Death Match

THIRTY-TWO

Assistant district attorney Frank Piston shifted morosely in the wooden chair. He’d have given just about anything, he decided, to get his hands on the sadist who purchased the furniture for the Sullivan County Superior Court. Just ten minutes — even five — in a dark alley would suffice to make his feelings on the matter clear. He’d been in dozens of courtrooms, judges’ chambers, law offices in the five-story building. Each one had the same bony chairs with flat institutional seats, backs sporting little knobs in all the wrong places. Here in the hearing room of the Board of Pardons and Paroles, it was no different.

He glanced at his watch, sighing disconsolately. Six o’clock on the dot. Figured his case would be the last one heard. By rights, it should have been first on the list. After all, it wouldn’t take more than a few minutes to dispose of the matter, send Edmund Wyre back to the slammer to rot another ten years. But no, he’d had to sit through a dozen hearings, each more boring than the last. It was unbelievable, the shit an assistant DA had to go through. Everybody else had gone home an hour ago, but here he was, numb from the ass down. He’d endured four years of law school, spent close to a hundred grand, for this?

There’d been a scary moment — half an hour before, when that serial rapist’s case had come up — when he thought the parole board would adjourn for the day and he’d have to come back again next week for another torture session. But no, they’d decided to hear the last few cases. They’d denied the rapist parole, of course. Just like they’d denied most of the rest. This board was rough. He reminded himself that, if he ever committed a crime, he’d damn well better do it in another county.

Finally, it was time. The drunk driver who’d run over an elderly pedestrian — aggravated manslaughter, twenty years — parole denied. No surprise there. And now Walt Corso, sour-faced old head of the parole board, cleared his throat.

“The Board of Pardons and Paroles will now review the case of Edmund Wyre,” he said, glancing down at a clipboard on the table before him.

There was a general shuffling among the sea of faces on the far side of the board table. All twelve members of the board were on hand, Piston noticed — which was necessary, of course, whenever a murderer’s case came up. Now that the glum-faced relatives of the drunk driver had shuffled out, the room was almost empty. It was just the board, a court officer, a transcriber, some state officials, and himself. Not even a reporter. There was no way in hell Wyre was going free; everybody knew that. Piston didn’t even understand how the guy had come up for parole so early. You didn’t kill six people and then just—

There was movement to his right: a door opening. And then, Edmund Wyre himself appeared, handcuffed, prison guards on either side.

Piston sat up. This was unusual. Had Wyre hired a lawyer? What the hell was he doing here in person?

The board, however, was not surprised. They watched in silence as Wyre was led before the table. Piss-and-vinegar Corso glanced down again at his clipboard, scribbled a notation. “I understand, Mr. Wyre, that you wished to be present at this hearing, but that you’ve waived the services of a lawyer or parole consultant, preferring to represent yourself?”

Wyre nodded. “That’s right, sir,” he said in a deferential tone.

“Very well.” Corso glanced up and down the table. “Who’s the parole officer?”

One of the state officials seated in the rear stood up. “I am, sir.”

“Forster, is it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come forward.”

The man named Forster came down the center aisle. Wyre looked over, nodded.

Corso folded his arms on the table and leaned toward the parole officer. “I must say, Forster, we were surprised to learn of this man’s eligibility.”

You’re not the only one, Frank Piston thought.

“Mr. Wyre’s sentences weren’t stacked, sir,” Forster said. “They’re being served concurrently.”

“I’m aware of that.”

Wyre, the killer, cleared his throat. He glanced down at a piece of paper in his hand. “Sir,” he began, “because of my health, I’d planned to ask for a special needs parole—”

This was too much. Wyre looked and sounded the picture of health. Piston stood up quickly, his wooden chair squeaking loudly against the floor.

Corso glanced over, frowning. “You wish to interject, Mister—?”

“Piston. Frank Piston. Assistant district attorney.”

“Ah yes, young Piston. Proceed with your interruption.”

“May I point out, sir, that offenders convicted of aggravated offenses are not eligible for special needs paroles?”

“The board is aware of that, thank you. Mr. Wyre, you may proceed.”

“As I was saying, sir, I had planned to ask for a special needs parole. But then I learned it would not be necessary.”

“So the case summary says.” Corso glanced at the parole officer. “Mr. Forster, would you care to explain?”

“Sir, Mr. Wyre has amassed a remarkable amount of good conduct time. The maximum permissible, in fact.”

Piston sat forward. Now, that was bullshit. He’d heard more than once about the kind of trouble Wyre had caused in prison. He was the worst of offenders, a stone killer with the mind of a fox. He was always turning prisoners against each other, inciting fights and riots, sowing dissent with the guards. Not to mention that string of jailhouse murders. You didn’t exactly rack up “good time” for shanking fellow inmates, even if nothing could be proven.

“Said good conduct time, along with Wyre’s community service, participation in work programs and rehabilitation encounter groups, has accelerated his eligible parole date — with mandatory supervision factored in, of course — to September 29 of this year.”

Piston felt a current of shock go through him. Immediately, he stood again. September 29 was two days ago. Wyre’s eligible? Already? Impossible.

Corso glanced over. “You have something further to add, Mr. Piston?”

“No. I mean, yes. Good conduct time is a privilege, not a right. It doesn’t change the fact that Wyre here killed six people, including two police officers.”

“Are you forgetting, Mr. Piston, that Mr. Wyre here was convicted, and sentenced, for the murder of one person?”

Piston swore silently. This was true: Wyre had only been brought to trial for the murder of his final victim. There had been legal technicalities involved, some bungling of the evidence. Though it seemed foolish in hindsight, the DA had wanted to go for the one sure conviction rather than taking a chance on having Wyre walk on circumstantials. There’d been a hue and cry in the press at the time — didn’t these jokers remember that?

Aloud, he said, “I’m not forgetting, sir. I’m only asking that the circumstances of the murders, the nature of Wyre’s atrocities, be factored in—”

“Mister Piston. Are you telling the parole board how to do its job?”

Piston swallowed. “No, sir.”

Corso shook a sheaf of papers over the desk at him. “Do you have all the facts of this hearing? Are you in possession of this case summary?”

“No, sir.”

“Then sit down and bite your tongue, young man, until you have something of value to add.”

Wyre glanced back at Piston. It was a brief, almost casual look, but it chilled the lawyer to the bone. It was the kind of look a cat gave a canary. Then the convict turned back, smiling once again at the board.

Piston — shaken by the parole eligibility, unnerved by the eye contact with Wyre — tried to calm down, think straight. He had to remember who he was dealing with here. Everybody knew Wyre had killed those two cops. He’d set them up, stalked them, planned on killing an FBI agent as well. Old Corso wasn’t likely to forget that, either, and he was as close to being a hanging judge as any parole chief could be. Anyway, there would be all the details of the case summary to wade through. That’s where Wyre would get nailed, if nowhere else.

Corso seemed to read his mind. “Very well, Mr. Forster, let’s get to this summary of yours. The entire board has had a chance to look at it. I must say we were all a little surprised by your findings, none more than myself.”

“I understand that completely, sir. But I stand by both the evaluation and the pertinent data.”

“Oh, I’m not questioning anything, Mr. Forster. You’ve always proved yourself conscientious in your case work. We’re just… a little surprised, that’s all.” Corso leafed through the summary report. “These social profiles, the psychological batteries, Wyre’s history of institutional adjustment. I’ve never seen such scores.”

“Neither have I, sir,” said Forster.

Standing beside the parole officer, Wyre’s eyes glittered.

“And these testimonials you’ve procured are equally remarkable.”

“They were all in the database, sir.”

“Hmm.” Corso riffled through the final pages of the document, then pushed it aside. “Yet I don’t know why we are so surprised. After all, we’re here because we believe in the efficacy of our prison system — no? We’ve struggled to bring these services, these opportunities for rehabilitation, to our inmates. So why should we be so shocked when we come face to face with an instance where this rehabilitation works? With a success story?”

Oh, my God, Piston thought. There was only one thing that could put Corso in a lenient mood. And that was the dangled carrot of advancement. Because Corso, the parole board head, was also Corso, would-be assemblyman. And transforming Edmund Wyre from sadistic murderer to reformed penitent would be a feather in his cap like no other…

But that couldn’t be, it simply wasn’t possible. Wyre was a puff adder, a malevolent nut case. What was in that case summary? What had happened on the tests?

“Sir,” Wyre said, gazing meekly at Corso, “in light of all this, I would like to request the board now grant my application for parole, set a release date, and formulate a plan for parole supervision.”

Piston stared in growing disbelief as Wyre glanced down again at the sheet of paper in his hand. He’s got this process nailed. Somebody’s coached him, shown him just what documents to read. But who?

Instinctively, he rose once again to his feet. “Mr. Corso!” he cried out.

The old man frowned at him. “What is it now?”

Piston’s mouth worked, but no words came. Wyre glanced casually over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed as he caught Piston’s gaze, and he licked his lips, slowly and deliberately: first the upper, then the lower.

Piston sat down abruptly. As the drone of conversation picked up again at the front of the room, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed the office. It was, as he expected, answered by the service. He began to dial his boss’s private number, then stopped. The DA was out on the links right now, grabbing a quick eighteen, and he would have turned his phone off, as always.

He replaced the phone in his pocket and stared back at the parole board with slow, dreamlike movements. Because this felt like a dream: one of those nightmares where you witnessed something terrible unfolding — something you knew would lead to tragedy, disaster — yet you remained paralyzed somehow, powerless to change anything, do anything…

And that was where the similarity ended. Because, Piston knew, one always woke from nightmare. But from this there would be no awakening.