The Last Mile

Chapter 17

Without taking his eyes off Mars, Decker said, “Agent Bogart, can you give us a minute, please?”

Bogart looked like he was going to say no, but Decker added, “Just two old footballers going to have a little one-on-one. That’s all.”

Bogart slowly rose. “I’ll be out in the hall.”

When the door had closed behind him, Decker drew his chair a little closer to the bed. He put his large hands on top of the bed’s side rail.

Mars said, “Okay, I see how this is playing out. You’re here just to trick me and make sure I go back to prison. Well, I ain’t talking to you anymore without my lawyer being here.”

“I already told you, Melvin, I’m here to find the truth. If you didn’t kill your parents I will do everything in my power to prove that and get you out of prison with a full pardon.”

“I didn’t kill my parents. But I’ve been sitting in a prison cell for two decades getting ready for the needle, and then having to wait some more and then get ready for it again. You know what that’s like?”

“Not even close,” said Decker.

Mars looked surprised by this comment. He glanced toward the door. “Why’d you ask your partner to leave?”

“I thought you might be more comfortable just talking to me and not the FBI.”

“But you’re with the FBI.”

“Until about two weeks ago I was living in a dump in the middle of Ohio with about sixty bucks in my pocket and not much of a future beyond shit PI cases.” He paused. “If you still want your lawyer, I’ll leave right now.” He stood.

“Hold on. You... you told me my case was similar to something to do with your family?”

“Certain parallels, yes.”

“What happened to your family?”

Decker sat back down. “Somebody murdered them. My wife, daughter, and brother-in-law. I found the bodies when I came home from work one night.”

All the hostility in Mars’s features disappeared. “Damn, man, I’m sorry.”

“About sixteen months went by with no arrests. Then this guy walks into the police station and confesses.”

“Shit, did he do it?”

Decker gazed at him. “It was a little more complicated than that.”

“Okay,” replied Mars, looking uncertain.

“But we got the people responsible. And they were held accountable.”

“They in prison?”

“No, they’re in graves.”

Mars’s eyes widened at this.

Decker said, “But that’s history and it’s over. Let’s talk about the present. Your present.”

Mars shrugged. “What you want me to say, Decker? I was a black man accused of killing his parents and one of them was white. Now, this is the South. This is Texas. Everybody loved me when I was a football star. But when I was charged I had no friends left. I was just a black dude fighting for my life. Hell, Texas executes more people than anybody else, and a whole lot of them are black.”

“The contract with your parents?”

“I knew I was innocent, but I listened to my lawyer. I can carry a football and score touchdowns, man. But I didn’t know anything about laws and courts back then.”

“So your lawyer knew about the contract?”

“Yeah, I told him. But he said we didn’t have to tell the prosecution nothing. It was their job to find out about it.”

“I guess technically that’s true.”

“But morally, I know, it sucks. I wanted to get on the stand and tell my story. I wanted folks to hear it from my point of view. But he convinced me not to. So I didn’t. Then we lost and I was screwed anyway.”

“What’d you do with the contract?”

“I flushed it down the toilet. But let me tell you, I had no problem with giving my parents that money. I was going to make a lot more. I was working on endorsement deals that would’ve paid me more than my football money.”

“And then it all went away.”

Mars shook his head wearily. “Faster than I could run the forty.”

“Tell me about your parents.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I want to know about their pasts. Where they came from? Were they born in Texas? Did they come from someplace else?”

Mars looked perplexed by this. “I’m not sure what I can tell you. They didn’t talk about any of that with me.”

“How about relatives? That you visited or visited you?”

“That never happened.”

“No relatives?”

“No. We never went anywhere. And nobody came to see us.”

“That’s pretty unusual.”

“I guess, looking back on it. But it was just the way it was. And my parents, I guess you’d call it, doted on me. So that was cool. I liked that.”

“Tell me about your father.”

“Big man. Where I got my size and height. Strong as an ox. My mom was tall for a woman, about five-nine or so. And man she could run, let me tell you. We’d go out on runs together when I was a kid. She could sprint and she had endurance. Ran me into the ground until I got to high school.”

“So you got your speed from her?”

“Guess so.”

“Maybe she was an athlete when she was younger. Maybe your dad too.”

“I don’t know, they never said.”

“There were no photos of them at your house. Were there ever any?”

Mars leaned back against his pillow. “They didn’t much like getting their picture taken. I remember there was one of them on a shelf in the living room that was taken when I was in high school. That was about it.”

Decker scrutinized him.

Mars said, “Hey, I know it sounds kinda crazy now, but back then it was just the way it was, okay? I didn’t think nothing of it.”

“I’ve seen an old, grainy picture of your parents. But tell me what your mother looked like to you.”

Mars’s face spread into a smile. “She was so beautiful. Everybody said so. She could’ve been a model or something. My dad said he married way over his pay grade.”

Decker held up his phone. “I took a picture of this in your parents’ closet. Any idea what it means?”

Mars read the screen. “AC and RB? I have no idea what that means. That was in their closet?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know. I never looked in their closet.”

“Okay. Your dad worked in a pawnshop and your mom taught Spanish and did some sewing?”

“Yeah.”

“Who’d she sew for?”

“Some local company needed some piecework done. Didn’t pay much, but she could work at home.”

“And the Spanish? Did she go to a school to teach?”

“No, she didn’t teach kids. She taught adults. White dudes mostly. You had a lot of folks coming over the border to work and such. People who hired ’em had to learn the language so they could tell ’em what to do. So my mom taught ’em.”

“And where did she learn Spanish? Was it her native language?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so. She wasn’t Hispanic, if that’s what you mean. She was black. A lot darker than me. I’m pretty sure she was an American.”

“Based on what?”

“She spoke like one. And she didn’t have any foreign accent.”

“Did you learn Spanish from her?”

“Bits and pieces, but we mostly spoke English. My dad was a stickler on that. We weren’t Spanish. We were Americans, he would say. He didn’t like it when she spoke Spanish at home.”

“And she worked another job?”

“Yeah. The sewing and the Spanish lessons didn’t pay much. She worked for a company that cleaned places around the area. And she’d press clothes. The woman could iron like a pro, I’ll tell you that. Hell, she’d iron my jeans I wore to school.”

“Did you ever ask them about their pasts?”

“I remember once wanting to know about my grandparents. It was grandparents’ day at school when I was in the third grade. Just about everybody else had grandparents who came in. I asked Dad about it. He said they were dead. And then he didn’t say anything more.”

“Did he say how they died?”

Mars slapped the bed rail with his free hand. “Shit, what does that matter? You think my dad killed his parents? And you think I killed mine?”

“No, I don’t think you killed your parents. I don’t know if your father killed his. He might have.”

Mars had been about to say something else but then stopped. He looked right at Decker. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You know nothing about your parents, Melvin. You know nothing about any of your relatives. There was one picture of your parents in their house. They never told you anything about themselves. Why do you think that is?”

“You mean you think they were hiding something?” Mars said slowly.

“At least it’s worth exploring. Because if they were hiding something it might give someone else a really good reason to kill them.”

CHAPTER

18

OKAY, WHAT ELSE have we found out about Roy and Lucinda Mars?” asked Bogart. The entire team was assembled around a conference table in the rental space.

Milligan glanced at Decker and said, “Okay, I have to admit, it’s a little funny. There’s just really nothing on them that we can find. There were Social Security numbers issued to them, but when I dug into them nothing else came up.”

“Nothing?” said Bogart. “You think they stole the numbers?”

“It’s possible. And they did have driver’s licenses on file twenty years ago, but I couldn’t find anything else about them.”

“Roy Mars had a job,” said Jamison. “And so did Lucinda. They had to have FICA taken out of their paychecks and they had to file tax returns and such.”

“Not that we could find,” said Milligan. “The pawnshop where he worked is long since gone, but they could have paid him in cash or barter. And maybe the same for his wife. And lots of people don’t file tax returns because they don’t make enough money and don’t owe anything.”

“But you still have to file,” pointed out Jamison. “It’s a federal crime not to.”

“And lots of people ignore that,” countered Milligan. “And apparently the Marses were those kind of people, because the IRS has no record of them. And Texas doesn’t have a personal income tax.”

“How about the house?” asked Bogart. “Was there a mortgage on it?”

“Again, not that I could find,” said Milligan. “But in the real estate records Roy and Lucinda Mars were listed as the owners.”

“Okay,” said Bogart. “That doesn’t leave much to go on.”

Milligan glanced at Decker. “I made some inquiries. The cops can’t tell me who made the 911 call about the fire. If they ever knew, those records are long gone. I also asked about the interior of the house. The missing pictures on the wall and all. Apparently they didn’t take crime scene photos of any of that. Just the bodies.”

“Well, that was careless,” opined Bogart.

“Do you think he’s innocent?” asked Milligan.

“Leaning that way,” said Decker.

“Why?” asked Bogart.

“The blood in the car. I gave Mars two plausible and exculpatory explanations of why her blood would be in his car. Neither could be disproved by the cops. Nosebleed or cut. He rejected both. Said she’d never been in his car. A guilty man would have jumped at either scenario. But not Melvin.”

The others glanced at each other, the stark plausibility of what Decker had just said sinking in.

“So that was a test for Mars?” asked Davenport.

“And he passed it,” said Decker. “At least in my mind.”

He held up a sheaf of papers that had been stapled together. “This is the rest of the autopsy report on the Marses. It just came in from the coroner’s office. They’d misplaced it.”

“How’d you find out about that?” asked Bogart.

“The front of the report listed thirty-six pages as the length. There were only thirty-four pages attached. I made a call.”

Jamison said, “And is there anything significant on the new pages?”

“One thing. Lucinda Mars had Stage Four glioblastoma.”

They all stared at him, stunned.

“Brain cancer?” said Davenport.

“Terminal brain cancer, according to the report.”

“Melvin never mentioned that,” said Jamison.

“Maybe he didn’t know,” replied Decker.

Milligan said, “But how does that bear on the case?”

“I don’t know if it does or not,” said Decker. “She was dying, but then someone killed her.” He glanced at Davenport. “Let’s set that aside for a minute and focus on the son. What’s your conclusion about his psychological makeup?”

Davenport pulled out some written notes.

“He’s well above average in intelligence, with a combination of book and street smarts. He graduated from college early after majoring in business. The man is no dummy. He has an interesting combination of keeping things close to the vest but then appearing to open up, as in making very forceful claims of innocence and of being wrongfully persecuted.”

“Not unusual for a man who’s spent two decades in prison,” noted Bogart. “He’s learned how to play the system.”

“Maybe,” said Davenport. “And I have seen that, of course, but there seems to be something different about Mars. I just can’t quite put my finger on it. He desperately wants to know more about this Charles Montgomery. He wants to know the details that Montgomery allegedly knows that would tie him to the murders. And he is wary that the authorities will try to connect him to Montgomery in some sort of murder-for-hire scenario. He’s convinced that even if he is innocent he won’t get out of prison. In fact, he’s borderline paranoid on that.”

“Well, considering how he was almost killed in prison, I don’t think I would call his paranoia unjustified,” said Decker, drawing a sharp glance from Davenport.

“If Mars had hired him to murder his parents twenty years ago why would Montgomery come forward now?” asked Jamison. “Right before Mars was to be executed?”

“The timing is a little...” began Davenport.

“Convenient,” Decker finished for her.

Bogart said, “So you think this was all planned out? By Montgomery?”

Decker shook his head. “He’s on death row in an Alabama prison. How would he have even known Mars was going to be executed?”

The others just looked at him blankly.

Decker said, “So we need to hear that right from Montgomery himself.”

“You think he’ll tell you the truth?” asked Davenport, as she watched Decker closely. “The last words of a doomed man?”

“Not even close,” replied Decker.

Holman Correctional Facility had been opened in 1969 and was filled to the brim with far more inmates than it was designed to hold. Located in southern Alabama where summer temperatures could soar to over a hundred degrees, the facility had no air-conditioning, and relied on industrial fans to move hot air around. Nicknamed “Slaughter Pen of the South” because of its reputation for violence inside the walls, and “the Pit” because of its geographical location at the bottom of Alabama, Holman housed Alabama’s death row.

Decker and the rest of the team had made the trip on a commercial jet. They all wore FBI windbreakers, creds clipped to their jackets. Bogart’s briefcase smacked against his thigh as they walked toward the prison’s front entrance.

They were cleared through prison security after Bogart, Decker, and Milligan surrendered their weapons, and were escorted to a visitors’ room by one of the prison guards.

“Tell us about Montgomery,” Decker said to the guard as they walked along.

“He’s a loner. No trouble. He bothers nobody and nobody bothers him. It’s odd, though.”

“What is?” asked Bogart.

“Well, in Alabama you get a choice on how you’re executed. And Montgomery is the only one I’ve ever known to choose the electric chair over lethal injection. Why would you want to fry versus go to sleep?”

Bogart and Decker looked at each other. They continued on and were soon seated in a room opposite a heavily shackled Charles Montgomery while two burly guards hovered in the background.

Montgomery was white, a little over six feet, and had just turned seventy-two. His shaved head had a noticeable indentation on the top left side. His eyes were brown, his teeth even but stained with nicotine, and his once hard body had softened some. His forearms were muscled and heavily tatted and his ears were pierced for earrings, but no such hardware was allowed in here.

He raised his eyes to theirs and, starting with Bogart, went from left to right and then back right to left. Then his gaze dropped to his manacled hands.

Bogart said, “Mr. Montgomery, I’m Special Agent Bogart with the FBI. These are my colleagues. We’re here to talk to you about your recent confession regarding the murders of Roy and Lucinda Mars in Texas.”

Montgomery still did not look up.

Bogart glanced at Decker before continuing.

“Mr. Montgomery, we would like to hear from you the details of the night you allegedly murdered the Marses.”

Montgomery said curtly, “Nothing alleged about it. And I already told ’em.”

The tone was not hostile, simply matter-of-fact.

“I appreciate that, but we need to hear it from you, too.”

“Why’s that?” asked Montgomery, still looking down.

Decker had been running his gaze over the man, taking in small details of his appearance and demeanor.

“Was it a beating in here?” he asked. “Or was it Vietnam?”

Now Montgomery looked up. In that emotionless gaze it was readily apparent that the condemned man was one very dangerous person.

“What?” he asked quietly.

In response Decker touched the left top of his head. “Your skull’s been partially cut away leaving that indentation. Was it a beating? Some kind of combat injury? You served in Vietnam.”

“Mortar round exploded twenty feet from me. My buddy died. I got a hole in the head.”

“Your file says you were in the Army,” noted Bogart.

“Eighteenth Infantry, First Battalion, out of Fort Riley,” Montgomery recited automatically.

“When did you come back stateside after the war?”

“Nineteen sixty-seven, mustered out a month later.”

“Didn’t want to be career military?” asked Decker.

Montgomery gave him a surly glance. “Yeah, it was so much fun and all.”

Bogart pulled out a file from his briefcase. “So you were in Texas then when the Marses were murdered?”

“Had to be, since I killed ’em.”

“Run us through that. How did it happen?”

Montgomery glanced over at him, impatience on his features. “It’s all in your file. So why do I have to do that?”

“We’re just trying to confirm everything. And we would like to hear it from you. That’s why we came here.”

“And if I don’t want to say?”

“We can’t force you,” said Decker. “But we were wondering why you came forward in the first place.”

“You know my sentence?”

“Yes.”

“So what does it matter? Get it off my chest. Maybe help with the Big Man in the hereafter.”

“I can understand that. But to get Mr. Mars off your story needs to be confirmed. The FBI can do that faster than the state folks can. So if we both want the same thing, why not cooperate?”

“You look way too fat to be with the FBI.”

“They made an exception for me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I like to get to the truth. Can you help me do that?”

Montgomery gave a long, resigned sigh. “What the hell does it matter? Okay.” He rubbed his face with his chained hands and settled back in his seat.

“You heard of PTSD?” he asked Decker.

Decker nodded. “Yes.”

“Well, they never tested me for it, but I got it. And all that crap that was burning over there? Munitions, chemical weapons. Agent Orange shit they dropped on our fuckin’ heads? And who the hell knew what the Vietcong were chucking at us. Breathing all that in, day after day. It messed me up. Surprised it didn’t give me cancer. Then that mortar round blew up next to me.” He pointed to his head, his shackles clanging as he did so. “And they had to cut out a part of my skull. Hell, maybe part of my brain, VA never said. And then the headaches started.”

“You got the Purple Heart,” said Bogart.

“Big shit. That’s all I got.”

Decker interjected, “So the headaches started?”

“Yeah. And the VA didn’t want to hear nothing about it. I got no treatment. But I tried to get on with my life. I got married, tried to keep a job, but it was no good. The pain never stopped. And when the docs wouldn’t write no more prescriptions I took matters into my own hands.”

“To get drugs, you mean?” asked Davenport. “For the pain?”

“Yeah. It was just little stuff at first. To get money to get the drugs. Then I started taking the drugs from people I knew had ’em. Cut out the middleman and go right to the source.” He smiled darkly. “The Army taught me to be efficient.”

Davenport said, “The drugs you were probably taking are heavily addictive. So you got hooked and couldn’t stop?”

“Yeah. I was a total druggie. Do anything to get more.”

“And then what?” asked Decker.

“Then things just snowballed. It was like I was a different person. Things I never woulda done before, I’d do. Hurt people, steal shit. I didn’t care. I got busted a few times on petty crap but never did no real jail time. But my first marriage unraveled and I lost my job, my house, everything. Then I just started drifting across the country, trying to get the headaches to stop.”

“And how did that get you to the Marses?”

Montgomery looked down again, his thumbs pressing together, his brow furrowed.

“See, I didn’t know that was their name, not at first.”

“Okay, but walk us through that night,” said Decker.

“I come into town the night before, just passing through. Didn’t know nobody and nobody knew me. It was a one-traffic-light shithole.”

“You said the night before. Did you stay anywhere?” asked Bogart.

Montgomery looked at him crossly. “And pay with what? I had nothing in my pocket. Not even no change. I was hungry but I couldn’t buy no food either. Much less a place to stay. I slept in my car.”

“Keep going,” said Decker.

“I drove past this pawnshop the next day. It was in the little downtown area. At first I didn’t think anything of it, but then I got an idea. I went inside, thinking maybe I might pawn something. I had my medals, and an old service pistol. If I pawned those I could get something to eat. And I was riding on close to vapors. So I could maybe fill up my tank and head on to the next shithole. Anyways, there was a dude in there. Tall, white guy.”

“That was Roy Mars,” said Jamison. “He worked there.”

Montgomery nodded. “But I didn’t know that was his name back then. I pulled out my stuff and showed him. But he told me they weren’t interested in crap like that. Lotta former soldiers in Texas, he said, and then he pointed to a case full of guns and old medals dudes had pawned and never come back for.”

Bogart and Decker exchanged a glance.

Montgomery continued. “Anyway, that pissed me off. I asked the guy if he was a vet and he said that was none of my business and if I was looking for a handout I’d come to the wrong place because they were barely making a living as it was. Then the door opened and another customer came in. I walked over to the corner and watched. When the man opened the cash register I saw all the money in there. That’s when I knew the dude had lied to me. He had money. He wasn’t barely getting by. That pissed me off even more.”

“What did you do then?” asked Bogart.

“Went back to my car and waited. Army teaches patience. I was hunting this dude and didn’t care how long it took. He closed the shop up at nine, got in his car and drove off. I followed him. He got to his place, which was in the middle of nowhere. No other homes around. That was fine with me. He went inside. I parked my car and got out.”

“What kind of car were you driving?” asked Decker.

Montgomery didn’t hesitate. “Rusted-out piece of shit ’77 V-eight Pontiac Grand Prix, dark blue, big as a house. You could land a chopper on the sucker’s hood.”

“Surprised you remember that in such detail.”

“I lived in that car for about a year.”

“Did you own it?” asked Decker.

Montgomery lifted his gaze to him. “I stole it from somewhere and got plates off a ride in an impoundment lot in Tennessee. Don’t remember where.”

“So you were waiting outside the house?” prompted Decker.

“Right. I pulled surveillance on the place. Again, what the Army taught me. I was able to see in a couple of windows without being seen. It was just the two of them. Him and, I supposed, his wife. I remember she was black, which surprised me him being white.”

“Okay,” said Decker. “What then?”

“I waited until maybe eleven-thirty or a little later.”

“You’re sure about that?” asked Decker.

Montgomery flashed him a surprised look. “Yeah, why?”

“Just trying to confirm. Keep going.”

“So’s I got in through the back door. It wasn’t locked. I had my gun out.”

“What kind of gun?” asked Bogart.

“My service piece, one I tried to pawn.”

Decker nodded. “And then what?”

“They weren’t downstairs. I had seen the lights go out and then the lights go on upstairs. Figured they were going to bed. I snuck up the stairs, but I got messed up on the room they were in. I went into one bedroom but it was empty. Girlie posters on the wall, athletic gear everywhere, so I was guessing it was their kid’s room. I was worried maybe their kid was sleeping in the bed, but it was empty.”

“And that’s when you saw it?” asked Decker, which drew a sharp glance from Jamison and Davenport.

Montgomery licked his lips and nodded. “Yeah. The shotgun was in a rack on the wall. I thought if I was going to do this, I couldn’t use my service piece. They might be able to trace it to me, you know, through ballistics.”

“Not if they didn’t have your gun,” pointed out Bogart.

“Yeah, but they might arrest me and then they’d have my gun,” countered Montgomery.

“Keep going,” said Decker.

“I took the shotgun, found the ammo for it in a little drawer attached to the rack, and loaded it. Then I went into their bedroom. They were in bed asleep, but I got ’em up. They were scared shitless. Dude remembered me. I told him I wanted the money from the till back at the pawnshop. If he did that I’d let ’em live. He said that was impossible because the owner took it every night and put it in the bank’s night deposit slot. That really ticked me off. See, I thought he was the owner, but he was just some little prick clerk. But he had talked big like he owned the damn place. I don’t like people lying to me. Don’t sit well. Bet the sonofabitch never wore the uniform. And he’s looking down on me? Telling me he’s not giving me a handout?” Montgomery shook his head with finality. “Who the hell does he think he is? No way I’m letting that pass. So I blew him away. His wife was screaming. I couldn’t let her live, right? So I shot her too.”

Montgomery stopped abruptly and looked around at Jamison and Davenport.

“What’s wrong?” asked Decker.

“I felt bad about popping the woman, but there was nothing else I could do.” He shrugged. “I’ve killed people. On the battlefield and off. But I never killed no woman before. It was his fault, not hers.”

“And then what did you do?” asked Decker, hiding his disgust at the man’s apportioning of blame for Lucinda Mars’s murder onto her husband.

Milligan was busy writing all this down in his tablet, but he too looked upset at what he was hearing.

“I panicked. I mean, you get the adrenaline rush when you’re doing it. But when it’s done it’s like you’re coming off a crack high. You crash. My first thought was just to run for it. But then I looked down at the bodies and thought of something else. When I had been scoping out the place I peeked in the garage. Saw the gas can. I ran down and got it and poured the gas over them and then set them on fire.”

“But why?” asked Bogart.

“I thought...” He faltered. “I thought maybe if they and the house burned down they might just think it was a fire that killed ’em. And not that nobody had shot ’em.”

“What’d you do with the shotgun?” asked Decker.

“Put it back on the rack.”

“Then you left?”

“Yeah. I jumped in my car and hightailed it out of there.”

“Did you see another vehicle while you were driving away?” asked Decker.

Montgomery shook his head. “I was so screwed up in the head right then I coulda passed a convoy of Army tanks and never even noticed it.”

“Were you wearing gloves?” asked Decker.

“Gloves?”

“When you picked up the shotgun?”

“Oh yeah, I had on gloves. Didn’t want to leave no prints behind. I was in the Army, they were on file.” He paused and looked at Decker. “And that’s... it.”

“Not quite. How’d you find out about Melvin Mars?”

“Oh, that,” said Montgomery offhandedly. “This was just within the last year. I was here in prison. Dude told me about Mars. He said he heard it from a guy over in Texas.”

“Dude have a name?” asked Bogart.

“Donny Crockett,” said Montgomery promptly.

“And where is he now?”

“In a coffin. He was on death row too. They executed him four months ago.”

Bogart and Decker looked at each other while Davenport kept her gaze squarely on Montgomery.

She said, “Why would he mention Melvin Mars to you?”

“Didn’t you know?” said Montgomery with a brief grin. “I played some ball at Ole Miss. I was a fullback. That meant I slammed my body against other bodies all game long so the tailback could look good. Now, I never played against Mars, because I was a lot older, but I heard of him later on. Didn’t connect it to what I done in Texas. But then when my buddy told me the details, I had my wife Google it for me. When I saw the pictures of the parents I knew they were the ones I’d killed.”

“And you decided to come forward why?” asked Decker. “Because God might go easier on you?”

Montgomery shrugged. “Look, I’m going to die anyway. Screwed up my whole life. This dude Mars lost out on a lot because of me. Guess I’m just trying to make amends. Do one good thing before I kick off.” He stopped and gave Decker a searching look. “They are going to let him go, right? He didn’t kill his parents. I did.”

“We’ll see,” said Decker. “It’s the reason we’re here.”

“I told the local cops stuff that I knew about the house and all. Details they didn’t let out to the public. It was me. What else can I say?”

“I think you’ve said a lot,” answered Decker.

Bogart said, “And you never met Melvin Mars?”

Montgomery shook his head. “No sir, I never met the man. If he had been home that night I would’ve killed him too.”

They all fell silent for a few moments. Decker was studying Montgomery closely while Bogart looked down at some notes. Jamison and Davenport were watching Decker.

Decker finally said, “So you eventually remarried?”

Montgomery nodded. “A couple years later. I was already in my fifties, but Regina was twenty years younger. So we had a kid. I tried to settle down and get cleaned up, but it was no good.” He motioned to his head again. “Pains came back. Had ’em all the time at that point. I just went nuts. Did shit. Regina took our son and ran for it. I started robbing banks and selling drugs, murdered a couple dudes I was doing business with. Then I killed a state trooper. That’s why I’m here.”

“Where does your current wife live?” asked Decker.

Montgomery’s eyebrows flicked up at this. “Why?”

“We’ll need to talk to her.”

“Why?” he asked again.

“She’s part of this chain. We have to look at every link.”

Montgomery considered this for a long moment. “She lives about twenty miles from here. Prison has the address. Moved there when I got transferred here.”

“And you’ve been married how long?”

“About eighteen years. Though I’ve been in prison the last nine. Like I said, she left me when I went out of control. Hell, Tommy was just a little boy then. But when I got the death sentence she came to the prison to see me. We never officially got divorced. I guess she felt sorry for me.”

“How many kids do you have?” asked Decker.

“Just Tommy. He lives with his mom but he never comes here. Don’t blame him. Wasn’t there for him, so why should he be there for me? He’s a really good football player from what she tells me.”

“Does she visit you often?” asked Davenport.

Montgomery leveled his gaze on her. “Every week, like clockwork.”

“That’s nice,” said Davenport, drawing a wary look from Montgomery.

“Anyone else ever visit you?” asked Decker.

“I don’t have anybody else.”

“No lawyers or anything?”

“They tried. And failed. And left.”

Decker said, “When is your execution date?”

“Three weeks from yesterday.”

Davenport asked, “Why did you choose the electric chair over lethal injection?”

Everyone looked at her.

Montgomery grinned. “Figure where I’m going I better get used to being hot. And why not go out with a bang?”

“What are your wife’s plans after you’re gone?” Decker asked.

“Start over somewhere else.”

“Right,” said Decker. “We’ll tell her you said hello when we see her.”

“I’m doing the right thing, right?” said Montgomery nervously.

“That’s not for me to answer,” replied Decker. “One more thing. Did you steal any money or property from the Marses?”

Montgomery stared up at him, a wary expression on his features. “No, did the cops say I did?”

“Did you commit any other crimes while you were in town?” asked Decker.

“No. I told you. I killed them and tore outta there.”

“So you didn’t stay around and do a day’s worth of labor or anything?”

Montgomery looked at him like Decker had lost his mind.

“After murdering two people?”

“So, no?”

“Hell no.”

“And how far did you drive after you left town?”

“I don’t know.”

“You remember a city?”

Montgomery thought for a moment. “Maybe Abilene. Yeah, that’s right. I jumped on Interstate 20 and just headed east. Ran smack into Abilene.”

“That was about, what, a hundred and eighty miles? Maybe a three-hour drive?”

“About that, I guess, yeah.”

“Okay, thanks.”

As they started to leave Montgomery called after them. “Can you tell Mr. Mars that I’m sorry?”

Decker looked back at him. “I don’t really think that’s a good idea.”