mouth, streaking his gums and his teeth. Frankie pushed him to the floor and emptying the box of courgettes began kicking them towards him.

  “I hate fucking courgettes so much…”

  “I can explain Frankie please.”

  “Time for explanations is over.”

  “I haven’t…”

  “What was that?”

  “Just give me time.”

  “You’ve had three years, twenty-one days.”

  Frankie stepped into the shadows and picked up a baseball bat. He turned it slowly in his hand.

  “Time’s up Paolo,” he began tapping the bat into the palm of his other hand.

  He took three strides towards Locatelli, swinging the bat in his hand. As he neared Locatelli he saw a movement to his left and turned his head as the double doors crashed open and a dozen armed police officers streamed in, shouting instructions. He released the bat and it ping-ponged on the floor and rolled out of sight.

  MacPherson followed the armed response team, his stab jacket a size too small forcing his shirt up around his neck. He stood as two of the officers freed Locatelli, another two cuffed Frankie.

  “Frankie Long, you know the drill,” MacPherson said, glancing around the lock-up. “Kept this place a secret.”

  Frankie straightened himself defiantly.

  “I’m arresting you on suspicion of the attempted murder of Paolo Locatelli.”

  * * *

  “They’ll never prove attempted murder.”

  Frankie stared at the barrister willing him to disagree. The interview room had a small table with a scratched surface and four uncomfortable plastic chairs. A prison officer walked up and down outside peering occasionally through the glass partition. The barrister was clean-shaven, chin smooth, head glistening. The chalk pinstripe was sharp enough to cut cheese and he pulled on the double cuffs of his shirt until exactly the same length protruded from each of the sleeves of his suit.

  “Let’s look at the evidence,” he said, ignoring Frankie. “We’ve got the statement from Mickey French who worked with you in prison. He says you were obsessed with revenge. All you ever talked about.”

  “He’s a scum-bag.”

  “Then we’ve got Dave Hopkins, from the snooker club. Says the first thing you did on release was to plan your revenge in detail.”

  “No jury would believe him. He’s simple.”

  “But what about the tapes of your conversations from prison. Didn’t you realise the conversations were recorded?”

  “I never said much.”

  The barrister raised an eyebrow. “I’ve counted seventy-five references to Locatelli in the last six months of your imprisonment. A few might have been understandable. But seventy-five – what do you think a jury will make of that Mr Long?”

  The barrister clasped one hand over another on top of the papers on the table and dared Frankie to defy him.

  “He was a business colleague…”

  “That you beat to a pulp… allegedly…”

  Frankie could sense he was losing the barrister’s sympathy.

  “And do you know how serious a conviction will be. For you and your son. Although I have to say that the prosecution will have grave difficulty succeeding against you and Peter.”

  “What does his brief say?”

  “We’ve only had a preliminary discussion so far. However…”

  He opened the foolscap notebook on the desk.

  “The prosecutor has made a suggestion as to how we might carve up the case.”

  Frankie thought about carving up Locatelli and for a moment he was back in the lock up, enjoying every minute, watching the Italian toe-rag with a courgette in his mouth, begging for mercy. The barrister continued.

  “It’s really quite simple. They want a plea from you to the attempted murder and they’ll drop similar charges against Peter.”

  Frankie blinked. Then he blinked again and thought about Madge. It meant he was going to die in prison. Years in a Cat A jail, transferred from one prison to another, miles from home and then a Cat B and maybe, if he was lucky a Cat C jail. He’d be an old man before he reached an open jail. He wouldn’t feel her breasts touching his chest, the touch of her hand or the smell of her perfume.

  But Peter would be free.

  “What sort of carve up is that?”

  “They’ve got your card marked Mr Long. That’s all I can say. If you don’t accept you run the risk that Peter will go down for life with you.”

  “He had nothing…”

  “Look,” the barrister cut across him. “If you take a plea you’re entitled to a credit from the judge. It should bring down the minimum tariff.”

  “How much?”

  The barrister rolled his eyes and let out a long slow breath.

  “It might make the difference between a tariff of eight years and twelve years.”

  “So I’d be out in eight years.”

  “Subject to parole, of course.”

  “I’ll be drawing my pension.”

  Frankie stood up, pushed the chair until it fell on the floor behind him and walked over to the glass partition. He curled his fingers into a fist and pounded the glass slowly. A prison officer stopped and gave him a quizzical look.

  “We don’t have much time,” the barrister said.

  * * *

  Frankie picked at his meal with the plastic fork. The shepherd’s pie was a smearing of black acrid tasting substance covered by something that passed for mashed potatoes, accompanied by boiled potatoes and bread. Back in his cell he laid on his bunk contemplating.

  That bastard Mickey French had stitched him up.

  And Dave Hopkins was a grass.

  Fuck them all.

  He heard his name shouted and dragging himself off the bunk stepped into the corridor.

  “Visitor, Frankie.”

  Madge was sitting at the far end of the visitor’s hall holding a plastic beaker of water. She stared at the tabletop turning her drink slowly through her fingers. Frankie slipped into the bench across from her and he leant over to kiss her but she turned her head to one side and his lips brushed her cheek.

  “You promised me, Frankie.”

  “Madge. I’ve been stitched up…”

  “I don’t want to die in prison. That’s what you said…”

  “I know but…”

  Madge got up and walked over to the exit without looking back. Frankie took the cup and turned it in his hand. A prison officer appeared by his shoulder.

  “Visit over, Frankie.”

  * * *

  Frankie sat in the cells underneath the Crown Court looking at the graffiti on the walls. Every few minutes the toilet let out an odd gurgle. The ragged woollen blanket heaped in one corner was polka-dotted with stains and by its side were the remains of a microwaved lasagne. The flap on the cell door slid open, a face appeared, and then a loud click as the door opened. A security guard nodded at Frankie. It was a short walk to the narrow staircase leading to the dock. The barrister and solicitor sitting in front of him nodded an acknowledgement. He scanned the courtroom and caught the warm smile of achievement on the face of MacPherson. He squinted at Madge, noticing the puffiness of her eyes, the make-up failing to disguise sleepless nights. Sophie sat by her side.

  An electrifying expectation pulsed through the courtroom as the judge entered.

  “Stand-up,” the judge said. “I have heard the eloquent plea on your behalf by learned counsel asking me to exercise as much leniency as possible. I have carefully considered all the guidelines and especially your guilty plea which, I should say, is entirely appropriate.

  “However, given the aggravating features of your case, namely the cold blooded revenge-style attempt to take the life of an innocent man, I am convinced that had it not been for the work of the police you would have murdered Mr Locatelli.”

  Frankie’s left leg began to twitch n
ervously; he looked over and saw the narrow smile on Locatelli’s face.

  “In these circumstances the only sentence I can pass is life imprisonment. I set a tariff of a minimum of eighteen years.”

  Frankie heard Madge gasp.

  He felt the guards grip his wrists and looking down saw the handcuffs.

  “Take him down.”

  ~~~~~~~~

  About the author

  Stephen Puleston has been writing for many years. He has worked as a solicitor, management consultant, and now runs an online chandlery business. In 2013 he will be publishing the first in a series of Inspector Drake thrillers based in North Wales. For full details visit www.stephenpuleston.com.

  The Execution

  C D Mitchell

  The confession hadn’t made the investigation any easier.

  While the deputies took Sonny Howell out to the bottoms to try to find the body, Sheriff Wilson Underwood had been under subpoena that day. He was in state court in Jonesboro to answer questions regarding the accidental death of his own daughter who died at home when his pistol accidentally discharged. He did not arrive until late in the afternoon. When he got to the Hatchie Coon Bottoms, Sonny still hadn’t shown the deputies where he’d hid the body.

  The investigation into the death of Wilson Underwood’s daughter was officially over. The discharge of the pistol was ruled to be the fault of the manufacturer. A sealed products liability settlement was admitted into the record. Wilson had officially been cleared by the authorities, and his own healing process could now begin.

  The murder of Nancy Davis, on the other hand, was not over.

  The murder had shocked the community, but every murder shocked the small community of Delbert. In the twenty plus years Wilson had served as sheriff, he had investigated five murders. Four had been solved, but this was the only one that would garner a death penalty.

  Nancy had dated Sonny Howell for months before she disappeared. Her parents nagged at Wilson to investigate her absence the first day she didn’t come home. But Wilson knew he couldn’t begin a missing person investigation just because a girl who dated the town thug didn’t show up one night. A class valedictorian and homecoming queen, Nancy could have dated anyone in Jester County, and she chose the county’s best chemist. Wilson knew Sonny had two different meth labs, but Sonny always seemed to be one step ahead of him.

  Frank and Ellen Davis persisted, however, and on the third day of Nancy’s absence, Wilson became worried.

  Sonny’s family had founded Delbert, Arkansas. But although Sonny may have shared the Howell gene pool, he shared none of the character that made the Howell family such prominent members of the Delbert community. Wilson knew he needed to talk to Sonny, so he sent a deputy out to pick him up.

  On a three week meth binge, Sonny came to the sheriff’s office and confessed immediately. His drug induced paranoia had him convinced that the law had witnessed the murder and he had no choice but to tell the truth.

  Leading the deputies around in circles through the Hatchie Coon Bottoms, and laughing at them every time they thought they’d found the right spot, Sonny refused to reveal where he hid the girl. Herman Bishop, the Criminal Investigator with the sheriff’s office, and Dean Witt, the Arkansas State Police investigator, had given up and called for a cadaver dog.

  After arriving at the scene, Wilson talked with the officers to figure out what was going on; then he walked over to the county patrol unit.

  “Come on with me, Sonny. We gonna walk out here and see what we can find,” Wilson said.

  “Sure, Hoss. I’ll show you all over them bottoms. You just tell me where you wanna go.”

  “He can’t find it. His brain’s so fried right now he has no idea where it’s at,” Witt said.

  “I don’t believe that. These dopers can remember where they hid a quarter of meth a year ago. He knows where she’s at. Y’all stay up here and wait for the dog,” Wilson said to Witt and Bishop. “We may be just a bit. Hey, Herman, you still got that sharp knife? Let me have it.”

  Herman pulled out a long-bladed folding pocket-knife and handed it to Wilson. “Watch that blade,” he said. “Me and Daddy been using it to cut pigs with. I keep it with a razor-edge.”

  “C’mon, Sonny. Hey, Herman, grab that rubbing alcohol in your first-aid kit. Get it out for me.”

  Bishop chuckled and looked right at Sonny Howell before he opened the trunk of his patrol car and handed Wilson the opaque bottle of isopropyl alcohol. Wilson placed the knife and alcohol in his back pocket.

  Sonny had settled down now and no longer laughed. His hands were still cuffed behind his back. Wilson grabbed him by the back of the neck and nearly lifted him off the ground. Sonny was a big, solid man, standing six feet tall in his socks. Although the meth had whittled away a lot of his girth, he still weighed over 275 pounds. But Wilson towered over his prisoner and carried him by the nap of the neck like a truant teenager. Floating on his toes, Sonny made an effort to walk along with the sheriff. They walked for about thirty minutes, deep into the woods and far back along a big, slow bend in the Big Slough.

  “Your deputies lied to me. I been off the shit now long enough to realise you haven’t been watching me, or you’d know where that body is. My confession was coerced.”

  Wilson kept dragging him along, refusing to respond. After easing into the woods they walked fast and straight for a half-mile, then Wilson cut back east and headed for the Big Slough Ditch, an old Corps of Engineers drainage dug so long ago the trees along its banks now towered nearly as high as the forest they walked through.

  “I heared they let you off the hook today for killing your own daughter,” Sonny said. “If I were sheriff I don’t guess they’d be anyone investigating this.” The prisoner snickered.

  Wilson released Sonny’s neck with his right hand. With an open palm that could grasp and hold a twenty pound watermelon, he brought his left hand around and slapped his prisoner, knocking Sonny flat on his back.

  “Oh, you gonna have to do better than that old man,” Sonny said.

  Wilson smiled at his prisoner.

  * * *

  Sheriff Wilson Underwood walked into the witness room at the Cummins Correctional unit knowing that within thirty minutes Sonny Howell would die. Three bare block walls surrounded twenty folding metal chairs, their numbers divided in half by a narrow aisle down the middle of the room. A fourth wall of bullet-proof glass squared off the room – the black curtains hanging from the other side temporarily hid the secrets within the death chamber. Soon, the curtains would peel back from the middle of the glass so the witnesses could observe the execution. Wilson had always wondered about the bullet-proof glass. It seemed odd to protect a man condemned to die, especially during the final moments before his death. The safety glass must have been installed to protect prison employees. The black curtains made the room seem small and cramped, but any room would feel cramped that held both Frank and Ellen Davis, the parents of the victim Nancy Davis, and Beaver Howell, the father of Sonny Howell.

  The testimony at Sonny’s trial was conclusive. On the day she had disappeared, Nancy told Sonny he would soon be a father. She was ecstatic, but Sonny had warned her the whole time they dated: if she ever got pregnant, he’d kill her. Nancy always thought he was joking. That day he talked her into going for a drive down the levy in the Hatchie Coon Bottoms of the St. Francis River. Sonny and Nancy got out of the truck down by the Big Slough Ditch, and he hit her from behind with a slapstick – a leather pouch filled with lead shot. He’d hit her three times when he thought he might want to get laid before she died, so he stripped her clothes and raped her in the seat of his truck. Sonny wasn’t sure if she had died before they had sex or during. To get the death penalty, prosecutors had to prove that Nancy was still alive during the rape. The jury believed the prosecution. Sonny had laughed and joked with the deputies during his confession – saying, “That must have been one helluva an orgasm, huh?” When he realised she had died, he began to chew on
her breasts, mutilating them as he gnawed her nipples and areolas away. Covered with her blood, he dragged her out into the woods and hid her body in a brush-pile. On the way back to his truck he jumped in the Big Slough to wash up before going home to finish another batch of meth.

  Inside the room, the light seemed just bright enough to see with a squint. Although the curtains behind the glass were closed, Wilson could see the bright lights on the other side. Beaver Howell sat on the right of the room up on the front row. Cora Howell, Beaver’s wife and Sonny’s mother, had died of breast cancer three years before Sonny started cooking meth. Beaver told Wilson at the trial he understood now why God had called her home.

  Beaver sat alone.

  Two rows behind him sat three men in khaki slacks with briefcases and legal pads. Wilson assumed they were Beaver’s attorneys, or reporters. He didn’t recognize any of them. The trial attorneys had long since been replaced with attorneys who dedicated their lives to battling the death penalty. Wilson knew that a last ditch attempt was being made at that moment to stop the execution based upon new evidence regarding Wilson’s beating of Sonny Howell.

  On the first row of the left hand side sat Frank and Ellen Davis. Mr Davis wore jeans and a red flannel shirt. Mrs Davis wore black from head to toe. They sat with Mooney Marrs, the preacher from the church in Delbert, and Money’s wife, Delilah. Mooney held his Bible and squirmed. Occasionally he could be heard to pray under his breath, or quietly say “Hallelujah,” or “Thank-you, Jesus,” like he was in church on Sunday morning waiting for the crowd to arrive.

  Wilson could think of no reason to be thanking Jesus right now. He’d lost his own daughter in a freak accident when his gun went off at his home, and he knew what Frank and Ellen Davis were going through. At least they could sit on this side of the chamber and hate the man on the other side for robbing them of their daughter. When Wilson tried to look through the glass, his reflection stared back at him, reminding him that the man who took his daughter’s life had never faced justice. After all the investigations had concluded, the death of Wilson’s daughter was ruled an accident. That only cleared him of any criminal charges. But even worse would be sitting with Beaver Howell as the state took the life of your only son while you watched, helpless to save the boy you had raised to a man.