The Edge of Justice (26 page)

I hiss at Clayton, “I signed that two years before my brother was convicted!”

Clayton repeats it to the judge, “He signed that two years before my, excuse me, his brother was convicted, your honor.”

The judge sighs and shakes his head at both attorneys. Then he speaks to Cash.

“Do you think you're going to have a Perry Mason moment as you cross-examine Mr. Burns? Do you think you're a brilliant enough interrogator that you'll break him up there on the stand? Mr. Burns doesn't look like he breaks easy, Counselor. Look at those bruises on his face—it appears somebody may have already tried that and failed. Now I know that you have a reputation as a hotshot litigator, although I've yet to see why, but I don't think anyone's that good except on TV. I'm tempted to find for the defense right now that there's no genuine issue of material fact. If I were you, I'd be talking settlement with Mr. Wells here.”

Both the attorneys' confidence has turned around 180 degrees. Cash is red-faced and looks ill, although I know it won't last. Attorneys like him are shameless. Clayton Wells, on the other hand, is positively beaming. Hubris, I think. But for a moment even I'm hopeful. Then I wince when the judge turns his penetrating stare toward the defendant's table.

“Don't look so pleased, Mr. Wells. If a jury somehow were to believe Mr. Cash's witnesses, you could be in for the biggest wrongful death verdict in the history of Wyoming.” I see Clayton visibly swallow. “And I can assure you, Counselor, that a verdict like that wouldn't look very good on your résumé. I suggest that you make Mr. Cash a generous offer. I'm going to recess for ten minutes. I expect that the two of you will have worked this out by then.”

Fifteen minutes later Clayton comes out from a conference room alone. His face is whiter than normal, his skin glossy with sweat. He sits down at the table next to me and looks as though he might cry.

“I thought we had it,” he says to me.

McGee had pulled off his oxygen mask when Clayton first sat down. He growls, “What the fuck happened?”

“I offered them everything, fifty grand per family, the maximum I was authorized to offer. Cash said he'd take it. I called the office to get the approval and was connected through to the Attorney General himself—the man's never said a word to me before. He said there's to be no offer. None. He said he wants it to go to trial; he wants you, Agent Burns, ‘to sweat it out.' ”

Only rarely have I heard anything like the haranguing the judge gives Clayton in chambers when Cash indignantly tells the judge his previous settlement offer has been revoked. It reminds me of the times my brother and I bicycled around the bases on which my father was stationed and listened to the drill sergeants abuse the new recruits. I feel truly sorry for my attorney. He has been pulled into a game that he was never schooled in, a game he doesn't even want to play. My pity is so great that I risk interrupting the judge to say just that.

Upton angrily demands to know what I mean.

McGee, who had hobbled into the judge's chambers after us clutching his oxygen bottle, answers for me. “There's a pissing contest going on,” he rasps, “between Burns and the AG . . . about a case he's investigating . . . in Laramie.”

The judge slams his massive hand on the desk and says to us all, “Then you tell the Attorney General to come across the street and see me. I want to hear from him by tomorrow afternoon. That's an order. I'm not going to be wasting my time and the taxpayers' on a case that's tried out of spite.”

I wish I could be there to see the AG get reamed by the angry judge.

Back out in the judge's private hallway Morris Cash is lurking as I somewhat impatiently wait for McGee, who's a friend of the judge. I'm anxious to get back to Laramie and back to work. I intend to have an arrest warrant for Heller and Brad Karge drawn up within two hours.

Cash sticks out his hand and grins at me, but I ignore both the hand and the smile. He should never have brought my brother into it and he knows it.

“C'mon, Agent Burns,” he says plaintively. “I got to do my job. Anyway, you got trouble with the office, you call me. We'll sue the shit out of them together.”

I intend to respond with a simple “Fuck you,” but the words don't leave my lips. Out of the corner of my eye I see McGee down the hall arguing hotly with someone in a suit. He looks as furious as I've ever seen him. McGee has both hands on the head of his cane, which is shaking like a rattlesnake's tail. His face is again a pasty white above his beard. The quiet force of the words he's speaking sends a spray of spittle into the air. I don't immediately recognize the man in the suit he's speaking to, but know he's familiar. Then it comes to me—he's the Assistant Attorney General, the office's second-in-command. He's also my boss's boss.

I walk away from Cash and toward the two.

The Assistant AG, seeing me, says somewhat nastily, “Ah, Mr. Burns. Just the man I've been looking for.” Anyone in McGee's clique is automatically suspect in the administration's eyes.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“You can start by giving me your badge. I have the unfortunate duty of informing you that as of now you're officially suspended, pending the filing of criminal charges for the deaths of Dominic Torres and two others.”

I look to McGee in outrage. But he's staring fixedly at the Assistant's chest, his lips white, his cane beginning to whirl in ever-larger circles beneath his weight. His mouth is open but he has stopped breathing. Then he teeters to one side and starts to collapse.

“Ross!” I lunge toward him and catch his head and shoulders before they hit the ground.

“Get an ambulance!” I shout at the Assistant AG. He's standing frozen a little ways away from us, having taken several involuntary steps back. “Do it now!” I yell again to break his trance.

He comes to his senses and turns to go for a phone. As he turns away from us I swear I see him smile.

TWENTY-SEVEN

E
ARLY THAT EVENING
I park my truck up high on the prairie. Although the road is paved, it's about the loneliest road I have ever come across. It leads from Laramie in a northeastern direction, angling toward the rocky hills that are the northern relatives of Vedauwoo. A few minutes before, I drove the road all the way to where it turned to dirt, twenty miles outside of town, up at the far end of a shallow limestone gorge called Roger's Canyon. Then I turned around and drove halfway back to this wide shoulder on the plain just before the canyon's entrance. Other than my Land Cruiser, the only traffic the road receives is quick crossings by a small herd of antelope and two jackrabbits.

NPR's
All Things Considered
is on the radio. There's a report from Laramie on the national program, mentioning that tomorrow the Knapp brothers will be sentenced for the sensational race-bias murder of University of Wyoming student Kimberly Lee. The death penalty is anticipated. And there's a brief mention about County Attorney Nathan Karge and how he's expected to assume the office of Wyoming governor immediately after the election, just weeks away now. The current governor, the announcer states, does not intend to remain in office during the traditional lame-duck period. I grimace, rolling down the windows to let the early-evening breeze cool the truck while I wait. Jones had told me that Deputy Sheriff David Knight often trains on this road at about this hour.

Ever since McGee collapsed I've been trying to think of a way to delay the sentencing without him. I could go to the court myself tomorrow, hope the judge will be willing to hear me out, and hope there is some way I can explain to her that she should postpone the sentencing or declare a mistrial based on a few similarities between Kimberly Lee's murder and those of Kate Danning and Sierra Calloway. A drug connection, a climbing connection, and some pink cord. But there are a number of problems with that plan. The evidence is flimsy at best, I'm suspended as a peace officer, and I'll have absolutely no credibility as the subject of a renewed multiple murder investigation. Karge will be aware of that—undoubtedly he engineered it—and will be sure to point it out.

During my hour and a half of driving, the exhaustion almost overtook me—I was tempted to just hang it up and let things take the course that more powerful people than I have directed. But the anger keeps returning. I'm enraged by the arrogance of these people. At Nathan Karge for thinking he can send innocent men to the death chamber in order to protect his family and his ambitions, for thinking he can shut me up and intimidate me by having my superiors suspend me and reraise the specter of murder charges. And at Heller's arrogance, for believing that he'll be protected in pursuing his thrills because he has made an accessory out of the County Attorney's own son. Then, when I think of Oso, my fingers grip the steering wheel as if I could crush it.

It has been just a little over two hours since I left Rebecca in the hallway of Cheyenne's large hospital. She was crying while she tapped away on her laptop computer with Kleenex awkwardly balled in both palms. Writing the story, she said, doing what she can. We both know it isn't ready for publication—there aren't enough hard facts, and there might never be unless I can find them. Her paper will want evidence in the form of affidavits and arrest warrants before they'll risk publishing a story critical of Wyoming law enforcement, from the future governor and current Attorney General to the Albany County Sheriff's Office. And tomorrow will be too late, when any investigation into the Lee case will be subverted and dismissed once the Knapps are sentenced and Nathan Karge takes up the reins of the governor's office.

Before I left the hospital a doctor spoke to us. McGee suffered a heart attack, he said, and was in critical condition. We could see for ourselves through the Critical Care Unit's small window that a respirator had been shoved down his throat and tubes were leaching drugs into his once powerful body. A hard life of stress, rich foods, potent liquor, and smoking had finally caught up to him. They were unsure if he would make it, the doctor told us. As unstable as his condition was one thing was certain: he wouldn't make court in the morning to delay the Knapps' sentencing. And I now lack both the official authority and the credibility to try to take his place.

Like Rebecca, I'm doing what I can to see that the wrong men aren't sentenced to death for a crime they didn't commit. Now, though, I can't write the necessary affidavits to get arrest warrants for Billy Heller and Bradley Karge. I'm suspended, under investigation for three supposed murders committed a year and a half ago. My options are to simply accept it—to step aside and wait for Sheriff McKittrick of Laramie County and the sergeant up in the Big Horns to get their own warrants, which could take weeks or even months—or to somehow learn enough about the Lee murder to convince the judge to delay the sentencing despite my discredited status. So I wait for Knight, hoping to penetrate the conscience of one of the junior officers involved in the arrest of the Knapps.

I managed to keep my badge, though. At least I still have the illusion of some authority. In the confusion created by McGee's collapse, when court security officers and paramedics rushed around us shouting, the Assistant Attorney General had slunk away, forgetting to take with him the symbol of the power I had held just minutes before. Perhaps it'll make a nice souvenir, I think. And I have Cecelia's .32 as well. My own office-issued gun is still in the custody of the Albany County sheriff as evidence.

I rise up in my seat as I catch sight of something moving on the road, coming fast out of Laramie. I turn off the radio and watch the figure approach, pedaling hard, wearing a colorful racing jersey and tights. When the figure is within a mile of me, I open the door and step out of the truck. I don't close the door, but simply stand by it at the edge of the road. The cyclist draws closer and I recognize the young, serious features, despite the helmet low on his forehead and the dark wraparound sunglasses. It's Knight.

I wave at him, then lean against my truck and wait, admiring the speed and grace with which the rookie deputy moves his bicycle. Powerful, circular strokes are delivered pistonlike by legs that are tan, muscular, and hairless. Incongruously, the arms that grip the handlebars are thin and still. Knight approaches fast, not slowing his pace at all. He doesn't even raise his fingers in greeting. And he doesn't touch the brakes.

I shout an obscenity as Knight rides by as if he hadn't seen me standing all alone on the empty prairie. I'm not going to fuck around anymore.

I hop into the driver's seat, twist the key, and spin the truck's rear in a fishtail across the dirt shoulder and onto the asphalt. Swinging into the left lane and starting to pass Knight, I ease the truck back over to the right, touching the brakes just a little. I hear a banging sound. In the right-side mirror I see Knight furiously slamming his fist against the truck's rear panel. Then he's off the road and into the dirt and sand. He launches into the air as if thrown by a horse, his skinny racing tires having sunk too deep in the soft earth.

I swerve back to the left and press the brakes hard so that I slow to almost a stop. I pull in front of where Knight lies half on the dirt, half in some dry brush. He's holding his elbow across his chest and rocking back and forth. Cursing. His helmet is sideways on his head. I step out of the truck and pick up the wraparound sunglasses that are crumpled at my feet. I walk over and hold them out to Knight.

“You asshole!” the younger man shouts, jerking the sunglasses from my hand.

“You break anything?”

“I easily could have! Are you fucking nuts?”

“Listen, Knight, I need you to talk to me. This whole town, the whole state, is screwing with me and I need some straight answers.”

“No way, Burns, I'm not talking to you about shit!”

I say nothing. I want to kick the young man in the head, beat the answers out of him. But I won't do it. I won't become like Willis and Bender. “Okay then, just listen to me. Get in the truck with me for ten minutes.”

“Or else what?” Knight asks, twisting his arm to look at the lines of blood running down. They're already beginning to coagulate.

“Or else you're going to have a long walk back to town.” I point at the bent front wheel of Knight's bicycle. Several spokes stick straight out like a porcupine's quills.

Knight looks at it almost sadly. He says, with most of the anger gone from his voice, “I can't be seen talking to you. I can't be seen listening to you.”

“You won't.”

I pick up the bicycle and put it through the open rear window of my truck. I hold the passenger door open for Knight and push my briefcase out of the way onto the floor. Knight looks up at me from where he's sitting on the dirt for a long moment without moving. I can see the wheels turning, a decision being reached. I imagine it's a decision far larger than simply whether to listen and maybe tell a few secrets. It will be a career-changing, possibly even a life-changing, conclusion, one that for a religious man could tip the balances between heaven and hell.

“Fuck it,” Knight finally says as he pushes himself off the ground. “I'm quitting anyway. I'm going to go to Europe to race, try to get sponsored.” He steps up into the truck.

I drive him up into Roger's Canyon. We bounce over a dirt trail into a cluster of dusty pines where I park. Taking the briefcase up from near Knight's feet, I pull out the various envelopes of photographs. I pinch open the metal stays on the one marked “Lee” and slide the photos out.

“You've seen these before, right? Kimberly Lee.”

Knight doesn't reply, but looks at the first photo I hold before him.

“Note the marks on her wrists. Thin ligature marks. On her neck too, but deeper, where they cut off her air. Now look at this.” I pass another photo. “Here are the cords you guys took off her. Pink with flecks of purple, soft nylon core. Remember? About five millimeters in diameter. This particular color and type is sold in only one place in Wyoming I can find. Up in Buffalo, where a lady remembers selling it to Billy Heller and Bradley Karge. Sold them a bunch of it. And look at the knots that were used. You're a Wyoming boy, aren't you, Knight? Fish, hunt, work outdoors?” Knight nods. “Have you ever seen a knot like that?” Knight shakes his head, then again when I ask if he's ever done any rock climbing. “That's called a prusik knot, used by climbers to ascend ropes. It can move one way but it clamps down the other. I can't think of any other use for it. Except maybe slowly strangling someone.

“Anyway,” I continue, “you were in on the arrest of the Knapps for Kimberly's murder. You were there when you guys found the cut-off skin from her breast in the cab of their truck, the broken crank pipe with prints near Lee's body, and when one of the Knapps supposedly told Bender that the bitch had it coming, right?” Knight doesn't move; he just stares at the photos.

I take them back from him and open another envelope. This one's marked “K. Danning.” I pass Knight a picture from the autopsy, a close-up of her face and neck. The color drains from his face and he looks a little ill as I point at it. “Look at that, that red line there across her throat. Not as deep as Kimberly Lee's, but just about as wide and it goes all the way around too. I don't have a close-up of her wrists, but look at this”—I pass another photo—“I think I can see another line there, on her left wrist. What about you?” Again Knight doesn't respond. “Your county coroner happened to throw away a cord he found around Kate's neck. There was also a contusion on the
back
of her head, one she couldn't have gotten from falling off a ledge because, remember, you told me she landed on her face. Someone hit her with something
before
she fell; hit her hard enough to fracture her skull.

“Now keep in mind that when Kate Danning died the Knapp boys were in jail, in the middle of their murder trial. I found a bottle up above the cliff Kate fell off. It had hair and blood on it, Kate's type, with DNA matches still pending, and Bradley Karge's fingerprints. His dad's too, by the way. What amazes me is those marks, so similar to Kimberly Lee's, and the fact that both girls were climbers and drug users who associated with Brad and Billy Heller. Some coincidences, huh?”

I open the third thick envelope. “Now check this out. Another young girl, climber, drug user, associate of Brad's and Billy's. Her name was Sierra Calloway until she was murdered Monday night. Look, her arms are behind her back, tied with that same pink cord. Same prusik knot as Kimberly Lee's. Now look at her neck. Same thing, right?” Now Knight gives the smallest of nods. “And those Knapp boys still in jail, now awaiting sentencing.

“There's been a fourth murder too. A kid named Chris Braddock, a good friend of both Billy's and Brad's. Kind of a hanger-on. He died in a fall while climbing with Brad and Billy in the Big Horns just two or three days ago. I found the body. Brad and Billy disappeared after they came looking for me and shot my dog.

“So now I have a hard time believing the Knapps killed all these people, since they were in jail for all three of them, and what I'm seeing, at least with the girls, is some sort of sex-thrill MO that exactly matches the murder of Lee. Now you and I both can see that it's pretty unlikely the Knapps even did Lee. But you were there for their arrest. What I want to know is how did the crank pipe with the Knapps' prints get into Lee's house? And how did that piece of her breast get into their truck?”

Knight sits silently, staring at the pines through the windshield without seeing them. I wait for a while, letting the pressure build, then ask quietly, “How come you became a cop, David?”

He just keeps staring and says nothing.

“Let me tell you about me then. I became a cop for three reasons. One, I thought it would be fun and exciting, getting to carry a gun and a badge and all. Two, I was pissed off about the drugs that ruined my brother's life and stole his future from him. And three, I wanted to do the right thing. I wanted to catch the cheaters—the people who don't follow the rules.