“Of torture like this?”
“The psychopathy.”
“Come, Detective, you know the answer as well as I.” The ME showed his pale, pink palms. “There are some killers we’ll never understand, even after trial and conviction and years of study. You won’t hear this term in clinical circles, but people like that are born wrong. We both know the names. We’ve read the cases. Perhaps one day we’ll understand that level of innate psychopathy, but right now, we don’t.”
“What about those who aren’t … born wrong?”
The ME rolled his shoulders. “Something in life makes them that way. Childhood trauma, abuse.”
“And if it’s not related to childhood?”
“Something violent, then. Something big.”
“Like war?”
“That depends on the person and the war.”
“A bad war. My son.”
“Ah, now I see.” The ME sipped his coffee, very intent. “How long did Jason serve?”
“A bit less than three full tours.”
“Was he physically injured?”
“Burned, shot, and stabbed.”
“Did he kill men in return?”
“Twenty-nine, at least. Would that be enough to change him, to make him capable?”
“Of murder like this?” The ME leaned back, and showed the same pink palms.
Maybe he had no answer to give.
Maybe none was needed.
* * *
Court opened at nine, and I was there early, watching from across the street. My father would use the secure entrance in the rear, but I wasn’t taking chances.
If he saw me, he’d stop me.
Leaning against a light pole, I tried to sort the people into groups. The lawyers were easy. They carried briefcases and files, and huddled with people that looked like clients. I knew enough about court to know they weren’t the killers or the rapists—they’d come later, shackled and under guard. What troubled me were the reporters. They stood by a line of news trucks, and I knew they were here for my brother. Details of Tyra’s death remained thin, but the rest of it made a hell of a story. Bikers. Guns. A cop’s kid.
“Jeez, look at these people.”
I turned at the voice, and found Chance at my right shoulder. “Why do you always sneak up on me like that?”
“Because you make it so easy.” He leaned against the other side of the pole, dipping his head at the crowd. “Those are people you never want to see late at night or moving in next door. Jesus. Look at them.” He pointed toward the crowd. “Hey, we know those guys.”
He meant the last group, and one I’d tried hardest to ignore: mothers, fathers, people who knew my family. “Moral support, I guess.”
“Don’t believe it for a second. They’re here for the show. Look at that one. He’s laughing. Fat bastard just told a joke.”
I watched the big man shake. He’d been my football coach in sixth grade.
“They’re opening the doors. Let’s go.”
Chance pulled me across the street, and we followed the crowd through double doors and into a long hall. I counted eight courtrooms. Almost everyone made their way to number six. I looked for my father, but didn’t see him.
“There, that’s a good spot.” Chance pointed at a crowded bench near the front. We took seats on the aisle, and I wondered if this was the same courtroom where Jason had made his plea and been sent away. I thought it was. It felt the same.
After a few minutes, an armed bailiff led the judge into the room, waiting for him to ascend the bench, then calling court to order. “All rise.” People stood, and then sat, and I thought how like church it was, the same rustle and sigh, the roomful of sinners staring up.
“Good morning.” The judge settled like a king on his throne. “We have a lot of cases on the docket, so I’ll try to move things along as quickly as possible. Bailiff.” He gestured, and a second bailiff unlocked a door so other armed men could bring out the prisoners slated to face the most serious charges of the day. A line of them emerged, all in orange jumpsuits, all cuffed. Jason was the last out and the only one in full chains.
“There’s your old man.”
Chance nudged me, and I saw my father beyond the bar in the left corner, talking with an older man. The lawyer, I thought.
“Madam Clerk, call the first case.”
A woman to the judge’s left read from the docket. “Case number 72 CR 1402, State v. Jason French.”
A bailiff led my brother to the defense table, and the attorney left my father’s side to meet him there. “Good morning, Your Honor. Alexander Fitch, for the defense.”
“Mr. Fitch, nice to see you in my court.” The judge glanced at the prosecutor’s table. “Is the State ready to proceed?”
A young woman stood, but before she could reply, a small man rose from a nearby bench. “Brian Gladwell for the State, Your Honor.”
He moved behind the prosecutor’s table, and the judge frowned, perplexed. “Not that you are unwelcome in this court, but we rarely have the pleasure of the district attorney himself on matters as perfunctory as a first appearance.”
“I have my reasons, Your Honor.”
“The privilege is yours. Madam Clerk.”
The clerk read the charges. I missed a few, but the big ones stood out. Attempted murder in the second degree, felony weapons trafficking, felony fleeing to elude arrest, felonious assault, assault with intent …
She kept going, but I kept my eyes on the DA. Fine lines creased the side of his neck, but that’s not what I noticed first.
He was sweating.
He was pale.
When the clerk finished, the judge addressed Jason’s attorney. “Mr. Fitch, how does your client plead?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
“Preferences for probable cause?”
“Only that you schedule the hearing as soon as convenient for the court. We intend to refute these charges and would like to do so at the earliest possible time.”
“Mr. DA?”
“We anticipate further charges, Your Honor. As much time as you can give us would be welcome.”
The judge drummed his fingers. He knew about Tyra Norris. Everyone did. “What kind of charges might you bring in the future?”
“Felony kidnapping. Murder in the first degree. The investigation is ongoing.”
The crowd around us stirred, the sound like a rustle of feathers. The judge consulted his calendar, and offered a date fourteen days in the future. “I assume that’s acceptable to all parties.”
“There’s one last thing, Your Honor.”
“Mr. DA?”
The district attorney cleared his throat and, for an instant, glanced at someone in the courtroom. “Ah, Your Honor…” He cleared his throat again; shuffled some papers on the table. “The State requests that the defendant be remanded to the authorities at Lanesworth Prison.”
The judge was clearly puzzled. “On what grounds?”
“Ah, safekeeping, Your Honor. After consultation with authorities at the local jail.”
“In my experience, Mr. DA, safekeeping orders are for defendants too sickly or frail to manage outside the types of medical facilities available at fully staffed and funded state institutions. Are you suggesting that Mr. French is too unwell to survive two weeks at the local jail?”