Benefit of the Doubt: A Novel (35 page)

“Lipinski burned the grow and arrested Harlan for murder. The boy said he’d take his chances on a trial. But when Lipinski threatened to charge the old man in federal court with drug manufacturing, cultivation, distribution…” Ben heard pity in Jamison’s voice.

“Suffice it to say the old man would’ve died in prison. Harlan took a plea, got twenty-five to life.”

“And Jedidiah?”

“Sold off most of the homestead trying to buy off Lipinski. Trying to get his boy an early out. Tried up until the day he died. Here in this cabin.”

Ben studied the face that remained a shadowy outline. “So what about Lipinski?”

The sheriff laughed. The force of it shifted the light to the ceiling for a moment, allowing Ben his first good look at the man. “He got himself arrested. Just like Petite. Turns out he was a freak for kiddie porn.”

It struck Ben as interesting the sheriff didn’t know of Lipinski’s alleged suicide.

“Wasn’t there some guy down in Danville?” Ben asked. “Named Donaldson?”

“Yeah. If memory serves, Donaldson was the snitch who claimed Harlan confessed to the killing while they were locked up together. It was just more bullshit the cops came up with to make sure Harlan didn’t weasel out from under the murder rap.

“So you say your wife is hooked up for a killing down in Newberg. Is she related to that lying sack of shit Lars Norgaard? Word is that old bastard stroked out.”

“Mind if I stand up, Sheriff?” Ben asked, stroking the back of his swollen scalp.

The voice came out of the light smooth as polished metal. “Why not? Nobody here but us cops.”

Ben stood, wavering on his feet, and reached for a heavy wooden chair to steady himself. “Whew. Feels like I’ve been run over by a truck. Talk about your crooked cops, I didn’t even tell you about the run-in I had with a Wisconsin state trooper. I tell you, Sheriff, it’s been a hell of a day.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet.” Jamison’s voice tightened. “Tell me, Sawyer. What led you to Harlan? How’d you figure he was good for all this?”

Ben’s pulse picked up; he let adrenaline flood his body but took measures to give no outward signs. He allowed himself one last look at the body laid out nearby, not surprised to see that the man who had been identified as Harlan Lee, wore green uniform trousers and an unbuttoned flannel shirt.

“Funny how that came about, Sheriff,” he said, then dropped his voice and added, “Guess I’d better sit down. Still feeling a little groggy.”

He pulled on the chair as if to sit, then swung it into the light.

Gun and light both fell to the ground. Ben heard the glass bulb break. Blackness swallowed the room so suddenly that Ben felt a wave of vertigo and tilted on his feet. The other man was unaffected and leaped onto Ben, propelling him into the sharp corner of a beam. Hot pain shot through his body and he would have fallen if not for the other man’s boxer’s grasp.

Ben pushed off and tried to ready himself.

Two stinging blows struck his jaw; a third went to his cheek, and when Ben tried to strike back he caught nothing but black air. A fist smashed his ear, knocking him to his knees. A kick to the side of his head grounded him, and Ben struggled to remain conscious. He made out the shape of a boot coming toward his head. He managed to deflect the blow and heard his opponent hit the ground. Ben was on him in an instant.

Unseen hands and fists smashed hard against his body and head. Ben pressed himself against his opponent’s chest; the awkward angle made the man’s blows glance off and largely ineffective. Ben’s thumb found his opponent’s eye socket and dug in deep. Both the man’s hands grabbed at Ben’s arm, but he managed to push deeper and felt the eye muscle grip and moisten his thumb.

Ben took two more blows to the chin, but he kept working the man’s eye, pushing his thumb deeper. He used his other hand to deliver a blow to his enemy’s mouth, then struck him repeatedly about the face and head. Sure now of their relative positions, Ben used both hands to clamp down on the neck, concentrating on his windpipe. The ridges and the circular muscles were pronounced under the pressure of his grip.

He squeezed harder, compressing it completely. The blows directed at his body and face grew weaker, became nothing more than flaying slaps of a desperate and dying man. This was it. This was his moment. Ben bore down, held tight, and did his best to strangle the life out of Harlan Lee.

FIFTY-NINE

At one minute past eight
A.M.
, McKenzie strode into the county jail intake area. He let his hand drift to his pocket as reassurance. Yep, still there. The handmade shank was fashioned from a toothbrush, tape, and a blade from a discarded box cutter. McKenzie had made it himself and felt proud of the authentic nature of the weapon. The shank, plus the testimony of an inmate who would swear she sold it to Alex Sawyer earlier in the morning, was all McKenzie would need. He just had to be sure to get it deep enough into his gut that everyone would agree he had no other option but to shoot the fleeing murder suspect. It would be one Sawyer down, two to go.

“Open up, turnkey,” McKenzie called out, waving the transport orders he held. “I’m here to drive Sawyer to the courtroom.”

McKenzie recognized Corporal Reynolds when he looked up from his position in the control booth. He’d dealt with him a few times before. Uppity black bastard was his recollection. Word had it he was the one who had arranged for Alex to be placed in protective custody. McKenzie also heard this Reynolds stud was tight with Suarez.
Go figure,
he thought.
Dark meat goes for its own kind, I guess.

“Have a seat, Detective,” he said politely enough. “The prisoner is already being brought to the control booth for transportation.”

“Thank ya, son. I’m much obliged.” McKenzie bowed dramatically and used a southern drawl.

Darnell glared through the Plexiglas. “I said, have a seat.”

A few moments later a uniformed guard emerged with Alex Sawyer handcuffed and in leg irons.

McKenzie looked Alex over with indifference. “You can take off the cuffs. I don’t think Mrs. Sawyer is going to give me any trouble, are you, Alex?”

When she saw McKenzie, Alex stopped walking. “I’ll go you one better, McKenzie. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Corporal Reynolds looked at Alex from the control booth. He picked up a phone and spoke briefly, then turned to McKenzie.

“The cuffs are standard, Detective,” he said. “Inmate Sawyer is to be cuffed at the wrists and leg irons applied anytime she is not in the facility.”

McKenzie snapped, “I know the procedures. I’m just telling you we don’t need the cuffs. Take them off her. Now.”

Corporal Reynolds was calm but firm. “The cuffs stay on, Detective.”

Alex repeated, “I’m not going anywhere with him.” She looked at the man in the control booth. “Corporal Reynolds, I want to see your boss. This man has come to my cell; he’s threatened me. I will not go anywhere alone with him. I refuse.”

“Oh, knock off the drama, Alex,” McKenzie said. He had to get moving. “Fine, I’ll take her cuffed.” He wrapped a hand around Alex’s elbow and pulled her toward the jail exit.

“Please, Darnell. Don’t let him do this,” Alex called as he towed her along.

“Wait a minute, Detective,” Darnell said, but McKenzie ignored him. He struggled toward the exit, the gate begin to slide shut on its metal rails. He tried to make it through the gate before it closed, but Alex dug in, slowing their progress.

“Goddamn it,” McKenzie seethed. He turned and looked through the Plexiglas of the control booth. “Listen here, turnkey. Open that door right now or I’ll have your black ass for lunch.”

“Calm down, Detective. We’ve already made transportation arrangements for the inmate. She will be delivered to the courtroom and released to the bailiff.”

McKenzie growled. “What kind of arrangements?”

Tia Suarez stepped through a door behind the control booth. She walked down into the sally port area, dressed in her Newberg PD uniform. She moved slowly and her face was an expressionless mask, but her tone was pleasant when she said, “How’re you doing, Detective? Long time no see.”

“Suarez?” McKenzie stared. “What the hell are you doing here? You aren’t supposed to be back for months.”

Tia looked at Alex and winked. “I owe it all to my youth and clean living, Doyle. Great recuperative powers.”

McKenzie was unimpressed and highly annoyed. “Yeah, whatever, but you can leave. I’m transporting Sawyer to court.”

Tia stepped between McKenzie and Alex. “No,” she said, “you’re not.”

“Tell you what, Suarez,” McKenzie said. He could see the pain in her eyes and knew she was still in pretty bad shape. “You step aside or I’ll put you aside. I don’t figure you’ll be too hard to handle, now, will you?”

McKenzie looked back at the control booth and shouted, “Open this damn gate, now.” He turned to Tia again and said, “Step aside, Suarez. That’s your last warning.”

McKenzie took a step toward Tia but then saw her face flood with relief as she looked past him and over his shoulder. McKenzie heard a familiar voice from behind, and he turned to look.

“You heard the man, Corporal Reynolds. Open the gate.”

McKenzie looked on in disbelief. Sawyer stood just outside the thick gray bars, three feet in front of him. He was towing a handcuffed prisoner who looked beat to hell, and Plate Boyd was standing alongside. Like the prisoner, Sawyer looked as though he had gone a few rounds. His face was bruised and battered. His nose and jaw were swollen and appeared fractured. Dried blood caked his face and clothes. He looked like hell and yet here he was. McKenzie could only stare ahead, and Ben stared back.

“Thanks, Tia,” Ben said, never taking his eyes off McKenzie. “I’ll take it from here.”

“You got it, Sarge,” Tia said. “Welcome home.”

Ben turned to his wife. “Sorry, Alex, it took a little longer than I thought. I got back as soon as I could.”

McKenzie looked on as Ben and Alex seemed to reconnect. The two exchanged looks of satisfaction, and even McKenzie could feel their affection for one another. Ben looked back to McKenzie.

“Corporal Reynolds. Sergeant Ben Sawyer, Newberg PD, booking a prisoner. Request permission to enter.”

Reynolds hit the control pad and the door began to open. “Permission granted.”

Ben walked in, along with his prisoner and Boyd. McKenzie saw that the man in handcuffs wore the disheveled uniform shirt with a shoulder patch out of Florence County. One eye was screwed tightly shut and his throat bore a savage deep purple bruise. The air about him was that of a proud champion prepared to admit he had been bested. Ben had hold of one arm while Plate Boyd held the other. McKenzie saw that the name plate said “Jamison.” His mind reeled with confusion, but then Ben cleared it all up.

“Corporal Reynolds,” Ben said, “Sergeant Boyd and I are booking Harlan Lee into this facility on multiple charges of homicide and attempted homicide, most notably the murder of Louis Carson and the shooting of Tia Suarez. Other charges are forthcoming.”

Harlan Lee?
McKenzie thought. How is this happening? McKenzie gave a nervous laugh and tried to think his way through the storm descended on him.

“What the hell are you talking about, Sawyer? You come walking in off the street beat to shit, every cop in the state looking for you, acting like you got the authority to book a prisoner on my murder case? We’ve got our killer, Sawyer. Tell him, Plate.”

“It’s over, Doyle.” Plate spoke with a resolute firmness McKenzie hadn’t thought him capable of. “Ben called me on the way down from Florence. Told me everything. You’ve got a lot to answer for.”

McKenzie worked hard to respond calmly. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Is that right?” Plate asked, then went on. “After talking with Ben, I got a little curious about the old booking card somebody left on my desk. I think Chief Jorgensen might have mentioned it to you, didn’t he?”

McKenzie saw a knowing glance pass between the two cops, and he thought back to his meeting with Jorgensen. McKenzie couldn’t keep up with the growing mess, but then Plate made it worse.

“Anyway, it got me to thinking, so I decided to drop in on my old friend Lars Norgaard. It took a while, but we got to communicating.”

McKenzie watched as Plate opened his jacket and pulled a clear plastic bag stamped
EVIDENCE
from his pocket. “I recovered this from under his bed. It’s loaded with pure morphine. Enough to kill a man. Your thumbprint was lifted off the plunger, Doyle. It all fits in pretty well with what Mrs. Erickson was able to tell us. You remember. Your visit to Chief Norgaard’s room?”

McKenzie stared at the syringe. He tried to speak, but his voice faltered. “That? I don’t have any … I don’t know…”

“Save it, McKenzie. You’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder.” The authority in Plate’s voice continued to grow. “Corporal Reynolds, we’ll be booking a second prisoner. And initiate release papers for Mrs. Sawyer. The charges against her are dropped.”

McKenzie watched as Ben passed Harlan off to an arriving deputy in exchange for a handcuff key. Ben’s hands were shaking as he pulled his wife free of McKenzie’s grip. Ben fumbled with the cuffs around her wrists. A moment later her arms were around his neck. He pulled away and dropped to his knees to free her from the leg irons. When Ben got the second iron snapped open, he stared at McKenzie, flinging the chains hard across the floor where they rattled against the bars of a holding cell. McKenzie stared back in stunned silence until Boyd pulled him by the arm.

“Let’s go, Doyle. It’s over. You’re under arrest.”

McKenzie threw an elbow and pulled away from the old man. He bolted toward the still-open door and started thinking of his escape plan. His car was in the lot. He’d have to get to his cash, but then he could disappear easy enough. He took two steps toward the door before an explosion of pain in his leg dropped him to the ground. He screamed in agony and looked up. Darnell Reynolds stood over him still clutching his police baton.

“Not so fast,
Detective.
We’ve got a cell that just came available in the isolation wing. You should be very comfortable.”