Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 103, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 625 & 626, March 1994

Interrupted Sentence by John F. Suter

© 1994 by John F. Suter

As well as being an author of short mystery fiction, John Suter is a dedicated scholar of the form. He has provided this magazine with many excellent suggestions for reprint, so when he told us he had the “ultimate armchair detective story,” we took notice...

They were about to begin fastening the straps of the last chair he would ever sit in when Warren Johnson shifted his gaze to the window where the warden stood. “Hold on,” he said. “I have something important to tell you.”

The warden opened the door of the execution chamber. “Hold up a minute,” he said to the guards. To Johnson, he said, “You’ve had all your lasts. Quit stalling. We’ll go ahead, even if you talk yourself blue in the face.”

Johnson looked at him calmly. In spite of the pallor of five years since being sentenced, his was a memorable face, with deep-set black eyes under jet brows, high cheekbones, thin nose and lips, sharp chin.

“I know I might get only a few more minutes,” he answered, “but I have no illusions about the ending. I want to give you something.”

“Which is—?” demanded Warden Peters.

“The solution to the Bedford woman’s murder.”

The warden stared at him, no expression on his rough-cut face. Inwardly, he was alarmed. Could the slippery bastard be serious? Would his story, if he was allowed to tell it, get his sentence changed to life imprisonment? Peters was not bloodthirsty, but this one deserved what was coming.

“You have inside information?”

Johnson shook his head.

“This last week concentrated my mind, as the saying has it. I gave most of my attention to other things, chiefly the Bedford case. I know the answer, or I think I do. I’ll be glad to give my version, then you can go ahead.”

Six persons who were to be witnesses to the electrocution were watching through windows from another room overlooking the chamber. One of them, a short, rumpled reporter representing a pool for wire services and local papers, chuckled.

“The twisty SOB! Keeps ’em chasing their tails right up to the second they throw the switch. I’m gonna miss him.”

A slightly taller, solidly built woman in her mid-forties standing next to him remarked, “I don’t know as much about this Warren Johnson as I should. I have heard that he’s a serial killer, and he’s staved off execution for nearly five years. Have I missed something?”

The reporter looked at her. “You must not have been around much. Travel a lot?”

“Hardly at all,” she answered in a matter-of-fact tone. “I’m head nurse at General Hospital.”

He nodded. “Too busy. That figures. In those five years—”

He stopped abruptly. The warden was addressing the man in the chair, who seemed to have relaxed, his hands resting on its arms.

“I have no obligation to listen, Johnson. By law, I ought to go ahead and ignore your antics.”

“Suit yourself,” Johnson said. “I’m just offering a final good turn. Not that I’m in the least guilty of what they say I am. For all you know, they might never crack the Bedford case.”

Peters shuddered inside but let nothing show. He did not know what to think about the case. It was at a dead end, and he was glad that he was not investigating it. He glanced at the witnesses behind their window.

They were all watching intently, especially the reporter.

A wicked grin crossed the newsman’s face. He pointed to Johnson and clapped his other hand over his mouth. Then he pointed to the warden and drew the edge of his hand across his throat.

Peters got the message. If he refused to delay execution, to let Johnson reveal possibly vital information about a crime—

“All right,” he said. “So long as you realize this won’t stop what we started. Commence talking.”

“Well, now,” said the condemned man, “hadn’t we better get this down on paper or tape where it can be studied?”

“I’ll have our tape recorder brought—”

“Better yet,” Johnson went on, “why not call in the officer heading the investigation? The local cops covered it, and it should still be an open file.”

The warden looked at the witnesses again. He imagined that they could see the sweat running down his spine, hear his heart pounding.

The reporter — what was his name? Stonehill! — was staring hard at him. He nodded at the warden.

“All right. I’ll call police headquarters.”

He stepped back inside his observation room. The prison doctor was seated where he could watch the proceedings before going to pronounce the final verdict. He was a small, thin man with a full head of gray hair and an eternal poker face.

“Doc,” said the warden, “do me a favor. Get out of here to the nearest outside phone and call the governor. Fill him in on what’s goin’ on. Assure him that we’ll go ahead and fry this bastard as soon as this farce is over.”

The doctor got up. “Got you by the shorts, doesn’t he? But it’ll end up only one way. Okay.”

The warden was on the phone. When an alto voice answered, “Police Department,” he said, “This is Warden Peters, state penitentiary. Connect me with the chief...”

In the witness room, everyone had settled down in their chairs, talking. The nurse, whose name was Florence Taylor, gestured toward the man in the electric chair.

“This Warren Johnson — I can’t help having heard of him because of all the delays he’s caused — getting people on his side and other maneuvers. Still, not much, really. Am I right that he’s supposed to be very intelligent?”

Stonehill nodded. “Some people claim it’s just highly developed cunning. However, he’s been one of those people who never get a college degree, but keep taking course after course at community colleges.”

“But he’s supposed to be a serial killer, isn’t he?”

“Credited with six. All women. All badly cut up. Always left a taunting note. Cheap paper, childish writing. But done in fountain-pen ink.”

She looked surprised. “Fountain-pen ink? Why is that unusual? Everybody has a pen.”

Stonehill grinned. “Most of those pens are ballpoints. The ink is like printing ink, no water. Fountain-pen ink is water-based. That was one thing that nailed him. He had a fountain pen. The ink was the same as in the notes.”

“But they had to suspect him first.”

“Somebody noticed that the victims were all community college attendees, although Johnson was never in any of their classes. A policewoman was set up as bait on a wild hunch, and it worked.

“Of course, he denies it,” he said, as an afterthought. “Claims it was mistaken identity — she wanted to make the collar too much — won’t admit she could be wrong.”

“Is there a chance that he’s innocent?”

“Not likely. The pen? Useful, but not conclusive. But he did have a ring that had belonged to number six.”

She changed the subject. “The Bedford case. I’m not too familiar—”

Stonehill smiled. “Maybe you know it as the Robin Hood murder.” There was no time for more discussion. Warden Peters had entered the execution chamber, carrying a folding chair. A guard followed with a card table.

The guard opened the table and set it in front of Johnson. The warden placed the chair behind it.

He spoke to the condemned man. “The police are sending over Lieutenant Gates, the officer in charge of investigating the Bedford murder. Don’t try to pry privileged information. Don’t make any speeches. Don’t intrude your own predicament in any way. If you do, it comes to a dead halt, and we go ahead with your execution. Is that understood?”

Johnson’s voice was a pleasant baritone. “I’m perfectly willing to abide by your rules.”

“Then all we have to do is wait for Lieutenant Gates.” Peters turned and left the chamber.

Peters was not a nervous man. He had endured nearly every problem that a prison could produce. His apparent unemotional bearing was even now threatening to drive a wedge between himself and his wife. This time, however, he was searching his mind for a hint of what was behind Johnson’s stunt. Maybe his own fiber was beginning to deteriorate, maybe he was on the first step down.

He went into the hall, that place of hard surfaces, where no comfort ever made itself known. Two men were walking rapidly toward him, a guard and a blocky man who had to be the detective.

He stepped forward when they reached him. “Lieutenant Gates? Warden Peters.”

“Sir. I’m told you’ve got a problem.” They shook hands briefly.

“No problem. Just a delay. You might get something out of this. I wouldn’t count on it.”

Gates scanned him with gray eyes that gave nothing away. “We’ll see.”

The warden took Gates into the execution chamber. “Johnson, this is Lieutenant Gates, who’s in charge of the Bedford case. He’s here to listen to you. Lieutenant, you’ve heard of this man.”

“My pleasure,” Johnson said.

Gates acknowledged him with a nod, but said nothing. He put a tape recorder on the table, then sat down in the chair. He pushed the switch to start the recorder, dictated the date, time of day, and his name. “This will be a discussion with one Warren Johnson about the murder of Sarah Bedford,” he finished, then laid a notepad and pen by his right hand. He then pointed a large forefinger at Johnson. “Now, talk.”

Johnson leaned forward. Earlier, his expression seemed to mock; now, it was grave and truth-seeking.

“I must make it clear at once, Lieutenant, that I have no part in the Bedford crime. None of what I have to say came to me by way of the prison grapevine. My speculations came from what I have read in the newspapers, plus some analogies derived from things I’ve noticed in recent years. I can’t ask you to tell me information known to the police but not to the public. Please correct my mistakes, if possible. Comment on my accuracy, if advisable.

“All right. The Bedford family. Husband, Arnold. Wife, Sarah. Both in their mid-thirties. Two children, a boy, Arthur, ten, and a girl, Lynne, eight. A typical middle-class family until eighteen months ago.

“Arnold Bedford had been the manager of a better-class fast-food house, part of a small chain. It had been very successful, partly because it was situated only one block from one of the two local high schools. The enrollment of both schools fell, restaurant maintenance rose, and both schools merged — at the other location. Obviously, business at the restaurant declined, and none of Bedford’s marketing skills could bring it back. The chain closed that location, and Arnold was out of a job. He is still unemployed.

“Of course, they were living comfortably until then, so Bedford tried to find work. There was nothing for him in the restaurant business. The competition is so ferocious that all have to fight to keep open. I don’t know what he tried to do to maintain his household. The papers have never said.”

“Telephone solicitation — telephone surveys — you name it. Nothin’ that pays much,” Gates said. “A few investments. Marginal.”

“Just so,” Johnson went on. “Then, as is sometimes the case, the roles in the household reversed. Sarah had some skills as a legal secretary, and she was hardworking. She was also attractive and intelligent. She had no difficulty in becoming the breadwinner.

“She was a very good-looking woman. I’m sure everybody’s seen her picture in the paper.”

“Well, her husband’s no wimp, himself,” Gates commented. “She had the money, and he didn’t. Or isn’t that important?”

“Important? Oh, yes, because it underlines what often happens in marriages. Sarah had the power, and it’s rumored that she began looking elsewhere for Arnold’s substitute.”

“Rumored,” Gates remarked.

“Without direct information, I can only speculate that Sarah left Arnold as sitter for the children more and more frequently,” Johnson said.

“There’s some evidence of that, yes.”

“Then, on the night of March twenty-ninth, roughly three months ago, Sarah left home, ostensibly to attend a meeting on ways to sharpen her skills. She drove the family car, a blue Volvo. Arnold was at home with the children, seeing that they did their homework.

“When midnight came, and Sarah had not returned, Arnold became worried. If Sarah was truly being unfaithful, she had not shoved it in his face, so far. Still, he called only one or two of her associates who were supposed to be at the meeting. They told him that she had been there, but had left when the session was over at ten-thirty.

“This made Arnold worry. She was really flaunting an involvement, or something had happened. He decided to call the police.

“However, they called him first.

“At a little after one A.M., on a tip from a person who had driven through the parking lot of a third-rate motel to turn around, the police discovered the Volvo in the back end of that lot. The door on the driver’s side was open. Beside it, slumped against the car, was the bloody body of Sarah Bedford, her throat pierced by an arrow.”

“The Robin Hood angle,” Stonehill remarked to Florence.

“The case has many unresolved angles,” Johnson went on. “What was Sarah Bedford doing there? Had she a rendezvous at the motel, or had she been forced to drive there for some reason? Arnold Bedford, the usual prime suspect, seemed unlikely to have killed her. He was sitting with his children. True, he could have waited until they seemed to be asleep, sneaked out, arrived at Sarah’s rendezvous, and killed her. But his boy Arthur had trouble going to sleep, and he says that his father didn’t leave the house. As for another man, none has been fingered yet. And the weapon: why shoot her with an arrow? Because it was silent? So much for information from the press.”

He stopped, waited in vain for comment, then resumed.

“Now, my own speculation. As for alibis, it’s now well known that guilty individuals can hire hit persons to commit crimes for them. If I were a police detective, I would have checked the Bedford bank account, or accounts. Were any unusual sums of money withdrawn? Was Sarah insured in Arnold’s favor? This, I admit, would require lots of patience in Arnold. Insurance companies are reluctant to pay without clear answers to their questions.”

Gates remained silent. He had made a few notes on his pad.

Stonehill whispered to Florence, “Watch Johnson. Until now, he’s been looking the cop in the eye. Now he’s glued to the notes Gates is making.”

“Of course,” Johnson went on, “payment doesn’t have to be in money. But transfer of property — car, expensive entertainment appliances, whatever — is just as noticeable.

“Or it could be barter. Services. Does Arnold have a talent or ability the perpetrator lacks? A valuable talent, capable of generating a service worth lots of money? I don’t know. I doubt that a restaurant manager has it, but maybe the police know things they’re not telling.”

“He’s a very smooth talker, I must admit,” Florence whispered.

“That’s why he’s stayed out of that chair so long,” Stonehill murmured.

“Anything to volunteer, Lieutenant?” Johnson asked. “No? Then I’ll get on with it. What have we? Bedford has a good alibi. If he hired it done, how did he arrange payment? If Sarah had a lover, who is he?

“The weapon. It’s evident that no bow or other arrows were found at Bedford’s property. The papers would surely have headlined WEAPON FOUND AT BEDFORD HOUSE. Rather curious. When I was a boy, my father made me a bow and turned some dowel rods into arrows. You would have thought that young Arthur... I suppose it’s all video games.

“Did Arnold Bedford belong to an archery group? No evidence reported. Have the police scanned such groups for names they could connect to Sarah Bedford? I don’t know. I hope they have.

“But let’s take a look at that arrow. Who says it was shot from a bow, eh? Suppose she was stabbed with it?”

Gates lifted his head and stared at Johnson.

“That’s right, Lieutenant. Stabbed. As with a knife or dagger. You’re thinking, how stupid can this jerk get? I’m saying, not stupid at all. Yes, I know the wooden shaft could snap.

“Consider two things. First, Sarah Bedford was struck — or stabbed — in the throat, a very soft area that would have little resistance, even to a hand-held arrow. Second, an arrow’s rigidity could be enhanced either by tightly wound cord or by wrapping with several turns of Velcro-type fabric. Either could be removed quickly after the blow was struck.

“I must say that such use of an arrow is not impossible. Four years ago, an effort was made at this prison to expand the recreation program. An archery range was set up. It was popular until one convict used an arrow in this very fashion to attack another. He inflicted a very serious wound, although he missed the neck and the thing glanced off a shoulder. They dismantled the archery project immediately, of course.”

Air hissed involuntarily from between Gates’s teeth. He wrote furiously.

“Bull’s-eye!” Stonehill exclaimed. “He gave ’em something to think about that time.”

Warden Peters’s jaw dropped. He had hoped that this incident would never be known outside the prison walls. Some mistakes could never be forgotten. He had hoped to curb his impatience about the execution, but he found the sweat starting again.

Gates addressed Johnson. “You were here when this happened, weren’t you? You have direct knowledge?”

“I was,” Johnson answered. “I knew the guy who was wounded.”

“So,” said Gates, writing hard, stabbing at the paper.

“So,” Johnson remarked, “you now realize that you’ll have to check all of the records of whoever was released after the incident, won’t you? Everybody knew about it.”

“Christ on the mountain, yes!” the detective spat.

“I can save you the trouble,” Johnson said quietly.

The verbal buzzing that began when he finished discussing the arrow halted abruptly, leaving an aching quiet.

“You mean you can finger somebody?” demanded Gates.

“I think so.”

“Who?”

“Of course, you’ll have to fill in details of this person’s relationship with Sarah Bedford, whether any other arrows are still in his possession, and other details.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll go into all of that.”

“Because I won’t be around to consult.”

“If you’re any kind of a direct link, you will. We’ll get you a postponement until everything’s over and done with.”

The warden stepped into the execution chamber. “You can’t make such a promise, Lieutenant. I am obligated to see that the law is carried out, and carried out it will be as soon as this man’s statement is finished.”

“In my opinion, it would be murdering a witness in a homicide case, and I’m not about to let that happen.”

Gates stood up, drew his gun, and put it to the warden’s temple. “Somebody out there get on the phone and tell the governor about this,” he called.

“I’ll do that,” the doctor volunteered.

“Good,” Gates nodded to Johnson. “Now, finish what you were about to say.”

“A woman who regularly visits whoever’s on Condemned Row came to me yesterday to see if I wanted any last favors granted. When I finished, she told me she knew who’d been seeing Sarah Bedford. This man had a decoration on the wall in his home consisting of a bow with two arrows crossed beneath it. One of the arrows is gone, and the other is now mounted horizontally under the bow.

“On the night of the murder, the woman’s husband came in late. The next morning, she found his shirt in the laundry with bloodstains on the right cuff. Since he had another identical shirt, she hid the stained one. It’s available.

“She also offered a guess as to why he killed Sarah.”

“Why was that?”

“She feels that Sarah wanted him to marry her, but he refused.”

“And that’s it?”

“Not quite. She wanted to include her kids in the deal. He might have taken her, but not the kids. When she kept after him, he decided to end the whole thing.”

“Why should this woman tell you?”

“She never said, but she knew what I’m like. She must have guessed what I’d do.”

“Who is this person?”

“The warden’s wife.”

As the uproar commenced, Stonehill raced for the door.

The guards stared at Gates and the warden, whose hands were now cuffed behind him. One of them pointed to Johnson.

“What about him?”

“I’ll stay where I am for a while,” the convict said. “This isn’t as uncomfortable as I thought it was when I sat down.”