Killing Red (16 page)

The warm water cascaded through Chapa’s dark brown hair and down his face, revealing more wounds than the mirror could. But he didn’t care. It felt good to simply stand still and quiet and clear his mind of everything. Though that was hard to do.

Chapa wondered about the missing journal. Had someone murdered Louise just to get their hands on it? And how did they know about it? Maybe she told her killer about the journal before she was shot to death.

He was allowing himself the luxury of lingering a while longer, letting the water wash away some of the hurt, and trying to decide whether to finish before the hot water ran out. Then he remembered his tape recorder.

Toweling off as quickly as he could, Chapa threw on a robe and stumbled out of the bathroom as his head reminded him about the night before. He gripped the railing tightly and took measured steps down the stairs.

His living room looked exactly as he’d left it, like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The same was true of the dining room, as well as the kitchen, where he paused long enough to say good morning to Jimmy and refill the bird’s water bottle. All the doors were locked. Everything was in order. But when he turned toward the front door Chapa saw the black cloth coat that he’d worn the day before neatly folded and resting on a small table. His wallet and keys were on top of it.

As far as he could tell, all of his credit cards and cash were still there. The only thing missing was a small photo of Mikey that Erin had given him a few weeks earlier.

“Sick bastard,” Chapa said to himself.

All of his keys were there, including the one for his car. He made a note to have the locks to his house changed as soon as possible. Erin’s too, since her key was also on his chain.

He patted down his jacket and felt nothing but the soft worn cloth. Then he reached into a side pocket and touched the small plastic recorder. Had they missed it, or intentionally left it there for him?

Chapa pushed the power button, rewound a few minutes, then pushed Play. Silence. Fast Forward—Play—more silence. The timer read
94:02
. That meant he had recorded for more than an hour and a half, but where was it?

This time he rewound all the way back to the beginning of the recording. Chapa heard muffled sounds, then the click of the television, followed a minute later by Grubb’s voice, muted but clear. On the one hand, Chapa wished he had taken it out of his pocket and gotten a better recording of Grubb’s diatribe. Then again, if he had thought to do that, whoever drugged him would’ve seen the recorder.

Grubb’s voice was gone, and an instant later he heard a crash, a groan, then silence. Chapa was surprised by how quickly it had all gone down, much faster than it seemed at the time. After a couple of loud jolts, like someone had kicked him close to where the recorder was, he heard another round of muffled shuffling sounds, then other noises a distance away, followed by more silence.

He picked up the recorder and was about to fast forward when he heard something else. Was that a voice? It was faint and distant. Chapa cranked the volume, but that only distorted the sound. Who were they talking to?

The voice, if that’s what it was, sporadically faded in and out over the next few minutes. Then he heard what might have been a second voice. At least two people were with him in the trailer.

Chapa grabbed the recorder and his keys, slipped his feet into a pair of dusty tennis shoes, the same ones he was wearing the day before, and headed for the back door. He didn’t much care if any of the neighbors saw him in a bathrobe as he walked to his garage.

He pushed a button on his key fob and the garage door opened, revealing his blue Corolla neatly parked inside. Chapa could almost hear Andrews’ voice telling him to leave it as is until a forensics team could go through every inch of the vehicle.

After considering that option for a moment, Chapa said, “Screw it,” then closed the garage door and hurried back inside to get dressed. He had to get to Pennington Correctional before visiting hours were over.

All it took was a call to the warden, reminding him of how well the
Chicago Record
had treated his facility, and within seconds Chapa was cleared for a visit. He listened to the rest of the tape as he drove the forty miles to the prison. The quality of the recording ranged from very bad to poor, but it did reveal several new details. They had carried Chapa to his car in silence, then deposited him in the rear seat. The recording had cut out before they got to Chapa’s house.

He had no reason to expect answers from Grubb. But unanswered questions weren’t the only thing driving Chapa. More than anything, he wanted to show Grubb that he had no intention of backing down.

The sun was hiding behind one of the guard towers as Chapa drove onto the prison grounds.

“This is an unscheduled visit,” the guard at the gate said.

The old man inside the security booth had a Marine Corps buzz cut, a beer league gut, and an attitude that suggested his workday would soon be over and he saw no reason to make what was left of it memorable. Chapa explained the situation, and a call was placed to the warden’s office. The guard was still on the phone when he waved Chapa through.

Harker recognized him from the last time.

“Grubb may not see you. I understand he hasn’t been talking much lately, which is unusual.”

“Let’s find out.”

Chapa followed him through a familiar set of doors and back to the antiseptic room where he’d spoken to Grubb four long days earlier. The walls were so white they almost glowed, and the only thing hanging on them was a calendar, which Chapa thought was odd. Maybe it was a cruel joke on the part of the guards.

“You know the drill,” Harker said.

Chapa sat in the same chair as before, though it seemed like weeks had passed since he was last here. He took out a notepad that was strictly for show, and a long thin metal pen which immediately rolled to the middle of the uneven table. Then Chapa casually reached into his pocket and felt for his recorder. He wasn’t going to push Record this time, but he needed to know exactly where it was.

When Grubb finally arrived he had the energy of a man who was on his way to a business meeting, one that he felt very good about. He rolled his chair over and stopped directly across from Chapa, then tossed his cuffed hands on the table. The chains connecting Grubb’s wrists, waist, and ankles rubbed against the wheelchair’s metal frame, the sound echoing off the thick walls.

“Are you a bit more enlightened, Alex?” Grubb asked, putting the emphasis on the word
enlightened.

Chapa thought for a moment. “In a way, I suppose.”

Grubb smiled.

“I want to know who the hell is screwing with me and threatening the people I care about.”

“Yes, maybe someone got a little overzealous. But I wanted you to understand, Alex.”

“Why?”

Grubb leaned back in his narrow chair.

“Because no one in the press has treated me fairly for some time, and you’re my last hope. Maybe I’m your last hope too.”

“How do you figure that?”

“I have respect for you. That’s not something you’re accustomed to. Not in your marriage, probably not even at work.”

Then Grubb conjured up a look of empathy and concern that would have made any psychiatrist envious. Chapa let it all sink in, knowing his silence would give Grubb the impression that he was getting through. When enough time had passed, Chapa reached into his inside pocket and produced the recorder, then set it down on the table.

Chapa looked over at Harker, who gave him a
what the hell are you thinking
look.

“I promise I’m not going to record anything.”

Harker thought about it for a moment, then went back to reading his magazine. Chapa pushed Play. In an instant, the killer’s recorded voice filled the cramped room.

“You really ought to tell your cohorts that they should check every pocket after knocking someone out.”

“Searching your things wasn’t part of their mission,” Grubb said with a look of concern. “You were given a great privilege in being allowed to see the shrine.”

He was going through some sort of complex transformation, it was unlike anything Chapa had seen before. The cold façade slipped away, revealing what no mask could ever fully conceal.

“Maybe I’ll invite you back from beyond the grave, Alex, and the next time you visit the shrine I’ll make sure the exhibit includes some pictures of your daughter.”

With the tape still playing, his recorded voice drifting across the table and around the room, it was as though Grubb was doing a bizarre duet with himself each time he spoke.

“Her name is Nikki, isn’t it? Tricky Nikki. I’ll name her
Tear
, after that tasty little birthmark of hers.”

Chapa abruptly stood up, not fully realizing that he was doing so, and the chair tumbled to the floor behind him. Its crash echoed through the sparsely furnished space. Fists clenched, Chapa closed in on Grubb, uncertain about what he would do next.

“Hey! Mr. Chapa!” Harker, already in motion, yelled from the other side of the room.

Grubb was smiling.

“You sick piece of shit, I should push the teeth you have left through the back of your throat,” Chapa said with some effort.

Harker’s heavy paw landed on Chapa’s shoulder, which hurt like hell, but he did not flinch. The guard waited until Chapa finally looked at him.

“Would this be a good time for me to take a coffee break?” Harker suggested as much as asked, then he raised a thick eyebrow.

It took a moment for Grubb to understand the guard’s offer.

“That’s one definition of justice,” Grubb said.

Chapa was aching to take Harker up on it, but worried that he wouldn’t be able to stop himself once he started.

“Thanks, but I’ll go ahead and let you guys deal with him.”

Grubb laughed hard and clapped his hands.

“There you go, Alex, someone else raises your child, and someone else can slay your dragons. Maybe we’re not as alike as I’d hoped.”

“Glad you finally figured that out, asshole.”

Chapa gathered his recorder and tucked it back into his pocket as Grubb followed its movement like a shark tracking bait.

“How did you manage to make a video inside a prison?”

“When you have friends and admirers, the rest is easy. Besides, I’m resourceful. We have that in common, you and I.”

“I’ll tell you another thing we have in common,” Chapa said. “Just now I made the decision to clear out my calendar, so you and I will both be here on the morning of your execution. Too bad for you that’s where the similarities end.”

Chapa leaned back, and away from his darkest temptation. Grubb finally tore his eyes off the pocket the recorder had disappeared into and returned Chapa’s gaze.

“One more thing before they wheel you back to your death cell. How long have you been able to stand?”

Grubb tilted his head to the side just a bit, like a confused dog, or a wolf sizing up his prey.

“C’mon, Alex, you know I’ve been trapped in this chair ever since a cop wrongly put me here. It was in all the papers.” Grubb moved in as far across the table as his chains would allow. “I heard Officer Rudman retired, how’s that working out for him?”

Chapa’s fist clenched involuntarily. He took a calculated breath before responding.

“Tell me, how do you think your time here might’ve been different if they had known what you and I know about your legs?”

Grubb’s eyes narrowed to dark slits and nothing more.

Chapa continued, “What sort of fund do you think folks on the outside would’ve started then? I’m guessing even some of the really sick fucks who’ve supported you might have thought twice once they realized you’d been playing them. And that you’re just a piece of shit, and nothing more.”

This was making Chapa feel good, better than he had for some time.

“You know what, Kenny, my deadline is still hours away. Maybe I should do like you said and tell everyone the truth.”

What happened next could have been measured in fractions of seconds. But for Chapa, who noted how each of the muscles in Grubb’s upper body moved as one, the whole thing played out in slow motion. Like a scene that’s happening somewhere else to other people.

In one uninterrupted move Grubb lunged for the pen that still rested where it had stopped rolling near the center of the table. As Harker called out for help and rose from his chair, Grubb clutched the pen like a knife and raised it up over his head in a stabbing position. He strained to get as close to Chapa as he could, but the reporter refused to flinch.

Grubb froze for an instant. His dark eyes vacant. Then he fell back into the chair. As Harker drew closer and another guard raced into the room, all expression abandoned Grubb’s face.

Harker was just a few yards away and yelling something when Grubb lifted his arm up over his head, then plunged the pen into his right thigh with a force that made his chains rattle like wind chimes in an angry storm. Harker was almost on him when Grubb yanked the pen out of his leg and tossed it on the table. As it rolled toward Chapa, more than an inch of its tip painted with blood, the pen left a scarlet trail across the white top. Grubb’s face revealed nothing.

The guards engulfed and restrained Grubb, who did not put up a fight or take his eyes off Chapa. And then the room erupted into a scramble of activity as more uniformed men hurried in and wheeled Grubb out. Chapa saw the slick dark stain that was spreading across Grubb’s leg, discoloring the orange fabric.

Harker, hands on hips, glared at Chapa but didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The reporter gathered his notebook and got up to go. The bloodstained pen was still on the table when Chapa turned and walked out of the room without looking back.