Blackburn

VICTIM NUMBER NINETEEN

The rape charge and one of the murder charges were dropped in April when Heather announced that she would not testify against Blackburn. It had taken her three and a half months of therapy and hypnosis, she said, but now she had grasped the reality of what had happened on the night she was attacked: Blackburn had not been her rapist, but her savior. While he had arrived too late to stop the rape, he had prevented the rapist from killing her. In order to do that, he'd had no choice but to kill the rapist. It had been justifiable homicide.

Blackburn read Heather's statement in the Houston Chronicle over and over again. His first thought was that she was overlooking some basic facts-such as that he should have killed Roy-Boy a week earlier, and that he had broken into her apartment in Roy-Boy's company. But then some of her words began to resonate in his brain.

"While I might wish that Mr. Blackburn had acted sooner," she said, "I cannot condemn him for not having done so. He is only human. He did the best that he could."

That was the key. Blackburn had fallen short of perfection… but no one was perfect. To be human was to fail, and Blackburn could not escape his own humanity. So if Heather was willing to absolve his sin, he had to be willing to forgive himself for committing it.

The State of Texas, however, was peeved. To make up for the charges it had lost, it added a new rape charge to the remaining murder charge.

This pissed Blackburn off.

"I didn't kill that woman," he told his attorney, "and I didn't rape her either. I didn't even go into the bedroom. I didn't even know she was there."

"I believe you," his attorney said.

Blackburn found no comfort in that. "It doesn't make sense. They've known all along that she was raped before she was killed, so if they were going to charge me with it, why didn't they do it when they charged me with her murder?"

"Because the physical evidence didn't support it," his attorney said. "The tests showed that the rapist had a different blood type."

"Roy-Boy's."

"Yes. But now the prosecution will argue that you and he committed the crime together-that you also raped her, but didn't ejaculate. You see, even though there's no physical evidence, the jury's likely to believe you did it just because the state accuses you of it. And that'll help the prosecution push for a conviction and a capital penalty on the murder charge."

"But there's no evidence for the murder charge either," Blackburn said.

The attorney looked down at his notes. "Well, there's no physical evidence," he said. "But you've already confessed to killing a man in Goodland, Kansas, in 1981, and another in Kansas City in 1982. You haven't been charged with those crimes, but the prosecution will make a big deal of them anyway. Furthermore, you've admitted to being in the murdered woman's apartment on the night she was killed, and the police found a homeless man who'll testify to seeing you enter the premises within fifteen minutes of the time of death. That's close enough for a jury."

"But I didn't enter with Roy-Boy," Blackburn said. "He went in through a window in the back, where the woman was. Didn't anyone see him?"

"Apparently not. But even the state admits he was there, so that's the route we'll take during the trial. We'll try to make the jury believe that he did it, and that you entered the apartment several minutes later."

"Well, that's what happened," Blackburn said.

"I believe you," his attorney said.

This time Blackburn not only found no comfort in the statement, but heard that it was a lie. His instincts told him that if he was going to get out of this mess, he would have to do it himself. This time, he would listen to them.

The hearing on the new rape charge took place on Wednesday, May 14, 1986, Blackburn's twenty-eighth birthday. His lawyer arranged for him to be allowed to wear a suit and tie instead of jail fatigues, but he was transported to the courthouse in handcuffs and leg shackles. His lawyer was not allowed to accompany him in the van.

He sat on a wooden bench in the van's rear compartment. Three Texas Department of Public Safety troopers serving as guards sat on a bench across from him. They wore cowboy hats and mirrored sunglasses. They reminded him of Officer Johnston.

"You know that needle they stick in your arm," one of the troopers said. "Supposed to be painless, but it ain't."

Another trooper nodded. "It's as big around as a garden hose."

"Sometimes they have to dig for twenty or thirty minutes to find the vein," the third trooper said.

Blackburn watched them. They were pretending to be talking to each other, but their message was for him.

"Personally," the first trooper said, "I wisht they hadn't gone to the needle at all. It hurts some, but not enough. Not as much as this boy hurt that woman he killed."

"I've never killed a woman," Blackburn said.

The troopers turned toward him. Their mirrorshades reflected his face six times. The van went over a bump, and the reflections jiggled.

"Shut up, boy," the second trooper said. "Don't speak unless you're spoken to."

"You were speaking to me," Blackburn said.

The third trooper reached across with his rubber baton and jabbed Blackburn in the stomach. Blackburn saw it coming and tensed his muscles for it, then doubled over to make the trooper happy.

"Don't puke on them shiny shoes," the first trooper said. "The judge won't like it."

"Judges frown on puke," the second trooper said.

Blackburn sat up and smiled.

"Wipe that grin off," the third trooper said, "or I'll give you another politeness lesson. You hear?"

"Yes," Blackburn said. "Thank you."

The troopers glanced at each other-or seemed to; it was hard to tell with the mirrorshades-and then laughed.

" 'Thank you,' " the first trooper repeated. "Ain't that polite?"

"Polite as Sunday school," the second trooper said.

"Why you thanking us, boy?" the third trooper asked.

"For giving me a reason," Blackburn said.

"A reason for what?" the first trooper asked. Blackburn said nothing.

The van stopped in a tunnel under the courthouse, and the troopers hustled Blackburn to a courtroom where the third trooper took a set of keys from his shirt pocket and removed Blackburn's handcuffs and leg shackles. That was another concession that Blackburn's attorney had won for him. It was to be the last one.

The hearing was quick. Blackburn's attorney protested the rape charge, but the judge let it stand. Since Blackburn was to be tried for murder anyway, the judge said, the state might as well kill two birds with one stone and try him for rape at the same time. If the charge had no merit, the jury could say so. Bail was denied. Blackburn's attorney sighed and said nothing more.

Five minutes later Blackburn was in handcuffs and shackles again. Five minutes after that he was back in the van with the three DPS troopers, waiting on the driver and shotgun rider. The driver and shotgun rider had not expected to be needed again so soon, and had gone to the courthouse cafeteria. One of Blackburn's troopers called them on a walkie-talkie, but they replied that it would be a few minutes before they could return to the tunnel.

The troopers didn't seem to mind.

"Tough break in court today," the first one said in mock sympathy.

"Guess you won't be raping anyone else," the second said.

"I've never raped anyone," Blackburn said.

The third trooper jabbed him with the baton again. This time Blackburn didn't double over.

"I've never raped anyone," Blackburn repeated, "and I've never killed a woman. Men, yes. But never a woman."

"How many men?" the first trooper asked.

"Just so we know how scared we should be," the second said.

"Eighteen," Blackburn said. "So far."

The troopers laughed.

" 'So far,' " the third one said. "Whoo, this boy's a mean one."

"You remember them all, do you?" the first trooper asked. "Every man you killed, every way you did it?"

"Yes," Blackburn said.

"Well, hell, enlighten us," the second trooper said. "We got time. Who was your first one? A cripple in a wheelchair?"

The troopers were chuckling. They thought Blackburn was a psychopathic freak who needed to hurt women to feel strong. They didn't believe he had killed any men.

Blackburn stared at his six reflections. "The first one," he said, "was a cop."

The troopers stopped chuckling.

"It was my seventeenth birthday," Blackburn said, "eleven years ago today. It was even a Wednesday. He was the city cop of my hometown in Kansas. He shot a dog on the steps of the Nazarene church, so I took his gun and killed him. The gun was a Colt Python with a four-inch barrel." He nodded at the third trooper. "Like the one in your holster. Most people with three fifty-sevens have Smith and Wessons, but I was always glad to have a Colt."

"There's nothing wrong with Smith and Wessons," the first trooper said.

"Hell, no," the second said.

"I never said there was," Blackburn said.

The third trooper stood, crouching because of the low ceiling, and shoved his baton into the loop on his belt. His hand went to the butt of his pistol. "Boys," he said, "if you would like to go for a cup of coffee, I would be happy to stay with the prisoner."

The first trooper looked up at him. "You know we can't do that."

"He's shackled," the third trooper said. "And you don't have to be gone long."

The second trooper shook his head. "Anything you want to do, you can do with us here. We won't say a word."

"Two minutes," the third trooper said. "That's all I want. You can stay close to the van if you're worried."

The first trooper shrugged. "What the hell. I ain't worried."

The second trooper shrugged too. "Okay. What the hell."

The first and second troopers left the van and shut the door. The third trooper unsnapped his holster's safety strap and removed his pistol. It was identical to Blackburn's old Python.

"You want to take this from me?" the trooper asked, holding up the gun.

Blackburn saw no point in lying. "Yes," he said.

"You want it bad enough to kill me for it?" the trooper asked.

Blackburn considered. "No," he said. "I do want to kill you, but taking the gun would be incidental."

The trooper cocked the Python and pointed it at Blackburn's face. "Why do you want to kill me, then?"

Again, Blackburn saw no point in lying. "Because you're a sadistic prick."

The trooper came close and placed the gun muzzle against Blackburn's left cheek. "You got an answer for everything," he said. "So answer me this: Why do I want to kill you?"

The muzzle pressed upward. It hurt, but Blackburn ignored it.

"Because you're a sadistic prick," he said.

The trooper took the muzzle away from Blackburn's cheek and then hit him on the other side of the face with the Python's butt. Blackburn fell and lay on the bench. He heard the roar of blood in his skull.

"I just got done healing," he said, trying not to wince. "Don't you think people will notice a new bruise on my face?"

"You're wearing shackles," the trooper said. "You tripped, you fell. Happens all the time. Besides, nobody cares if you get hurt. Folks want a shit like you to get hurt. You've for damn sure caused enough hurt yourself."

Blackburn pushed himself back up to a sitting position. "I've never killed anyone the world wasn't better off without," he said. "Maybe a few wives and kids have suffered some grief from what I've done, but not as much as they would have suffered if I'd let the sons of bitches stay alive."

"My uncle wasn't no son of a bitch," the trooper said.

Blackburn was taken aback. "Excuse me?"

"He was a cop in Liberal, Kansas," the trooper said, "and some punk shot him. We never knew who." He pointed the pistol at Blackburn's face again. "Now I know."

Blackburn frowned. "I've never been to Liberal. The cop I killed was in Wantoda."

"Never heard of it."

"That proves it, then," Blackburn said. "You've got the wrong punk."

"Maybe." The trooper lowered the Python and uncocked it. Then he replaced it in his holster and pulled out his baton. "But you'll do for now. And don't worry, I'll stay off your face."

Blackburn compressed himself into a ball. The trooper beat him on the back and legs for a while, then kicked him off the bench. Blackburn lay on the metal floor, staring at the trooper's boots. The trooper beat him some more, then stopped, breathing hard.

"Get up," the trooper said.

Blackburn managed to rise to his knees. The trooper hit him in the face with a forearm, and he fell again.

"I told you to get up," the trooper said.

Blackburn didn't move. "You said you'd stay off my face."

The trooper spat on him. "Pussy," he said.

Blackburn struggled up to his knees again. As he did so, the door made a noise, and the trooper turned toward it. Blackburn found himself at eye level with the butt of the trooper's Python. The trooper had not refastened his holster's safety strap.

The door opened. The first and second troopers began to climb into the van. The third trooper began to say something to them.

Blackburn brought up his manacled hands and pulled the Python from the holster. His right thumb cocked it, and his index finger curled around the trigger.

The third trooper turned back, thrusting his baton at Blackburn's face.

The Python fired as the baton glanced from Blackburn's forehead. The bullet caught the trooper in the breastbone, and he spun into his companions. All three troopers fell to the pavement outside the van.

Blackburn got to his feet and shuffled to the open door, pointing the pistol down at the troopers. Their sunglasses and hats had been knocked away. The third trooper lay prone across the other two, who lay on their backs. Blackburn jumped down and landed on his knees on the third trooper. The two troopers underneath groaned. The third trooper was quiet.

Five men stood nearby at the courthouse entrance. Two of them were uniformed police officers. The officers turned toward the van and reached for their weapons. As they did so, Blackburn cocked the Python again and placed its muzzle against the nose of the first trooper.

"Gunfire would make me twitch," Blackburn shouted. His voice rang from the tunnel's concrete walls.

The officers froze with their weapons still in their holsters.

"Your friend was hurting me," Blackburn told the two troopers on the pavement. "I had to defend myself. You understand that, don't you?"

The troopers stared up at him.

"Doesn't matter, then," Blackburn said. He pressed down on the Python, flattening the first trooper's nose. "Get his keys and unlock my handcuffs. If you're slow, or if either of you tries to take out his Smith and Wesson, I'll assume that you mean to hurt me. You have ten seconds. One thousand one. One thousand two."

The first trooper unbuttoned the third trooper's shirt pocket and pulled out the keys. They were wet with blood. One of the second trooper's arms, pinned under the third trooper, moved a little.

"If you jostle me," Blackburn said, interrupting his count, "my Colt might go off." It wasn't a threat, but a statement of fact. This Python had a more sensitive trigger than his old one.

The second trooper lay still.

"One thousand eight," Blackburn continued.

The first trooper unlocked the handcuffs. Blackburn pulled his left hand free and took the keys. Then, keeping the Python against the trooper's nose with his right hand, he reached back with his left and unlocked the leg shackles without looking at them. He had been paying close attention when they had been removed earlier.

"This won't solve anything, James," a voice said.

Blackburn looked up and saw his attorney approaching. The attorney's hands were spread, and his forehead gleamed. He stopped a few feet away.

"Put down the gun before things get any worse," the attorney said.

Blackburn was amused. He had just shot and killed a Texas DPS trooper. From a legal standpoint, things were as bad as they could get.

"You have a car in the parking lot?" Blackburn asked.

"No," his attorney said. It was a lie. Blackburn had gotten good at telling when his attorney was lying. It was most of the time.

"Take me fishing for my birthday?" Blackburn asked.

His attorney looked confused. "I don't think so."

"Oh, come on," Blackburn said. "I haven't been fishing since I was a kid." He stood, but kept the Python pointed at the first trooper's face. "Let's go."

His attorney looked from side to side, as if for help. No one else in the tunnel moved. "Taking a hostage won't improve your position," the attorney said.

"What hostage?" Blackburn said. He stepped off the troopers and gripped his attorney's arm. "If I wanted a hostage, I wouldn't use a lawyer. The whole point of hostage-taking is to pick someone the police don't want to shoot." He shifted the Python's aim so that its muzzle touched the attorney's left ear. "Anyone who follows us outside," he shouted, "will be sued by this man's estate."

Blackburn and his attorney walked backward out of the tunnel into hazy sunlight. The air was thick with Houston steam and smelled of automobile exhaust and mold. Blackburn wondered what had ever possessed him to move down here in the first place. Except for one sweet night with Heather, Houston had been a bad idea.

The attorney's car, a Chrysler New Yorker, was parked close to the courthouse in a space reserved for the handicapped.

"You're not handicapped," Blackburn said, pushing his attorney around to the passenger side of the car.

"I'm not going to take lessons on morality from a man who just blew open another man's chest," the attorney said.

"I was trying to aim for his head," Blackburn said, "but this thing has a hair trigger. Now get in and slide over. You're driving."

They entered the car, and the attorney drove out of the parking lot into downtown traffic. "I can't believe they haven't tried to pick you off yet," he muttered.

"Whose side are you on, anyway?" Blackburn asked. He wiped his hands on the velour seat, then reached into his attorney's jacket and took out a wallet. He removed the cash and stuffed it into his own jacket.

They were only four blocks from the courthouse when sirens began wailing. The attorney wasn't driving fast enough. At the next red light, Blackburn tucked his new Python into the back waistband of his slacks and left the car, tugging his jacket down to make sure it hid the pistol. As he ran between cars to the sidewalk, the Chrysler's horn blared.

Blackburn ran up one street and down another, then ducked into a hotel. He stepped into an elevator and rode up to the eleventh floor with a fat businessman who had a parking-garage ticket sticking up from his breast pocket. He followed the man to his room, pushed his way inside when the man opened the door, and then tied the man's wrists to the shower curtain rod with his belt and gagged him with a hand towel. He stole the man's car keys and parking-garage ticket, then left the room and took the stairs down to the garage. There was a car-alarm remote control on the key ring, so he pressed the button and followed the chirps to a Mercedes sedan. The parking attendant didn't even glance at him while handing him his change.

He left the Mercedes in a Wal-Mart parking lot on the city's northern edge and stole a rusting Ford pickup whose owner had left the keys in the ignition. It was only after he was on a crumbling two-lane, heading northeast through the Texas countryside, that he realized his face and body ached from the third trooper's beating. Also, the Python was digging into his spine.

He pulled the gun from his waistband. It fit his hand as if it were part of it.

Today was his birthday, and he had just killed a cop who wore mirrored sunglasses. Maybe he would head for the Ozarks again. But first he would find a telephone and call Information for the numbers of Houston-area handicapped-persons' organizations. He would tell them about his attorney's parking habits.

Blackburn put the Python under the seat and then gazed down the road. He had never been here before, but the road looked just like a thousand other crumbling two-lanes he had driven. After eleven years, nothing had changed.

And if that meant that the world was still the same, at least it meant that he was too.