The Red Scream (9 page)

She stopped to gauge his reaction, but his face was blank. He just shrugged in answer to her question. She was surprised. Usually she could rev him up when she tried to sell an idea.

She just needed to do a harder sell, she decided. “And this is the perfect chance for me to do an update on capital punishment now that Texas is gearing up for an unprecedented surge in executions. After all, we lead the nation; we’ve executed fourteen already this year, two of them last week. We can do a sidebar on the executions
this year to date and compare it with Florida and some other states that are executing aggressively. And, now, with the Supreme Court decisions limiting habeas corpus, there’s no telling what sort of records our great state might set this year.”

He looked bored. “Hell, Richard,” Molly said, “Banker Griswold’s just a stain on that Westheimer sidewalk; he ain’t going nowhere. I can do him next month.”

Richard looked down the length of his legs to his shiny tasseled loafers. “Molly, with the indictment of Griswold and his partner and the other Resolution Trust Corp bribery cases, Griswold is hot stuff. And we haven’t done zip on it. And anyway”—he looked up and grinned, revealing some of the charm for which he was notorious—“it’s worth doing the piece just so you can revive the use of the word ‘defenestration.’ Trust me, this is much better than trotting out your moldy old Bronk thing. You’ve had a good run with it. Now lay it to rest.”

“But, Richard, I’ll come up with new angles; you know how just rooting around in an old case like this can stir up something new. David Serrano, the McFarlands’ old live-in baby-sitter, is back in town, and he’s going to attend the execution as one of Bronk’s witnesses. Now that’s an interesting wrinkle—asking for someone who testified against you to come watch you die. And David’s a devout Catholic fretting over his role in sending Bronk to the death chamber. There’s juice there. And Charley McFarland is willing to talk for the first time. And surely,” she said, holding her hands out, palms up, “you haven’t forgotten the two Bronk issues outsold everything we’ve ever done.”

Richard crossed his arms over his chest again in a way that made her heart sink. “Molly, the Bronk case is all over but the needle prick. I’m sick of that animal cracker. If you feel you have to do something, make it a brief piece on the execution itself, his last words, how long it took for the injection to work, blah-blah—you know, three pages at most. We’ll put a blurb at the end plugging your book, sell a few copies maybe.”

Molly felt like wailing in frustration, but she forced her voice to stay low and spoke slowly. “Richard, we talked about this last month when the court set his execution date. We agreed a story would be a good idea. I’ve already made plans, set up some interviews.”

“Cancel them.”

Because she felt like squealing, she lowered her voice even more. “Why have you changed your mind?”

“I don’t remember ever thinking it was a good idea. Anyway, I don’t think so now and we’ve got better stories waiting for your attention. At the last staff meeting, which you missed, Molly, there was general agreement that we should do something on the S & L indictments.” His mouth was set in a hard, thin line she didn’t like the looks of.

Molly took a deep breath to push the anger down. Usually they saw eye to eye on what made a good story. When they disagreed, it was over the best approach or angle to take. And on those rare occasions, he usually turned out to be right, so she trusted his instincts. She was willing to acknowledge that she sometimes got carried away with something. Yes, sometimes she did go too far. But now she knew he was wrong, knew it for certain.

“Richard,
Lone Star Monthly
has covered the Bronk case intensively. We need to finish it with a flourish; our readers expect it.” She tried to stop her voice from rising, but it defied her control. “Just give me one good reason, Richard.”

“I already have. It’s a vein we’ve mined out. Ancient history. Everyone’s tired of it. Except you.”

She looked at the smug set of his mouth and felt her anger surge; she couldn’t contain it another second. “I just can’t believe this, Richard! There’s more to this than you’re saying. It has something to do with Charlie McFarland, I bet. Yeah, that’s it. He says the two of you are
real
good friends. McFarland’s gotten to you, hasn’t he?”

Richard rolled his eyes upward. “What is this, Molly?” he asked the ceiling. “You know these good ol’ bubba types who talk like they just dropped off the back of a turnip truck. Sound dumb as dog shit. But everything Charlie says is calculated. He knows I’m your boss, so he tells you we’re great friends to impress you.”

Molly was quiet for a moment, thinking. Then she slapped the palm of her hand against her forehead. “Oh, God. I’m so slow. I know what it is. He’s head of the Builder’s Association and they buy all that advertising from us. You’ve been
bought!”
She all but barked the words out.

He snapped his head upright. His eyes were blazing amber pits.
“Come off it, Molly. You know I have nothing to do with that part of the magazine.”

Her fists clenched themselves into balls and she gave voice to the suspicions which had just flooded through her bloodstream. “But the publisher sure does. If you haven’t been bought, then he has, and he’s leaning on you. That’s it, isn’t it?” She was on a roll now. “McFarland’s a man with some powerful connections. Don’t deny it, Richard.”

“Why would I want to? McFarland’s an old crony of the governor, one of her major campaign contributors, friend of all the fallen wheeler-dealers, one of the few who was canny enough to pull in his horns just before the crash. Now he’s back bigger than ever. Sure, he’s rich and powerful, but that has nothing to do with my editorial decision that Louie Bronk is stale news.”

“McFarland tried to bribe me, Richard.”

Richard looked back at her with raised eyebrows and bright, amused eyes. “
Bribe
you? How?”

“He said he wanted to endow an award for worthy crime writers and make me the first recipient—one hundred thousand dollars not to write anything more about his wife’s murder.”

Richard threw his head back and laughed. “Worthy crime writers!” he said when he caught his breath. “That’s marvelous. I hope you snapped it up, Molly, since you aren’t going to do the story anyway. God knows you could use the money.”

“But, Richard, I
am
going to do the story.”

He stood up. “Not for
Lone Star Monthly
you’re not.”

She felt it like a kick in the ribs. “Richard!”

“I’d hate to lose you, Molly, but I am the boss here. I’ve never pulled rank on you before, but I say we’re going to do the piece on Banker Griswold, not Louie-fucking-Bronk.”

She wasn’t about to let him intimidate her with that macho posturing. Through gritted teeth she said, “Richard, if I didn’t know what an opinionated, snobbish, aesthete you are, I’d really suspect that McFarland got to you on this.”

She could see by the barely perceptible flinch of a muscle in his cheek that she’d gone too far. His brown-orange eyes narrowed. “Well,” he said in his clipped, mock-British intonation, “if I didn’t know what a death-obsessed, morbid ambulance-chaser you are, I’d
suspect you just want to rake up something new to boost the sales of your book.”

She felt breathless, as if she’d been flattened by a steamroller. Finally she managed to croak out, “Oh, Richard, I never even thought about book sales.”

He was breathing heavily. “Molly, I think we need a time-out here. We both need to go back to our corners. Why don’t you hold off on a decision for today.” He walked to the window. “And I need to get a grip on my temper. I really think—” A buzzer on his desk went off. “Damn. Just a minute.”

Keeping his back to her, he picked up the phone. “What is it?” He listened a minute, turning so Molly could see his smile spreading. “Hold on, Becky,” he said in a light voice, “I’ll see if she’ll take it.”

Pushing the hold button, he held the receiver out. “For you. Your benefactor. Charlie McFarland calling. From his private plane. Says it’s urgent.”

Molly took a deep breath and stepped forward to take the phone. As she was raising it to her ear, Richard leaned over and whispered into the other ear, “Be smart, Molly. Tell him you’ll take his offer.” He chuckled and clapped his hands together softly. “Worthy crime writer of the year, indeed. That’s delicious! If you play it right maybe next Charlie’ll set up a retirement home where old crime writers can go in their sunset years.” He went into peals of laughter so loud Molly had to cover her other ear so she could hear McFarland.

chapter
5

In comes this shrink

A four-eyed fink

Asks how I think

Rinka Dink

Says he’ll help me

I should talk free.

Was I damaged at birth?

Born under a curse?

Or something worse?

Maybe I’m just scared to die.

He’s got a tic in his eye.

LOUIE BRONK
Death Row, Ellis I Unit,
Huntsville, Texas

I
n spite of the heat, Molly Cates was glad she’d decided to walk instead of driving the six blocks to the Travis County district attorney’s office. Parking at the Stokes Building was impossible, and anyway, she needed to work off some steam. What a horse’s ass Richard could be! She’d never seen him act like that before. Of course she hadn’t exactly covered herself in roses either—losing it like that and calling him names.

Sweat began to drip down her hairline, but she walked faster, passing the white-pillared Greek Revival governor’s mansion without even glancing up at it.

Why had he changed his mind in midstream? Months ago at the staff meeting everyone had agreed that it was a good idea to use Louie Bronk’s execution, when it came, as an opportunity to recap the case and to look at the capital punishment situation in Texas. Then when Bronk’s date was set last month, they’d discussed it again.

It made her jaw clench to think about Richard Dutton calling her
morbid and death-obsessed. Then, to top it off, while she talked on the phone with Charlie McFarland, he had leaned against his desk with that just-swallowed-the-canary look, insinuating she had capitulated just by taking the phone call. When she hung up, they’d looked at one another in hostile silence.

Finally Richard had said why didn’t she take a day to think it over before saying anything else she might regret. She’d been on the verge of saying it wouldn’t matter if she took a day or a month; she
was
going to write the article on Louie Bronk and if he didn’t want to print it, well, hell, she’d find another publication that would. But she stopped the words before they escaped. She had a sudden vision of herself unemployed, out pounding the pavements for a new job, maybe having to go back to the grind of a police beat on some daily rag—a hard job at her age. As jobs went, hers was a great one; she couldn’t afford to lose it.

As she approached the Stokes Building at the corner of Guadalupe and Eleventh, her sweat was flowing. In other parts of the country September might be fall, but in Austin it was often the hottest month. Today it felt like living inside a blast furnace.

The two flags—U.S. and Texas—that flanked the entrance of the Stokes Building hung limp in the still air. Across Guadalupe the white limestone of the county courthouse shimmered in the heat and gasoline fumes.

Molly took the elevator to the second floor. When she gave her name at the reception desk, the woman there checked her list and said, “Mr. Heffernan said he’d be in by twelve-thirty and he could see you then if you don’t mind him eating his lunch while you talk. He said for you to wait on him in his office.”

The receptionist buzzed the glass door open and Molly wended her way through the warren of cubicles toward the DA’s office. Inside, she shut the door and settled down on his big red leather sofa. She let her head drop to the back of the sofa and closed her eyes.

Charlie McFarland had said he needed to talk to her—privately, not over the phone—today. Could she meet him at his house again, at five-thirty when he got back to town? It would be worth her while, he said. She agreed. Her curiosity was piqued, and anyway, it was on her way home.

Yes, things certainly were on the move, but try as she might, she couldn’t figure out where they were going.

Head still resting on the sofa back, she opened her eyes and let them roam around Stan Heffernan’s office. Except for this sofa, it was pretty Spartan—an institutional metal desk and two imitation wood bookcases, old maps of Civil War battle sites on the wall. Not really the sort of office a boy growing up poor in South Texas would fantasize about having when he made it big.

When she had researched Stan’s background for
Sweating Blood
, she had been intrigued to find his early life not all that different from Louie Bronk’s: both came from extreme poverty in small South Texas towns, both had alcoholic, absent fathers and domineering, often abusive mothers. But the similarities ended there. Stan Heffernan’s rotten childhood had propelled him out into the world determined to work hard and succeed. Louie Bronk’s rotten childhood sent him forth determined to kill and rape. One of the questions she had tried to answer in the book was why.