Instead, she stared at the one remaining obstacle in this monumental mess that required her immediate attention.
The body.
She had to figure out what to do with the body.
2
Tuesday, September 7, 3:00 p.m.
Birmingham, Alabama
Criminal Justice Center
Death was too good for the son of a bitch.
Silence choked the remainder of the air out of the interview room, making it impossible for Carson Tanner to draw a breath. The traumatic seconds expanded into a full minute that felt like an hour.
Misery sat like a cold, hard stone in his gut. He had waited fifteen long years, had bucked the very system to which he’d devoted his entire adult life just to be present today and hear what the shackled animal seated at the table across from him had to say.
Joseph Stokes.The psychotic killer who had murdered Carson’s family. A serial offender who had eluded justice for far too long.
District Attorney Donald Wainwright and Aidan Moore, the court appointed attorney assigned to Stokes’s case, were seated next to Carson. One of Jefferson County’s finest stood nearby, his right hand resting on the butt of his holstered weapon.
The entire tristate area, first and foremost the city of Birmingham, had been watching this drama unfold in the media ... praying that Stokes would get what was coming to him for his heinous deeds. Asingle move of aggression and Stokes might not exit the room alive, leaving the world home to one less homicidal maniac.
The mere thought had anticipation exploding in Carson’s chest. But as gratifying as that resolution would be, it would not give him closure. He had unanswered questions. One in particular he wanted—no, he needed.
“This is a one-time offer, Stokes,” Wainwright reminded him. “Back out now and it’s over. I’ll have you scheduled for lethal injection so fast you’ll think you’re in the express lane at the Walmart.”
“I told you,” Stokes maintained with a haughtiness that made Carson sick to his stomach, “I ain’t signing nothing till you give me your word I can have my say.”
The legal document awaiting endorsement by Stokes offered him one thing, just one.Life.He’d murdered at least a dozen people. He wasn’t worthy of another second on this earth. But death would be far too simple a penalty to pay.
Carson wanted him to live. A long, long time. In a five-by-nine maximum security cell until the day he dragged in his last pathetic gasp of oxygen. He wanted him in the worst prison in Alabama, getting what he deserved day in and day out from the cellblocks full of inmates who despised those who included the abuse or murder of children in their inventory of evil deeds.
“Mr. Stokes.” Moore took a moment to adjust his standard, black-framed eyeglasses. “I have a legal obligation to advise you against additional comments at this critical juncture. As the district attorney said, we should move forward with the reason we’re here.”
Stokes smirked. “You don’t understand, counselor. I had a dream last night. Made me remember things like it was yesterday. This one part was so vivid.” He looked straight at Carson with glee in his repugnant eyes. “I really need to tellsomeone.”
Carson’s jaw clenched. He steeled himself despite the probability that whatever the revelation, it couldn’t be worse than what he’d witnessed with his own eyes that day ... fifteen years ago. So much blood ...
“No more stalling.” Wainwright folded his arms over his chest. “Sign the contract, then you can say what you have to say. Otherwise this meeting is over.”
Carson felt those old haunting fears nip at his resolve. No second thoughts. He had to hear this ... had to know.
Smug with victory, Stokes picked up the pen. “In that case, it’d be my pleasure, Mr. DA.” The lowlife scrawled his name, then tossed the pen aside. “Satisfied?”
Moore studied the document briefly then passed it to Wainwright, who glanced at the signature before dropping both the contract and the pen into his briefcase. He leveled a cold, hard stare on Stokes. “Get it over with. But”—he pointed a finger at the piece of shit who’d just signed away his right to trial by a jury of his peers—“you tread carefully.”
Stokes lounged in his chair, not the slightest bit intimidated. “You see,” he said carefully, “things didn’t happen exactly the way the official reports said.” He inhaled a deep, gratifying breath. “The little girl.” He turned his attention fully on Carson. “She didn’t die right away.”
Agony pierced Carson, twisting his insides into writhing knots. The little girl.My sister, Katie.
“Don’t go down that path,” Wainwright warned.
“Let him talk,” Carson overruled.
After a decade and a half of wondering—of obsessing over the possibilities—Carson at last knew the name and the face of the man who had shattered his world.
