The Confession (40 page)

He was on display in the main parlor, his casket open and draped with flowers. His senior class photo had been enlarged and sat on a tripod at the foot of his casket—an eighteen-year-old in a coat and tie, a handsome face. The portrait had been taken a month before he was arrested. He was smiling, still dreaming of playing football. His eyes were full of expectation and ambition.

His family stood near the casket, where they had been for the past hour, touching him, weeping, trying to be strong for their guests.

———

At the campsite, Robbie described the scene to Carlos and the others. Bryan Day wanted to get to the grave immediately and record everything before the police arrived, but Robbie wasn’t so sure. They argued, though both knew Robbie would make the decision. Fred Pryor was on his cell phone trying to locate the sheriff of Newton County. Martha Handler was talking to Aaron on her cell phone and taking notes. Suddenly there was a shriek, an anguished cry, as Boyette fell to the ground and began trembling violently. Keith knelt over him, and the others gathered to watch helplessly. Quizzical looks were exchanged. After a minute or so, the seizure seemed to pass, and the shaking and jerking subsided. Boyette clutched his head and whimpered in pain. Then he seemed to die. His body went limp and was perfectly still. Keith waited, then touched his shoulder and said, “Hey, Travis, can you hear me?” Evidently, Travis could not; there was no response.

Keith stood and said, “He usually blacks out for a few minutes.”

“Let’s put him out of his misery,” Robbie said. “One quick pop to the head. There’s a grave not far from here that’s about to be empty.”

“Come on, Robbie,” Keith said.

The others seemed to like Robbie’s idea. They backed away and were soon occupied with other matters. Five minutes passed. Boyette had not moved. Keith knelt down and checked his pulse. It was steady but faint. A few minutes later, Keith said, “Robbie, I think this is serious. He’s unconscious.”

“I’m not a brain surgeon, Keith. What do you want me to do?”

“He needs attention.”

“He needs a funeral, Keith. Why don’t you take him back to Kansas and bury him?”

Keith stood and walked a few steps to where Robbie was standing. He said, “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”

“I’m sorry, Keith. There’s a lot happening right now, in case you haven’t noticed. Boyette’s health is not one of my priorities.”

“We can’t just let him die out here.”

“Why not? He’s practically dead anyway, right?”

Boyette grunted, then shook from head to toe, as if an aftershock were rumbling through. Then he was still again.

Keith swallowed hard and said, “He needs a doctor.”

“Great. Go find one.”

Minutes dragged by, and Boyette was not responsive. The others didn’t care, and Keith almost persuaded himself to get in his car and leave, alone. But he could not bring himself to ignore a dying man. The security guard helped Keith load Boyette into the rear seat of the Subaru. Fred Pryor walked from the direction of the creek and said, “That was the sheriff. I finally got him, finally convinced him that we’re for real, and that we’ve found a dead body in his jurisdiction. He’s on his way.”

As Keith was opening his car door, Robbie approached him and said, “Call me when you get to a hospital, and keep an eye on Boyette. I’m sure the authorities here will want to talk to him. There’s no open investigation at this point, but that could change quickly, especially if Boyette admits he killed the girl in this state.”

“His pulse is almost gone,” the security guard reported from the rear seat.

“I’m not planning on standing guard, Robbie,” Keith said. “I’m done. I’m outta here. I’ll drop him off at a hospital, God knows where, and then hustle back to Kansas.”

“You have our cell numbers. Just keep us posted. As soon as the sheriff sees the grave, I’m sure he’ll send someone to see Boyette.”

The two shook hands, not sure if they would see each other again. Death binds people in odd ways, and they felt as though they had known each other for years.

As the Subaru disappeared into the woods, Robbie checked his watch. It had taken about six hours to drive from Slone and find the body. If Travis Boyette had not delayed, Donté Drumm would be alive and on his way to a quick exoneration. He spat on the ground and quietly wished Boyette a slow and painful death.

———

During the forty-five-minute drive from the campsite, complete with at least four stops to ask for directions, Boyette had not moved and had not uttered a sound. He still appeared to be dead. At the emergency room entrance, Keith told a doctor about Boyette’s tumor, but little else. The doctor was curious as to why a minister from Kansas was traveling through Joplin with a gravely ill man who was neither a relative nor a member of his congregation. Keith assured him it was a very long story, one he would happily tell when they had the time. Both knew they would never have the time and the story would never be told. They placed Boyette on a stretcher, with his cane, and rolled him down the hall for examination. Keith watched him disappear behind swinging doors and found a seat in the waiting area. He called Dana to check in. His wife had received his updates with a growing sense of disbelief, one shocker after another, and she seemed to be numb to anything new. Fine, Keith. Yes, Keith. Sure, Keith. Please come home, Keith.

He called Robbie and told him where they were at that moment. Boyette was alive and being examined. Robbie was still waiting for the sheriff to arrive at the site. He was anxious to hand over the crime scene to the professionals, though he knew that would take time.

Keith called Matthew Burns, and when Matthew answered, Keith began with a happy “Well, good morning, Matt. I’m now in Missouri, where an hour ago we opened the grave and saw the remains of Nicole Yarber. Top that for a Friday morning.”

“So what else is new? What did she look like?”

“All bones. Positive ID, though. Boyette is telling the truth. They executed the wrong man. It’s unbelievable, Matt.”

“When are you coming home?”

“I’ll be there for dinner. Dana’s freaking out, so I won’t be long.”

“We need to meet first thing in the morning. I’ve watched the coverage nonstop, and there hasn’t been a word about you. Maybe you’ve slid under the radar. We gotta talk. Where’s Boyette?”

“In a hospital in Joplin, dying, I think. I’m with him.”

“Leave him, Keith. Maybe he’ll die. Let someone else worry about him. Just get in your car and haul ass.”

“That’s my plan. I’ll hang around here until I hear something, then I’m on the road. Kansas is just minutes away.”

An hour passed. Robbie called Keith with the news that the sheriff had arrived and Roop’s Mountain was now crawling with police. Two state policemen were on their way to the hospital to secure Mr. Boyette. Keith agreed to wait for them, then he was leaving.

“Thanks, Keith, for everything,” Robbie said.

“It wasn’t enough.”

“No, but what you did took courage. You tried. That’s all you could do.”

“Let’s keep in touch.”

The state troopers, Weshler and Giles, were both sergeants, and after terse introductions they asked Keith if he would fill in some gaps. Sure, why not, what else was there to do in an ER waiting room? It was almost 1:00 p.m., and they bought sandwiches from a machine and found a table. Giles took notes, and Weshler handled most of the questions. Keith began with Monday morning and hit the high points of this rather unusual week. As he told his story, they seemed to doubt him at times. They had not been following the Drumm case, but when Boyette
went public with his claim of guilt, and mentioned the body being buried near Joplin, phones started ringing. They tuned in, and they had seen Boyette’s face and performance several times. Now that a body had been found, they were smack in the middle of a growing story.

A doctor interrupted them. He explained that Boyette was stable and resting. His vital signs were near normal. They had X-rayed his head and confirmed the presence of an egg-size tumor. The hospital needed to contact a family member, and Keith tried to describe what little he knew about Boyette’s relatives. “There’s a brother in prison in Illinois, that’s all I know,” Keith said.

“Well,” the doctor said, scratching his jaw, “how long do you want us to keep him?”

“How long should he be kept?”

“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.

R
obbie 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.”