Chapter Twenty-One

 

It was around noon when Radhauser arrived at the Lazy Lasso. The restaurant was crowded. He waited on the lobby side of the swinging oak bar doors until the crowd thinned out, then passed through them and stood in front of the hostess podium until the couple ahead of him was seated. As usual the place smelled fabulous. Nothing like the sizzle sound of prime meat over an open grill to make a man’s mouth water. How long had it been since he and Gracie sat down to a normal dinner? Once she felt up to it, he planned to bring her here for a steak.

Angela smiled. “Detective Radhauser. Dana’s not here yet. She’s got the three to eleven shift today.”

“I’m here to see Henry Evans.”

A look of concern swept over her face. Her smile faded. “Wait a minute, I’ll call Bear.”

“I don’t want to talk to him. It’s Henry I need to see.”

Across the restaurant, Henry was sitting alone at a table by the window, drinking a soda and eating a hamburger and fries.

“Bear said I should call. He doesn’t want you to talk to Henry again unless he is there, too.” Angela picked up the phone.

Radhauser darted over to Henry’s booth and slid onto the bench across from him. “Hi, Henry, do you remember me?”

“Sure,” he said, his mouth filled with French fries. He wore a lightweight gray hoodie with elastic at the wrists. “You’re the policeman that talked to me at the place where Skyler was in the pretty white box. My dad says it’s a coffin. I never saw a coffin before.”

“Yes,” Radhauser said. “You’re right. I was there. But let’s talk about the time you went over to Mr. Bryce’s house with Reggie.”

“I do that a lot. We go there before Reggie takes me to the car lot to wash the cars.”

“I want to know about the last time. You gave Skyler his bottle of apple juice that night. Am I right?”

Henry bobbed his head up and down three times. “I like to pretend I’m the daddy and Skyler and Scotty are my boys.”

“That sounds like a fun game. Did you give him his apple juice on other nights?”

“Sure. Mr. Bryce always lets me.”

“Did you watch Mr. Bryce make the bottle for Skyler?”

Again, he nodded three times. “In the kitchen.”

Bear and Henry lived in a modular home in a wooded area about one hundred yards behind the restaurant. Radhauser didn’t have much time. “What did he put inside the bottle?”

“He poured in a little jar of baby apple juice, and then he put water from the spigot, and then he put the top on and shook it up real good.” Henry raised his right hand and made a shaking motion. A small dab of ketchup flew off his finger and landed on the table in front of Radhauser. He wiped it up with his napkin.

“Did he put anything else in the bottle?”

“Nope.”

“Where did Mr. Bryce go after he made the bottle?”

“He went back in the living room to watch TV.”

“And you took the bottle into Skyler’s room?”

Another three nods. “It’s Scotty’s room, too. They share.”

“Was Reggie there?”

“Yep.”

At that instant, Bear Evans stormed through the swinging doors and crossed the restaurant in record time, his long, thick arms sawing the air like some irate windup doll. “What’s going on here?”

“I’m asking Henry a few questions about the night Skyler Sterling died.”

“Not without me, you aren’t.”

“He’s eighteen. It’s not against the law for me to talk with him without a parent present. And I can also take him down to the police station for questioning.”

Bear slapped his hand on the table, causing Henry’s soda to spill over and puddle under his glass. “My son had nothing to do with that Sterling mess.”

Henry cleaned the soda up with his napkin, then tucked his hands into his lap.

Radhauser could tell by the movement of Henry’s arms and the slight snapping sound that he nervously stretched and released the elastic on one of his sleeves.

Bear’s voice was raw with anger. “You’re exploiting my son, Detective Radhauser. You know as well as I do, it’s advisable for someone with Henry’s issues to have a parent, guardian or legal counsel with him when being questioned by a fucking police officer.”

Henry shuddered.

Bear slid into the booth next to him and put his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, Henry. That wasn’t a nice word.”

“It’s okay, Dad. He’s a nice policeman.”

“He’s a stranger, son. Remember what I told you about talking to strangers.”

Henry looked down at his lap. “Stranger danger.”

Outside the window, a bird began to sing. Henry scooted over and pushed his hands and nose against the glass. “Listen. It’s a sparrow.” He searched for the bird, but unable to find it, turned back to his dad.

A moment later, he leaned across the table as if he were about to tell Radhauser a secret. “Bird songs speak to our souls. Because words are too little.”

Radhauser couldn’t help but smile. Even with his limitations, or maybe because of them, Henry was a charming boy. As gentle as they come. Bryce told him Bear raised Henry by himself. The man did a great job.

“Very good, Henry,” Radhauser said. “You sound like a bird expert and a philosopher all rolled into one.”

Henry gave Radhauser a ketchup-mouth grin. “What’s a philosopher?”

“A wise person.”

Bear’s face softened. No doubt this man loved his son. “What do you say when someone gives you a compliment, Henry?”

“Thank you, Mr. Policeman.”

Bear beamed. “He likes birds, so I taught him to identify the more common ones by their songs.”

“I only have a couple more questions, Mr. Evans. And you’re more than welcome to be present. Henry was one of the last people to see Skyler alive, and he was the one who gave Skyler his bottle of apple juice.” Radhauser was careful not to mention the drug, for fear Bear would silence Henry.

“You can’t think Henry—”

“I don’t,” Radhauser said. “But Henry wasn’t the only one in Skyler’s room that night.”

A look of understanding passed over Bear’s face. “Go ahead. But don’t expect me to stay quiet if I don’t like what you’re asking my boy.”

Radhauser waited until Henry looked at him. “You already told me Reggie was in the room. Did he say or do anything to Skyler?”

Bear looked skeptical, but kept quiet.

“Skyler screamed. He screams a lot, but then he laughs. Reggie hates it. Me and Mr. Bryce think it’s cute. Reggie put his hand over Skyler’s mouth like this.” Henry slapped his right hand over his mouth and held it there. “He said ‘shut up you little...’ And then he said a not very nice word.”

Bastard. The unspoken word echoed in Radhauser’s mind. He waited to see if Henry had anything else to add.

“He always says mean things to Skyler.” Henry’s face crumpled up, and for a moment Radhauser thought he was going to cry. “It makes me sad.”

Bear tightened his grip on Henry’s shoulders.

Radhauser waited a few seconds for Henry to collect himself before asking his next question. “Did you see Reggie put anything in Skyler’s bottle?”

“Mr. Bryce already put apple juice and water in it.”

“Yes, I know, but did you see Reggie open the bottle and put anything else inside?”

He shrugged. “After I gave Skyler the bottle and he stopped screaming, Scotty and me played on the floor with his Matchbox cars.”

“What was Reggie doing?”

Again, Henry shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t look.”

“Thank you for your time,” Radhauser said to both of them, then turned to Bear. “My wife is pregnant with a boy. I hope my son grows up to be as good-hearted as your Henry, Mr. Evans.”

A smile blew wide across Bear’s face. “Call me Bear. Everyone else does.”

Radhauser had no doubt that Henry had told the truth as best he could. The boy didn’t have an ounce of duplicity in him. He’d confirmed Bryce’s story about the apple juice and his returning to the living room. And he shed some more light on Reggie’s character and feelings for Skyler. At least Radhauser knew Reggie had every opportunity to taint that baby bottle.

Now, all he had to do was prove it.

* * *

“Lookie here, Shame. You done made me a famous man.” Poncho slipped the two-day-old tabloid under the door to Bryce’s cell on his way to the dining hall.

PRISONER TAKES JUSTICE INTO HIS OWN HANDS

by: Wally Hartmueller

 

Echoing public opinion, a prisoner identified only as Poncho, convicted a fellow inmate and administered his own sentence yesterday when he severely beat Caleb R. Bryce, thirty-five, charged with one count of child abuse of four-year- old Scott Sterling and with first-degree murder in the death of nineteen-month-old Skyler Sterling. Jail authorities discovered Bryce, unconscious and bleeding, on the floor of the cell he shared with Poncho.

When asked to comment on what he did, Poncho said, “Even us convicts got some standards. And baby killers don't measure up.”

Prison authorities are still looking into the matter.

* * *

Just as Kendra warned, publicity became a major issue in Bryce’s case. The South Carolina incident where a mother rolled a car into the lake, her two small children strapped into the back seat, had horrified and enraged the entire country. Ashland was no exception.

Local newspaper reporters and television broadcasters detailed elaborate conjectures as to how and why Skyler Sterling died. One news anchor announced, “Police Chief Murphy says motive is jealousy over girlfriend’s relationships with other men, particularly her ex-husband, Reggie Sterling.”

Associated Press picked up the story. Bryce had no idea where that trumped-up motive came from, but the press, determined to convict, did everything in their power to guarantee nothing short of death by lethal injection.

Public interest was further fed by child abuse stories of other children. On an order by Judge Shapiro, who would preside over the trial, the public and the press were not admitted to the pretrial hearing.

Before the preliminary, picketers, mostly women, paced the sidewalks outside the courthouse, thrusting handmade signs into the air—STOP JEALOUS BOYFRIENDS FROM ABUSING AND KILLING OUR CHILDREN.

When they spotted Bryce, a group gathered around him and hissed, “Baby killer... slime... I hope you rot in hell,” as he stumbled, shackled and handcuffed, through the prisoner’s entrance and up the stairwell to the courthouse.

On Thursday, October twenty-eighth, black paper, taped from the inside, covered the small glass windows on the courtroom doors. Another window, left open for ventilation, was guarded by a deputy who shook his head at the few reporters below, then closed the blinds.

Everything considered, Kendra indicated she was pleased with the assignment of Judge Shapiro and told Bryce the judge had a reputation for fairness, keen legal insights, and a great sense of humor.

Bryce stood before the bench, his face faintly discolored, his eyes puffy and the line of stitches still visible above his right eye. He was cleanly shaved and dressed in baggy blue prison pants and shirt. As he confronted the judge, a part of him still believed this was all a huge mistake, a bad dream from which he would eventually awaken.

Judge Shapiro leaned forward in his chair and let his gaze settle on Bryce’s face. “How are you feeling, Mr. Bryce?”

“Much better, Your Honor.”

“I want you to know I spoke with the warden at county jail. Poncho will be punished for what he did to you. I also apologize for the hecklers outside the courthouse. Unfortunately, there isn’t much we can do about them. I’ve requested more police protection for you as you enter and leave the court.”

“I appreciate the concern, Your Honor.” Bryce wasn’t sure if punishing Poncho would make his life better or worse.

His preliminary hearing lasted less than three hours. At the close, Judge Shapiro commented. “All the state has to do at a preliminary hearing is produce probable cause to believe a crime was committed. And the person in custody had the opportunity and means by which to commit that crime.”

To no one’s surprise, except Bryce, the judge believed this had been done. “But the defendant, Caleb Bryce,” Judge Shapiro added, “is innocent until such time as the state of Oregon can prove, without a reasonable doubt, that he indeed abused Scott Sterling and murdered Skyler Sterling.”

Kendra’s motion for a temporary restraining order against the Medford, Talent, and Ashland newspapers to block out further coverage until after the trial was denied. However, Judge Shapiro did approve an injunction that prohibited police and sheriff’s officers, the District Attorney and his deputies, from any further discussion of the Bryce case with the news media.

“One more thing.” Judge Shapiro turned to Bryce and smiled, the lines on either side of his mouth deepening. “Try to stay out of the ring. From the looks of that face, Joe Frazier wasn’t one of your childhood role models.”

“Yes, sir,” Bryce said, grateful for a likeable and seemingly fair judge.

Later that same evening, Bryce slumped over the table in his cell, a tray of barely-touched fried chicken, soggy string beans, and instant mashed potatoes, beside him. Having heard Assistant District Attorney Andrew Marshall’s spiel about the medical examiner’s report, he thought about what it would be like to be poisoned.

He imagined Skyler’s life trickling out of him like air leaking from a balloon. Caleb had studied enough anatomy to know a severed hepatic vein would cause a lot of blood to pool inside his tiny body. A red wave that heaved up and toppled the sleeping baby toward death, even without the added drug.

For an instant, he felt it again, that need to disappear the way he had so many years ago after he and Valerie divorced. And with that need came a realization of how he’d started his lifelong pattern of isolation and silence. Once he opened the door to them, they barged in and almost took over his life. He couldn’t—no, he wouldn’t, let that happen again.

A slow and certain understanding dawned for Bryce.

He paced his cell for another hour.

Bryce didn’t know where the anger came from, but when it rippled inside his chest and rose into his throat, he stifled the urge to scream, kicked the concrete wall instead, then grimaced in pain.

It wasn’t so much the isolation of prison that ate away at him. He had always lived inside his mind or the cover of a book. It was the kind of child, and later the kind of man he became—a river of silence.

But much more than loneliness, it was the terrible sameness of prison, the dull steel world of concrete and fluorescent lights that devoured him. He mourned for the small things—sunlight releasing the night from its shadows, walking under a black sky heavy with stars, the pungent smell of roses after rain, iridescent drops beaded on spider webs crisscrossing the delicate branches of the Japanese maples in Lithia Park.

Pausing in front of the trash can, Bryce stared at the discarded, crinkled newspaper. In the photo, he walked through the doors into the courthouse for his preliminary hearing. His first inclination was to laugh at the haggard and battered face staring up at him.

The humiliation of the newspaper article critical of his hospital volunteer work ripped at him. Joselyn Kennedy, the program director, befriended Bryce at a time when he desperately needed it. And the implication that she be held accountable, reproached somehow, for allowing a person like him, an accused child abuser and killer, to touch the newborn babies made him angrier than hell.

Something had to change, and he couldn’t depend on anyone except himself to make that change happen.