Ascension Day

41

Torvald Engelson, Tor or TDO to the other Libreville guards and inmates, liked to think of himself as a good and caring ‘death custodian’. Since the changeover from the electric chair to lethal injection in 1991, the final lethal dose was given by expert medical practitioners from outside, different ones each time, administered in a separate adjoining room to where it would finally feed through to Larry Durrant, strapped down to a gurney. And even with those six straps holding him down, each one would be secured by a different guard from the ‘execution team’. At each stage, responsibility for Durrant’s death was shifted as much as possible away from any single person.

In that same spirit, throughout the whole process Torvald himself would never touch Larry directly — except perhaps to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder the night before and say ‘goodbye’ — but it was Torvald’s responsibility to make all the preparations, make sure everything ran without hitch: arrange the practitioners, a medical examination of Durrant two hours before that, select the ‘execution team’, check-list of those who wished to be present in the viewing room, timing to go through to the ‘night-before’ cell, priest, last meal…?

Torvald had all of that turning through his head as he paced, clipboard and folder in hand, towards Larry’s cell.

At 41, a ‘striking’ rather than conventionally good-looking man, with a shock of dark blond hair and green eyes inherited from a Norwegian father, who forty years back had decided to fish in the warmer waters of the Gulf of Mexico, and pale mahogany skin-tone from an African-American mother — when he’d asked inmates why the nickname TDO, ‘The Dark One’, they’d answered that he had the darkest skin you could imagine for a blond-haired man. But Torvald suspected it was because of his work not only as death custodian, but also as one of the main guards in the prison hospice. They thought he had a fascination with death.

Not true, Torvald knew in his heart; in fact, quite the opposite. He did it because he cared; at times, probably too much. Horror stories abounded of the old electric chair malfunctioning and half-frying prisoners before they finally died; and with injections, prisoners with so many track marks that the IV for the poison feed couldn’t be inserted properly, or the necessary medical checks weren’t made and they reacted badly, their body contorting so wildly they had to be sat on by two or three guards.

Not on his watch. Prisoners had been stripped of all dignity in life, he was going to ensure it was at least there for them in death; and with that same philosophy, his work in the hospice had become a natural follow-on.

But the problem with all of that caring was that in the final hours, by necessity, Torvald would find himself drawn closer to the prisoners — then so quickly they’d be gone! Torvald had never quite got used to that wrench and the void it left. Though he’d never complained to the prison psychiatrist at the bi-annual counselling sessions established to ensure prison guards’ continuing stability; always feared that if he said anything, that duty might be taken away from him.

To him, the prisoners mental well-being in those final hours was more important than his own.

The guard on duty, Warrell, let Torvald through the last gate to Durrant’s cell-row. The clock on the wall behind read 5.38 p.m. Warrell then accompanied him for the final fifteen paces.

Closeness. Caring. The only problem with Larry Durrant was that over the past few years he’d become something of a favourite of Torvald’s; he held a soft spot for him aside from the extra closeness that, by necessity, the death process would bring.

It had only happened a couple of times before, when he’d allowed himself to get that close, and both times it had ripped his heart out.

Torvald closed his eyes for a second, solemn acceptance, as he nodded for Warrell to open Durrant’s cell door. This wasn’t going to be easy.

‘Four or five hours ahead, you reckon?’

‘Yeah. But if Ayliss got the flight I think he did, we might have shaved some back. He had a longer wait than me for the next flight there.’

At the other end of the line, the steady cadence of Roche’s breathing measuring options. Though for once Nel-M found it strangely soothing, like the gentle fall of surf. He could easily drift off to it: he hadn’t slept much on the flight from Vancouver, and no doubt more fitful hours lay ahead. He checked his watch: thirty-five minutes till boarding.

‘And getting a gun there?’

‘No problem. Dollars talk loud down there. Within a half-hour I’ll have found a guy in a Havana back street to sell me one, along with his sister thrown in as part of the deal.’

‘Okay.’ The breathing settling, accepting. ‘But we might have to face that if this Ayliss gets to Truelle first, he could break him before you even get there. It might be time to put our contingency plans into play.’

‘Suppose so.’ If they didn’t play those cards now, they never would.

‘Which means you and I have each got a call to make.’

Derminget’s APB announcement had gone out almost three hours after Jac went through the check-out at New Orleans Airport.

The passport officer there, Paul Styman, had found his eye drawn to Ayliss because of his crumpled cream suit and perspiring, anxious appearance — but he’d have nevertheless quickly waved him through; until, that is, he looked at his passport and flight destination. Seven years in Mexico, now heading to Nassau.

Styman decided to have his colleague check him against a list of suspected drug runners, just in case.

Nothing came up. He waved Ayliss through, and an hour after that he handed over his shift.

But when he returned eight hours later, within fifteen minutes he spotted the APB alert on screen when he leant over to check something else.

‘This is the guy we checked out early afternoon,’ he said to his colleague, still on from the earlier shift. ‘How long has this been through?’

His partner shrugged. ‘Five hours or so.’

‘And didn’t you recognize him?’

His partner shrugged again. He wasn’t sure he’d even looked at the man or the passport photo, had probably just tapped in the name for a match. And he’d done eighteen or twenty name checks since.

Styman looked at the contact details: Lieutenant Derminget. Eighth District. He called the number and explained what had happened.

‘Nassau?’ Derminget confirmed. ‘Eight or nine hours ago, you say?’

‘Yeah. But I remember it was a pretty roundabout route on the ticket. Stop-offs in Atlanta and Miami. He might not have arrived yet.’

‘Thanks.’ Derminget called out to one of his team to get through to Miami International while he phoned Nassau.

Both airports said that they’d get back directly with information.

Derminget tapped his fingers anxiously against one thigh as he paced up and down a tight four-yard run, waiting. As the hours of the day had ticked by without anything happening, no news or sightings of Ayliss, he’d feared he was in for another long haul. McElroy somehow alerted and gone to ground again.

Miami phoned back after nine minutes, Nassau after fourteen.

But with Miami informing them that Ayliss’s flight to Nassau had left over three hours ago, they knew that he’d have probably long since passed through Nassau customs. They weren’t holding their breath when Nassau’s call came through.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Derminget said almost disinterestedly. ‘Pretty much what we’d already guessed from the call we just had from Miami.’ Derminget checked his watch. Not that large an island. He’d just have to get the Bahamian police to try and track Ayliss down.

‘But then we have him catching a later flight to Havana with Cubana Airlines. Left not that long ago, by the looks of it.’

‘How long ago? How long?’ Derminget realizing that he was practically shouting as half the squad room looked over. The past week of McElroy giving him the run-around with Broughlan snapping at his heels had worn his nerves thin.

‘Just over forty minutes ago.’

‘And what’s the flight time from Nassau to Cuba?’

‘Uuuh…’ Sound of keyboard tapping. ‘An hour and a half.’

‘Thanks.’ Fucking yes… yes! It looked like they were still in time to have Ayliss stopped at Havana customs.

Derminget called across the squad room for someone who might have good Spanish.

Priest? ‘Yeah. As long as it’s Father Kennard and not that asshole Chaplain Foster. I think that Stephen King line — the important thing is whether God believes in you — went straight over his head.’

Torvald smiled as he got back to the rest of his check-list. Haveling holding his hand at the last minute? No. Larry could get to God on his own, thanks, didn’t need Haveling’s help. Last meal? Beef Po-Boy. Reminded him of his childhood and good ol’ days in the Ninth. Family and friends to be present at the execution, observing?

‘No… None. That’s why my family came today.’ Fran and Josh had trouble enough accepting his death, let alone watching it. ‘And Roddy and Sal and the rest here, I’ll say my goodbyes to tonight.’

‘Okay. But before ten, Larry — because that’s when you have to go through to the night-before cell. And if you want a shower, last chance is tonight, too. There’s a sink in tomorrow’s cell, but no access back to the showers or anything else this side.’

Larry nodded pensively. It was almost as if as soon as he went through that last gate at the end, he’d already died. No access back to the rest of the world. But perhaps that was just a natural continuance of his life for the past eleven years: gradually diminishing as he was shuffled from one box to another, access denied to family and friends, love and life, until there was only one box left.

Torvald felt his chest tighten as he watched the emotions on Larry’s face. Another part of his duty as death custodian: observe how the prisoner was coping with the situation. Last hours counsellor.

He’d started the meeting with a shrug and an apology. ‘Sorry about this, Larry. Few things to go through… some of them maybe seeming stupid.’ They knew each other too well to try and hide behind bullshit or formality. ‘But, you know, it’s gotta be done.’

‘That’s okay, Tor. Glad it’s you rather than some of those other oafs out there.’

Oafs. Torvald shared with Larry the guards he’d nominated for the execution team, Larry appreciative that he’d been careful to avoid any of Bateson’s clique. ‘Thanks.’

But from then on, Torvald had gone through the rest of his check-list mechanically to help shield his emotions; and he noticed too that Larry answered quickly, offhand, even when talking about his family visiting, who he hadn’t seen for a while.

And he wondered whether Larry too was trying to distance himself from what was happening, and was treating him coolly because, despite their past closeness, Larry now saw Torvald as part of the machinery of his death.

But it wasn’t that. It wasn’t that at all.

Because as much as Larry knew how the life had been crushed out of him these past long years, so that now there was only a faint vestige left — he’d also seen it crushing his wife and son that day. The years for it to take its toll on him, he’d seen oppressing them in only a few minutes as they faced what was happening to him the next day, that terrible weight slumping their shoulders. And at the last second, as they realized he might see the last hope dying in their eyes, they made sure to avert them, wouldn’t look at him directly.

And he could see it happening now too with Torvald Engelson. This guard who he’d exchanged more thoughts with than any other guard over the years — had recommended books on Norse and Viking history and Beowulf when he’d wanted to learn about his Norwegian roots, and fifteen months back had shared with him how he’d coped with his mother dying when Torvald lost his father — could hardly look him in the eye any more, his shoulders slumped too with what was about to happen to Larry, even though, as death custodian that process should have long ago stopped fazing him.

But Larry didn’t, couldn’t blame them; he blamed the system. The death-penalty machinery that crushed relentlessly all in its path.

In murder cases, premeditation was a vital factor; Larry should know more than most, because it was one thing argued as missing in his own case to try and spare him the death penalty. The final element that transformed random violence to callous calculation.

If a murderer admitted in court that they’d told their victim they were going to kill them at a specific time on a certain day, then left them in a cell to contemplate their impending death — the jury would consider it one of the most chilling, calculating murder accounts they’d ever heard.

And the victim, unwilling to accept their fate, would scream and claw at the cell walls. The family too, if told of that impending fate, would wail and scream and protest.

But prisoners on death-row didn’t. Their shoulders simply slumped, the light of hope faded from their eyes, and they accepted.

Because it was the system.

The weight of it pressing inch by inch down on them. Accept. Accept. Accept. Until they caved in totally in defeat, no hope left for them to cling to.

And as ten minutes later Torvald finished his briefing and the cell door slammed back behind him, Larry had never felt so cold and alone, the impact jarring icily through him, making him shiver. His eyes filled, a single tear rolling out; that too feeling lonely and cold as it trickled down one cheek. Alone.

At the last minute, Torvald had reached out and touched Larry’s arm. ‘If there’s anything you need over these next hours, Larry… just ask.’ And at that second, he did finally meet Larry’s eye, and Larry saw what he’d suspected: that last light of hope had gone from them.

Because as much as at times he’d given up on himself, there’d always been that light and hope and warmth from others; he could see it in their eyes. And now that was finally gone, there was nothing left. No hope. Nothing left to save him.

Within three hours, Bob Stratton had a list of likely MO mug-shots for the 4^th Street grand-auto theft of twelve years ago, and an hour and a half after that had received an update with current mug-shots of those still active now.

Sixteen photos. But only five looked like they might have a chance of matching the partial cam-shots and the description Ayliss had given him. Stratton looked at his watch: 6.34 p.m. If he was quick and downtown traffic was kind, he just might be able to get them in front of the staff at the Internet cafe before they closed at 7 p.m.

He got there with four minutes to spare, but there was some calling out as to who might have been working the day in question, before a light bulb of recognition came on in the eyes of a blonde-with-a-green-stripe wiping down the espresso machine. Tracy.

‘Yeah… yeah, I remember,’ Tracy said. ‘Lawyer guy that phoned in a panic and ran in a couple of weeks back, just missed the guy. Gave him a cam-video to take away.’

‘That’s the one.’ Stratton had decided to show her all sixteen mug-shots in sets of four at a time, and laid the cam photos to one side as a reminder. ‘Now, out of these… anyone that looks like the guy that was here that day?’

One photo in set two, though she couldn’t be sure; but then she twisted her mouth in the same way over another photo in set three. ‘Uuuh, again, I can’t be a hundred per cent sure.’

Stratton put the two photos side by side. ‘Strongest bet — if you were forced to choose?’

She pointed to one, but then seconds later became unsure and her finger wavered over the other. ‘I’m sorry… on this one his hair just isn’t right, too wild, too much of an Afro — but the rest, hmmm? Maybe his hair’s changed since this photo.’ Tracy tilted her head, as if to get a better angle. ‘If they were both smiling, I’d know for sure.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘He’s got a big gap between his front teeth.’

Stratton could just imagine how that advice would go down with police departments: ensuring there’s no smiling on mug-shots might make perps look more severe and menacing, more like criminals, but you miss out on valuable dental recognition.

Stratton nodded with a no-teeth smile. In the end, not enough to choose between them; he’d just have to chase up both. ‘Thanks.’

And as soon as Stratton got back in his car, he called his contact again, Jack Harris of Fourth District, and got addresses for both names.

‘Last known for Roland Cole is Mid-City… and Steve Thelwood, along the coast at Long Beach.’

Stratton wrote down the addresses. ‘Great. Thanks, Jack.’ Then he tried Ayliss’s number to bring him up to date, but it didn’t answer. Still plane-hopping, no doubt.

When he got to the address in Mid-City, Roland Cole wasn’t there and the new apartment tenant didn’t know of his whereabouts. ‘I been here seven months now, and you’re not the first person called askin’ for him,’ a Biggie-Small look-alike in jogging pants and a vest informed him. ‘Easy to see now why he left no forwardin’.’

Stratton headed along the coast to Long Beach.

There were times when head-guard Glenn Bateson liked to stamp his authority on Libreville; that sense of power over the life and death of its inmates would hit him strongly, make his head almost swim with it, and he’d in turn mark his presence by making his boot-step heavier, more purposeful, along its corridors.

He could practically feel that step shuddering through prisoners from thirty or forty paces away, getting more intense with each stride, so that when he finally came alongside their cells, they could barely look at him, a scant fearful glance that said, ‘I’m not really here. You didn’t see me.’

He felt that way now; that sense of power over life and death stronger than he could remember in a long while, as he paced towards the cell of Tally Shavell. But his step wasn’t heavy now, in fact it was far lighter than normal, because he didn’t want to bring attention to where he was heading.

No scant or uneasy look as Shavell greeted him, those cold, soulless dark eyes stayed on him steadily, unwavering. Equal ground; equal control over life and death at Libreville. The only emotion Shavell showed was the faint lifting of one eyebrow as Bateson explained what he wanted.

‘I know.’ Bateson thought he hadn’t heard right at first and had asked Nel-M to repeat himself above the background activity and voices. Somewhere busy. ‘Hit me as strange too, given the timing.’

Shavell kept the eyebrow raised. ‘And for doin’ this good deed?’

‘Thirty grand. In cash to a named account, or translated into disposable goods in here.’ Bateson smiled crookedly; he was on the same, and they’d probably each make another thirty big ones from the pills or powder sold on. ‘If you know what I mean?’

Shavell’s eyes shifted from Bateson as he started planning things out in his mind, with no acknowledgement as Bateson left his cell.