Chapter 13
I awoke on Sunday morning just before nine o’clock, feeling rested and eager to tackle the day. I made a pot of coffee and sat down at my kitchen table with the morning news online. After an hour of reading, I tackled the crossword puzzle but had barely gotten started when my phone rang. I saw it was Mal and answered with a chipper “Good morning, Malachi. When are you bringing me my breakfast?”
“I have it here now,” he said. “I’m downstairs, by the front door.”
“I’ll be there in a sec. Make that a minute or two. I’m not a fast mover these days.”
I disconnected the call and made my way downstairs. Mal stood outside, bearing a bag filled with something that smelled awesome and triggered a warm, soothing feeling on my skin, not unlike the sensation I’d had last night, as I’d sunk into the tub.
“You brought doughnuts,” I said, licking my lips.
“Man, it’s hard to surprise you,” Mal said with a smile.
He came inside, and I shut and locked the door behind him. He followed me upstairs, where I poured him a cup of coffee and took out plates for the goodies. After eyeing the choices for several seconds, I finally opted for an apple cider doughnut covered with caramel frosting. My first bite triggered a sound like wind chimes, and I closed my eyes to relish both the flavors and the music.
“Yummy,” I said. “Thanks for this. It’s the perfect way to start the day.”
“Are you feeling better?”
“I am. I really needed the rest last night. Life has been a bit . . . overwhelming of late.”
We spent the next hour or so sampling the wares and chatting about life in general. At one point Mal gave me an update on the status of his undercover job, stating that he felt like he was finally making some progress and would hopefully garner an invite into the boss’s inner circle soon.
At a little after eleven we headed downstairs to the bar to await the arrival of Clay and Tyrese, taking the remaining doughnuts with us. Clay showed up at eleven fifteen, knocked on the front door, and then peered in through the window at the top of it. Mal went over and let him in. locking the door behind him.
“Thanks again for letting me come along,” Clay said, settling down at our table. He had a to-go cup of something from a nearby coffee shop. “I know you have some reservations about me, and to be honest, I have a few about you still, too. But if today plays out the way I think it will, we might have a bright future working together.”
“We shall see,” I said noncommittally, a little put off by his presumptuousness. I offered him a doughnut, and he surveyed the selection much as I had before finally settling on a plain glazed one. His choice surprised me; I had him pegged as more of a fruit-filling kind of guy.
My phone dinged with a text message just before eleven thirty. “It’s Tyrese,” I said, reading the message. “He says he’s five minutes away.”
“Then we best get a move on,” Clay said.
Mal helped me get my coat on and then grabbed up the bag with the remaining doughnuts. Tyrese was out front in his car, waiting for us, by the time we got to the door.
Clay took the front passenger seat, while Mal and I climbed into the backseat, dragging my crutches along with me. I did the introductions between Clay and Tyrese, who both regarded one another with polite reservation.
Once that was done, Tyrese inhaled deeply, eyed the bag in Mal’s lap, and said, “Whatcha got in there? Whatever it is smells yummy.”
Mal handed him the bag. “Help yourself. Mack insisted we share.”
“It’s the least we can do since you’re playing chauffeur,” I said.
Tyrese peeked in the bag, stuck his hand in, and pulled out the sugared, jelly-filled doughnut I had thought Clay was going to take. “Thanks, Mack,” he said, handing the bag back to Mal. “You’re okay in my book. I don’t care what the other guys say about you.”
Though I suspected he meant the comment as a joke, I didn’t smile. “Are they talking about me?”
He gave Clay a nervous glance and then looked at me in the rearview mirror. “I was just kidding,” he said with a dismissive expression, and I knew from the taste of his voice that he was lying. He smiled, trying to look innocent, but the smile faded fast. “Well, mostly kidding, anyway.”
“What are they saying?” I asked.
Still looking at me in the rearview mirror, Tyrese shot his eyes toward Clay and raised his eyebrows in question. I gave him a subtle nod as he stalled for time by taking a big bite of his pastry. A large dribble of raspberry jelly oozed out the bottom and onto his jacket. “Damn,” he said, scraping the jelly up with his finger and eating it. Then he proceeded to make the small reddish stain larger by swiping at it with a napkin.
I waited, prepared to repeat my question if necessary, but I didn’t have to.
“There was some talk last night among some of the guys. Those detectives who brought you in to observe that Apostle Mike guy said you really do have a knack when it comes to sizing up people. They said you picked up on something no one else had.”
“Did they say it in a good way or in a ‘she’s spooky, crazy, weird, and we better stay away from her’ way?”
“Neither,” Tyrese said, dabbing at some sugar on the corner of his mouth. “It was more of a ‘let’s not dismiss her too quickly’ kind of tone.” He took another bite and pulled out into traffic. “Despite what the brass feels about you, Mack, you have a lot of fans within the department.”
This surprised me some, and it also made me feel better.
Clay, who so far had sat quietly through all of this, finally spoke up. “Why were you at the police station?”
“They had a suspect they wanted me to look at, to see if I recognized him at all. It was regarding Gary’s murder.”
Clay nodded, and I could tell his wheels were spinning as he tried to discern if there was more to the story than what I was telling him. I half expected him to grill me more on the topic, but he surprised me with his next comment. “You just need a spin doctor, Mack.”
“A spin doctor?”
“Yeah. You know, someone who will spin you in a more positive light.”
“I don’t want to be spun at all.”
“Well, it’s going to happen if your group keeps solving crimes,” he said. “The problem isn’t with you per se. It’s with the way the press has portrayed the police.”
“Pot, kettle,” I said.
Clay smiled and shrugged. “I wasn’t as harsh as some, and all I did was report the facts. Those facts made the cops look a bit foolish and incompetent. They’ll get over it.” Tyrese shot Clay a look of irritation, which Clay either didn’t see or chose to ignore. “And if the right reporter writes you and your group up in a way that makes the police and the DA look smart, it could lead to some future working relationships that would benefit everyone involved.”
“And are you offering to do that?” I asked.
“Maybe. Let’s wait and see how this visit turns out, and we can talk some more about it later.”
I was relieved that he hadn’t immediately jumped on the idea. If he had, I would have suspected him of trying to butter me up simply to gain my trust. The fact that he was still on the fence reassured me some. But judging from the frowns on the faces of the other two men in the car, I was alone in this judgment.
Our ride took just short of an hour and a half, and by some unspoken agreement, we switched the topic of conversation to miscellaneous stuff for a while—safe, innocuous topics. But as we drew closer to Waupun, talk inevitably shifted to the Middleton case.
“I had a look at part of the police file,” Tyrese said. “I know you didn’t ask me to, but I got curious. There wasn’t much there of interest that I could see, at least nothing more than what was in the news about the case. But there was one detail in there that struck me, one I don’t recall coming out in the trial.”
“What?” I asked, intrigued.
“Well, there was blood splatter, blowback from the head wound Tiffany had. But there were some voids in the splatter. One area was on the driver’s side door. There was blood on the outside of Benjamin Middleton’s jacket sleeves but none on the inside. That doesn’t make sense to me if he was facing Tiffany down, aiming the gun at her. There was also splatter on the right side of the bodice part of his jacket, but none on the left. That suggests that Middleton was facing forward in the car. And there was also a long space running down the inside of the driver door, near the middle, where there was no blood splatter. This was in front of where Ben’s body would have been, and there was splatter on either side of it. To me, that suggests that something blocked the splatter.”
“Like another person’s arm reaching in through the window?” I asked, playing out the scene in my mind.
“Exactly,” Tyrese said.
“You said ‘voids.’ Plural,” Mal noted. “What were the others?”
“There was only one other area I noted, and it was on the gun itself. There was a void around the trigger, which you’d expect to find if someone had a finger wrapped around it, but there was also a void along the top of the barrel. In fact, most of the barrel was clean. And Benjamin Middleton had blood on the backs of both of his hands.”
Mal said, “If someone had a hand wrapped around that gun barrel, wrestling for it, it might explain the void.”
“It might,” Tyrese agreed, giving Mal a curious look. “And if Middleton did shoot his wife, why would he have a hand wrapped over the top of the barrel?”
“Maybe Tiffany saw what he was about to do, and she wrestled him for the gun,” I said.
“Perhaps,” Tyrese said, sounding unconvinced. “But I saw no mention of the presence of gunpowder residue on Tiffany’s hands, and there would have been if she’d had a hold on the gun.”
“When we talk to Middleton, we should have him reenact the crime for us,” I said. “See if his story jibes with this blood splatter evidence.”
Our arrival at the Waupun prison went almost exactly like it had during our previous visit. We checked in at an outer gate, drove inside the compound, and parked. Tyrese led the way to the front entrance, where we had to pass through another guarded gate—this one with a metal detector—before we were allowed inside the main building. Then we checked in at a third gated station, where we all had to hand over our IDs to a guard sitting behind a glass enclosure that ran along a barred floor-to-ceiling wall with a gate. On our previous visit there had been two guards inside the enclosure; today there were three. Seated at the check-in spot was a man whose name tag said R. DINKLE—the same guard we’d encountered on our first visit here—and behind him sat a second guard, one I didn’t recognize, who was watching a series of monitors that showed various areas in and around the prison. Standing beside Dinkle was a third guard named Karl Houston, someone else I recognized from our previous trip.
“Back again so soon?” Dinkle asked, eyeing us dubiously. “Your entourage is growing. Planning a party?” No one answered him, so he looked at a clipboard he had in front of him and started flipping sheets. “Here to talk to the same prisoner?”
Tyrese shook his head. “No. We’re here to see Benjamin Middleton.”
“Ah, Mr. Fancy Pants,” Dinkle said. He apparently had arrived at the proper sheet, because he stopped flipping and read the page in front of him. “His lawyer isn’t here yet, so you’ll have to wait. Karl can take you to the meeting room, and you can wait there.”
After handing us back our IDs, Dinkle slid a clipboard toward us through a slot in the glass and had us all sign in. Once that was done, Karl pressed a button and the gate slid open. We followed him down the same short hallway we’d been in before, and the barred gate we’d just come through banged closed behind us. At the end of the hallway we stopped in front of a large metal door, which Karl unlocked, and we all stepped through into a second, bigger hallway. There were five windowed doors—two on each side and one at the opposite end—and at this point our trip changed. The last time we had entered the room behind the last door on the left, and this time we were led to the first door on the left.
The room might have been a different one, but you’d never know it. It looked exactly the same: a bare-walled, windowless cinder-block structure with a scarred wooden table at the center. Karl locked us inside, and we made our way to the table, which once again had only two chairs on the side closest to us and one on the opposite side. On our last visit, the men had remained standing, and I had taken one of the closer seats. The other had been occupied by the prisoner’s lawyer, who had arrived ahead of us. For now, we all stood on our side of the table, waiting. I could tell the men in the room felt as uncomfortable as I did, locked inside the barren, cold room. They shifted nervously, Tyrese with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, Mal with his arms folded over his chest, Clay looking around the room, taking it all in. I wondered if Clay was composing a story in his head and gathering details so he could adequately set the scene.
“I hope we don’t have to wait too long,” I said, an attempt at idle conversation. I had hoped it would help everyone to relax, but my voice echoed coldly inside the room, making our isolation seem even more pronounced.
The minutes ticked by, and I swore I felt each one as a tiny drip of water on my arms. Finally, the door behind us was unlocked, and a woman who looked about my age walked in. She was wearing slacks, ankle-high boots, and a red wool car-length coat. Her hair was black and cut short; her eyes were a brown so dark, it looked like her pupils were fully dilated. Over one shoulder she had a leather messenger bag. She approached us with a warm smile and addressed me before the men.
“You must be this crime-solving savant I’ve been hearing about,” she said, extending a hand.
I took it, shook it, and said, “Something like that. I’m Mack Dalton.”
“And I’m Christine Powell, Ben Middleton’s attorney.” She turned her attention to the three men.
“I’m Tyrese Washington, the cop who set this up.” He extended a hand.
Christine shook it and then shifted her attention to Mal. “What is your interest in this case?” She sounded merely curious, not challenging, but I felt uncomfortable nonetheless.
“This is Mal O’Reilly,” I said. “He’s with me, my moral support.” I smiled, hoping this would be enough. Apparently it was. Christine moved on to Clay.
“Clay Sanders,” he said, also extending his hand. “I’m a reporter for the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel.”
This time Christine ignored the extended hand. She eyed Clay with suspicion. “A reporter? Why?” She looked to me for the answer.
“He’s a member of our group,” I said vaguely. “He’s here solely to observe and help us decide on the veracity of your client’s story. He’s not going to write up anything about it, at least not yet. Right, Clay?” I said pointedly, giving him a challenging look.
“That’s right,” Clay said. “If it turns out that your client really is innocent and that can be proven, then I will write something for the paper. But until then I’m just here to observe.”
This explanation seemed to satisfy Christine, though she still ignored Clay’s outstretched hand. She headed for one of the chairs, set her bag on the table, and went about removing her coat, which she folded over the back of the chair.
Clay let his arm drop to his side.
“I should probably tell you that Ben didn’t want to talk to you,” Christine said. “His sister and I convinced him to give you a chance, but I can’t promise how cooperative he’ll be. He swears he’s been set up and framed, and that has left him very suspicious of everyone along about now. I have to confess, I was a bit wary at first, too, when Sandra approached me with the idea, but I’ve done some digging into Ms. Dalton and her reputation, and I’m comfortable with hearing what you have to offer.”
I gave her an apologetic smile. “I don’t know that we have anything to offer yet. We have uncovered some inconsistencies that have our curiosity piqued, so we’re willing to hear Ben out and take a look at things to see what we can come up with. But at this point we aren’t making any promises.”
“Understood,” Christine said. “Ben should be here any sec—”
With that, the door on the opposite side of the room opened, and Benjamin Middleton was brought in. He and his sister looked a lot alike, the same coloring, the same facial features, and the same chagrined expression. He was cuffed—both his wrists and his ankles—and the noise made by his shuffling gait made my vision go grainy for a few seconds. He settled into the chair on his side of the table, and the guard who had brought him in asked if we wanted him to stay in the room or wait outside the door.
“You can wait outside,” I said, and I saw Middleton shoot me a look.
Once the guard had retreated, Christine said, “Ben, these folks are here at the request of your sister. They’re part of a group of people who look at old crimes to see if there is any new evidence they can find. They’ve had some success with other cases, and they are willing to look into your case. If they find anything significant, anything that points to your innocence, they will do what they can to exonerate you.” Christine paused and looked over at me. “Did I get that right?”
“Essentially,” I said with a smile. I looked at Middleton. “We’ve already run across some items of evidence that don’t seem to jibe with the prosecution’s theory of events, but before we decide whether or not to take on your case, we need to ask you some questions. Are you willing to help us help you?”
Middleton eyed me for a moment and then shifted his gaze to Mal, Clay, and Tyrese. His expression was flat, devoid of emotion. He looked like a man resigned to his fate. An air of defeat lay over him like a heavy, wet blanket. His shoulders sagged, his neck muscles bulged, as if it was an effort to hold his head up, and his eyes looked vacant and tired.
After a long silence, he said, “I suppose I’ve got nothing to lose.” He raised his cuffed hands as far as he could and gave us a grim smile. “Have at me,” he said. “Maybe someone can finally get this right.” And then his hands dropped heavily into his lap.