Crime After Crime Read online

  Both sides of the aisle hated Wilson Underwood. Wilson knew how they felt. Beaver Howell believed Wilson had done his job in investigating and accumulating evidence, but the old man had sworn to take revenge on him as soon as he no longer hid behind his “Tin-badge of courage.” Sonny had exaggerated the beating he’d received from Wilson. Although the jury believed the doctor’s testimony that the cuts on Sonny’s legs were self-inflicted, Beaver Howell believed his son.

  For Frank and Ellen Davis, a guilty conviction and a death sentence weren’t enough. They wanted the world to know that this man had mutilated the body of their beautiful daughter. They had also lived with the fear that at any time an appellate court could throw out the conviction because of the way Wilson had handled the investigation.

  The loudspeakers in the corner of the witness chamber hovered over the room like an axe about to fall. News of a stay of execution would be announced over those speakers and would enrage one side of the room – and elate the other. But that would be none of Wilson’s concern today. Outside of Jester County he had no legal authority. He wore pressed jeans and a white shirt like always, but no badge was visible. Wilson was present as an obligation to the citizens of Jester County to see this case to its final conclusion. He took a seat in the back row and tried to shrivel away into the dim light, hoping his presence would not be noticed by anyone.

  * * *

  At the trial, Sonny Howell claimed Wilson had beaten him and threatened to cut off his testicles for talking about the shooting death of the sheriff’s daughter. Wilson truthfully denied that he threatened to cut Sonny’s balls off. The sheriff testified the cuts and bruises on Sonny’s back and legs were the defendant’s own masterwork, a result of a psychological disorder that caused the defendant to cut himself. The state psychiatrist said cutting and mutilation were common among methamphetamine addicts, and the defendant’s confession that he mutilated the body of his victim proved those tendencies. The judge allowed the confession given to Bishop and Witt, but refused to allow any evidence from the autopsy of the mutilated body, including any pictures of the body or physical evidence of the rape and mutilation of the corpse, ruling that the discovery of the body was the result of abuse administered by the sheriff while alone with the prisoner in the woods. The jury still convicted Sonny Howell of rape and capital murder and recommended the death penalty. The judge followed the jury’s recommendation.

  Now after thirteen years of appeals and coroner’s inquests, public and political scrutiny, FBI and State Police investigations, and a civil rights lawsuit subsequently dismissed when he found jailhouse religion, Sonny Howell was about to die.

  * * *

  The curtains opened and two prison guards rolled a gurney into the death chamber. Sonny lay strapped onto his final resting place. He raised his head and looked at the glass and squinted against the glare of the reflected light. Wilson knew he searched for his father and could tell the moment the man finally saw Beaver – Sonny’s face beamed with a smile. Now standing, Beaver held his hand out to his son, the palm open, the fingers extended and spread like a five-year-old about to draw a turkey.

  “I’m here son. I’m here for you. Can you see me? I’m right here.” Beaver ran an unsteady hand through the thinning hair on top of his head. He leaned and reached as if to touch the glass, and a guard, standing at the front of the room admonished him and asked him to please sit down. Wilson hadn’t noticed the guards and didn’t know if they had come in with the gurney or been there all along. Beaver stepped back from the window, but did not sit down.

  Two more white-robed technicians entered the room and began to work over the prisoner. They pulled back the sleeves on his arms and searched for a vein. With rubber gloves on their hands and emotionless precision, they worked quickly and efficiently, as if they had other places they wanted to be – like a mailman moving on to the next box. In spite of his revulsion at what he watched, Wilson found himself leaning forward, stretching his neck in an effort to see.

  The technicians dabbed white cotton balls with alcohol and swabbed the spots on both arms where the IV needles were to be inserted. Wilson nearly choked as he thought of the irony, and the noise brought the attention of the room to him for just a moment.

  “Excuse me,” he said. As if on cue, all eyes returned to the glass at the front of the room.

  After swabbing the arms, they removed the plastic from the sterile needles of the IV tubes. With military precision, they inserted a needle into each arm. Sonny’s face reflected the sting, and Beaver sighed and ran his hand through his hair again. They replaced the straps around his arms; then left the room without so much as acknowledging the presence of the prisoner they had just rigged to die.

  Over the speakers mounted in the corners, the warden read the death warrant. The prisoner was asked if he had any final words. A guard stepped forward and held a microphone for Sonny to speak into.

  “I’ve had years now to think what I would say when this time came. I can’t see anyone but you, Daddy. It sure is nice to see you. I’ll see you again in Heaven. You’ll be young again next time I see ya. I been baptized, and I am right with my maker. I go to a better place. Don’t cry, Daddy. They don’t realise they send me to paradise. This is so much better than rotting in a cell till I die. Mr and Miss Davis, I don’t see you, but I know you’re there. I feel your hatred. I am sorry for what happened. Please find a way to forgive me, because without your forgiveness, I will have the blood of your souls on my hands too—”

  “Excuse me, but I must interrupt this proceeding.” The warden’s voice echoed off the block walls. “The United States Supreme Court has issued an emergency temporary stay of execution while they examine a final appeal for the defendant.”

  The room that had felt so small and cramped earlier now seemed large and empty, with nothing but the void of silence filling the space. Wilson sat with his head down. He didn’t understand what had happened or what was going on, but he knew he was to blame. The voice came over the speaker again.

  “This is a temporary stay. The prisoner will remain hooked to the IVs. The Court will issue a decision in just a few minutes. At that point, the execution will go forward, or the prisoner will return to his cell pending further court action. Please, remain calm and in your seats. Anyone creating a disturbance or harassing anyone in the witness room will be arrested and removed from the chamber. We will notify you immediately when we receive instruction from the court.”

  On the left-hand side of the room the witnesses reacted with rage. Ellen Davis cried and leaned on her husband’s shoulder. Wilson could hear her sobs.

  “This will never end. Why can’t we get justice? Let’s pray. Please, let’s pray.”

  “Hallelujah. Let’s seek God’s will and mercy right now. Every one kneel at your chairs and go to the Lord in prayer,” said Mooney Marrs. They all shifted and knelt but Frank Davis, who rose from his seat and walked to the back of the room, and Delilah, who sat stone-faced in her chair next to her kneeling husband. Frank Davis stopped in front of Wilson.

  “If his execution is stayed, it will be no one’s fault but yours. I don’t understand how God works. It makes no sense to me. My daughter and your daughter are gone, but your worthless ass and that sorry piece of shit up there on that gurney are still here.”

  Wilson looked up at Mr Davis.

  “I promise, Frank, I don’t understand it either.”

  A prison guard stepped forward.

  “Return to your seat, Mr Davis, and be quiet, or I will remove you from the chamber.”

  Frank looked at the guard and then back at Wilson. “It doesn’t matter. They’re not gonna execute him today.” Then the man turned and walked back to his wife.

  As he scanned the room, Wilson missed Beaver Howell. Then he spied the bald head of the old man. Beaver had fallen to his knees, and as tears ran down his cheeks, he prayed to the same God that the people across the aisle prayed to, asking that same God for the opposite of what they sought. W
ilson sat in the back, alone, and thought of what he had done that day on the banks of the Big Slough. He should have waited for the cadaver dog. The dog would have found Nancy’s body, although they would have been there late into the night. Now all of these people had fallen to their knees to pray, and the man on the gurney with the needles in his arms waited to have his life extended or exterminated by a panel of judges he had never met and would never know; a panel of judges who would rule on Wilson’s actions, a man they had never met and would never know. What he did wasn’t right, but he’d done his job; he’d solved the crime. He’d brought the decomposing body of Nancy Davis home so the family could put it to rest and begin their grieving process. And still he ended as the scorn of everyone involved. Standing up, Wilson walked to the back of the room.

  To a guard he said, “Is there a bathroom? I’m sick.”

  “Through that door, sir.”

  Wilson walked in and knelt in front of the toilet. The one-piece stainless steel seat looked clean enough to eat off. He couldn’t keep the toilets at the county jail that clean. Then he emptied his stomach. After retching and convulsing, he composed himself and stood. Turning the water on at the stainless steel sink, he cupped his palm under the faucet and drank from his hand. After he rinsed his mouth and quenched his thirst, he opened the door to leave the room.

  As he walked into the chamber, Wilson saw Beaver Howell walking toward him.

  Beaver wasn’t much older than Wilson, but today he looked old. His white hair looked like new silk at the end of an ear of corn and barely covered the crown of his head. The man was short, but stocky and powerful. Beaver had spoken in anger when he threatened Wilson, but the sheriff knew the old man as a true man of God, one who practiced what he preached and lived a good life, planting and harvesting three thousand acres of rice, corn and beans with a dozen hired hands he cared for as if they were his own.

  Beaver walked up to him and stopped.

  “I want to hate you so bad. I know what you did. But I also know what you could have done. Sonny told me last week that you were right. That he had forgiven you. He asked me to forgive you, too. I can’t kneel and ask my saviour to spare my son’s life while holding this hatred for you. So I am sorry for speaking to you in anger. And whether he lives or dies today, I will not confront you. But I will never support you for sheriff again.”

  “I understand they finally cleared you of blame in your daughter’s shooting,” Beaver said.

  Wilson nodded his head in a slow, exaggerated manner and said nothing. His stomach churned, and he feared the small amount of water he’d swallowed would come up if he opened his mouth.

  “That wasn’t your fault. I have remembered you in my prayers.”

  “Thank you, Beaver. God bless you,” Wilson said.

  Beaver returned to his seat. Wilson thought of Beaver looking at the boy for the first time, years ago in a hospital room through a glass window in a nursery. At one moment a father marvels at the life to be lived by the child beyond the glass, at the other, a father could only think of the eternity that waits the closing of the curtain.

  A squawk broke the tension in the room. The warden spoke again.

  “The Supreme Court has refused to hear the appeal. The temporary stay of execution is overruled.”

  The warden once again read the death warrant. But Wilson did not hear the words. He watched the shoulders of Beaver Howell, shaking as he cried and prayed for his son.

  Wilson knew a technician would push a plunger releasing into the IV a solution that caused the prisoner to lose consciousness. Then another drug that paralysed the lungs would be thrown into the mix. The crowd watched in silence interrupted only by the sobs of Beaver Howell and Ellen Davis.

  Sonny’s eyes had been closed for several minutes when his fingers twitched. Wilson thought of the hand of his daughter as he had burst into her room after his gun had exploded – her fingers extended as if she waited for someone to read her future in her palm. He remembered the severed hand of Earl Montgomery that he’d found up under the train the day Earl was run over and pulled along under the wheels of the freight cars. He looked at his own hands, big and calloused, scarred from years of abuse.

  Eventually a doctor walked into the room. He listened to Sonny’s heart through a stethoscope, and then peeled back each eyelid to look at the prisoner’s eyes. He scribbled for a few moments on his pad, then spoke.

  “The time of death of Inmate Sonny Howell is 12:51 A.M.”

  Then the curtains slowly closed.

  The quiet of the moment felt like a heavy dew, drenching Wilson. With all emotions spent, everyone stood and stumbled toward the middle of the room to leave. Wilson heard Beaver talking to a guard about having the body picked up and brought back to Delbert for burial. That made sense. The state wouldn’t want to pay for burying a prisoner. Wilson wondered if Beaver would use Mooney’s church for the service. It was the only church in town, unless he went to Success, or used Lamm’s Chapel, a small church with a cemetery out on the edge of the Hatchie Coon Bottoms. Somehow Wilson could not see Beaver going to the Reverend Mooney Marrs and asking him to do the service after Mooney had stood with the Davis family.

  With Frank and Ellen Davis by his side, Mooney eased out the door. Delilah smiled politely at the sheriff as she walked by. Wilson walked out the door behind all of the others. He lit a cigarette, nearly dropping it in his haste. His truck sat at the far end of the parking lot. The cigarette had burned down to the filter by the time he opened the door to get in, so he stood outside the door and lit another one. Prince Albert was better, but he’d bought a pack of rolled cigarettes on his way down, afraid his hands might give away his nervousness as he tried to roll a smoke.

  The late November sky had cleared. Breathing produced a misty cloud of vapour. There was no moon, and he searched for the Big Dipper and Orion’s Belt. He remembered watching a meteor shower recently at Delbert. As he stood and looked at the stars, he wondered what happened when we die. Do we achieve all knowledge of things of heaven and earth? What would it be like to know all of physics, to see the galaxies and stars and know their names, to understand the biochemistry that makes the human body so complex; the minerals that help us to live, and the compounds that cause us to die? He wondered if his daughter had experienced all of this when she died in his arms. He wondered what it would be like to finally close his eyes and stop breathing. Would he open them again in another world? Would she be waiting there for him, to forgive him for the accident that took her life? Did Nancy Davis wait for Sonny Howell? Or would Sonny’s mother greet him?

  Wilson threw the butt of his cigarette onto the pavement and got in his truck. Four hours of highway separated him from home, and he wanted to get some sleep before he patrolled that evening. Shivering against the cold, he turned up the heat. As he pulled through the gate, he saw protesters standing and holding their signs. Every time an execution occurred, they appeared from nowhere – from everywhere. Wilson was surprised there weren’t more. They stood and held signs that read “Stop Allowing the State to Murder our Citizens,” and “Only God can take a Life.” They held candles and stood in circles with bowed heads. Wilson assumed they prayed. Everyone seemed to be praying.

  ~~~~~~~~

  About the author

  CD Mitchell lives in Lafe, Arkansas, in the southern region of the United States, where he raises a flock of chickens. He has an MFA with concentrations in fiction and creative nonfiction. His work appears in many national and international literary journals, and has been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize. He has been an attorney, a tracklayer and bridgman for the Union Pacific and Southern Pacific Railroads, competed in Memphis in May preliminary BarBQ competitions, owned his own construction company, and worked on the locks and dams of the Arkansas River from Toad Suck to Ozark. He was 45-5 with 38 knockouts as a professional boxer, and although he has been a pallbearer and a groom four different times, he has never been a best man in a wedding. CD currently teaches at Ar
kansas Northeastern College in Blytheville, Arkansas. He is continuing work on several collaborative projects with the Chicago photographer Jennifer Moore. CD Mitchell’s website is www.cdmitchell.net and can best be accessed using Mozilla, or anything but Explorer. Email is [email protected]. He is seeking a publisher for a novel in stories and a memoir.