Sullivan's Law (10 page)

“You got it, babe,” Brad said. “You're the one who's studying to be a lawyer. Even I could figure that one out. Lackner could have used a relative, a friend, a guard's wife, or simply created a corporate identity, then sold the invention to a major corporation. You're never going to catch this man, and that's assuming Metroix actually invented anything of value. Even then, why would the warden have to kill him? The way you tell it, he's gotten away with this for years.”

“Simple,” Carolyn told him, bending down and sweeping some of the glass fragments into a pile. Realizing she was barefoot, she cautiously made her way to the living room and flopped down on the sofa. “As soon as Metroix was granted parole, the warden had to realize that it was only a matter of time before he showed his work to people on the outside. Anyone who saw one of his inventions would want to know what else he'd done. As an example, how would you like to own the patent on the VCR?”

“This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Do you really believe Metroix invented the VCR?”

“No,” she said, checking the soles of her feet and plucking out a tiny glass sliver. To make certain she didn't bleed on the carpet, she placed her legs on the coffee table. “But he may have invented the first multiscreen television set with recording capabilities. That's got to be worth a few bucks.”

“Whatever,” Brad told her. “Let's forget about the warden and Metroix's inventions for the time being and deal with the immediate problem. If I get an order to violate Metroix's parole, are you going to refuse to sign it?”

“Yes,” she said. “And tell Hank if he has any questions, he can call me here at the house.”

“He thinks the DA may file attempted murder charges.”

“They won't file until they have a provable case,” Carolyn told him. “The motel was already wired for demolition. The first thing they have to prove is that the building didn't blow on its own. For all we know, the demolition company was at fault.” She reattached one side of the tape to her bandaged right knee. “Our illustrious DA, Sean Exley, is up for reelection this year, in case you've forgotten. Exley would never let one of his prosecutors file an attempted murder case with this many holes in it. Outside of Daniel Metroix, the man they want to charge, I'm their only victim. At present, they have to consider me a hostile witness. Trust me, Exley wants to win every case. What I've described is a prosecutor's worst nightmare.”

“You know something,” he said, realizing her points were well taken.

“I know a lot of things,” Carolyn quipped, bristling with confidence.

“I wish you'd never gone to law school,” Brad told her. “You used to be a good probation officer. Now, whenever I talk to you, it's like talking to another attorney. As if we don't have enough of them as it is.”

Carolyn smiled. In a way, Brad was right. She did look at her cases differently since she'd enrolled in law school. “Too late now,” she said, clicking the phone off.

D
aniel Metroix was huddled in a corner inside his cell at the Ventura County Jail. It was Wednesday. He hadn't slept since the night before. He remembered the explosion, the hospital, the police officers, but he wasn't certain if any of it had been real. He needed his injection. The voices were raging inside his head like a demonic symphony.

A vision of his mother appeared. A heavyset woman with dark frizzy hair, Ruth Metroix had legs as large as tree trunks. She was wearing her stained pink satin bathrobe.

“My precious baby,” the apparition said. “What did you do now?”

“I didn't do anything,” Daniel shouted. He glanced over at the bars in his cell, consumed with anger and confusion. Memories assaulted him. He clenched his eyes shut, spinning back in time. He was in his old bedroom at the Carlton West apartments.

The phone rang in the small kitchen. Daniel could hear his mother's voice speaking to his psychiatrist.

“I'm sorry to disturb you at home, Dr. Gershon,” Ruth Metroix said. “Something is terribly wrong with Daniel. He hasn't come out of his room for two days. I tried to go in there. He must have something blocking the door. He hasn't been eating. He hasn't been going to his classes.” She paused, listening. “How do I know if he's been taking his medication? Wait, let me see if I can get him to talk to you. Please honey,” she yelled, “come and talk to Dr. Gershon. I have him on the phone.”

When Daniel didn't answer, he heard her heavy footsteps on the wood floor. “If you don't come out, I'll have no alternative but to call the police and have them break down the door. They'll want me to put you in the hospital again.”

He shoved aside the heavy dresser that was blocking the door and flung it open. “Why are you doing this to me?” he said. “I'm studying. I have final exams next week.”

Ruth swallowed hard. “But you haven't been going to school.”

His hands were shaking violently, he hadn't shaved in almost a week, and the room reeked of body odor.

“Come to the kitchen and talk to Dr. Gershon,” she pleaded, reaching out and trying to grab his hand. “If you do this for me, I promise I'll leave you alone.”

Daniel reluctantly did as his mother asked. As soon as she heard him speaking on the phone, he saw her dart inside his room.

“Get out!” Daniel yelled, rushing down the hall and shoving her aside.

Ruth gestured toward the pictures that lined the baseboards. Photos of family members: aunts, uncles, cousins. Shots of Daniel as a toddler riding his bicycle on the sidewalk in front of the complex. “What are you doing? What's the point of this? Why did you take the snapshots out of our photo album?”

He glared at her, refusing to answer.

“Aren't you going to tell me what Dr. Gershon said?”

“He said I should increase my medication,” Daniel answered. “Now, will you get out of my room so I can study?”

“Doesn't he want to see you?”

“Dr. Gershon's going on vacation for two weeks,” he mumbled. “I made an appointment for when he gets back.”

When Ruth saw the open Bible on the floor, she gasped. Even though she was a devout Christian, Dr. Gershon had instructed her to remove all religious symbols and books from the apartment, even the cross that had been over Daniel's bed for most of his childhood.

Daniel could remember when the nightmare had begun, but he would never understand why. At a school dance, he'd felt compelled to baptize Gracie Hildago in the town reservoir. Without realizing what he was doing, he'd held her head under water too long. The poor girl had almost drowned. He'd spent the next three months at Camarillo State Mental Hospital, a legally sanctioned torture chamber.

Ruth bent down to pick up the Bible and remove it from the room. Daniel wrestled it away from her, then slammed the door in her face. To make certain she didn't try to come in again, he shoved the dresser back in place.

“Idiot,”
the voice inside his head said.
“You'll never step onto that stage to get your diploma. By June, you'll be dead and buried.”

“No,” Daniel said, covering his ears with his hands. “I refuse to listen. You're only a figment of my imagination.”

He dropped down on his knees, crawling around the room as he stared at the photographs. He had to remember who he was, somehow stay in touch with reality. Dr. Gershon had told him to increase his medication. He had already upped his daily dosage several days ago and the symptoms had only worsened. Tomorrow, he would take three pills instead of two.

He needed research books from the library. For his science class, he'd designed a prototype of a water purification system that his teacher had thought was excellent. He needed more information, but his mother insisted that he come straight home from school every day. Although he was seventeen, his illness had caused her to treat him like a child.

He remembered that Ruth had already told him that she wouldn't be home until late the following day. His grandmother was ill, and his mother had to drive her to the doctor. Daniel decided he would go to the library tomorrow to get the books he needed. He liked studying in the library. Being surrounded by books made him feel secure.

“If you leave this apartment, they'll get you,”
one of the voices told him.
“They're waiting for you. You're a worthless piece of shit.”

Tears were streaming down his face. Why wouldn't the voices leave him alone? Why did they constantly berate him? Couldn't the doctors find a way to cut them out? If slicing off his arm would make the voices stop, he'd go out and buy a chain saw.

He didn't aspire to be wealthy. He'd already let go of any hopes that he might one day get married and have a family. Even if he had an opportunity to have sex, his medication made it impossible. All he wanted was to live his life with some semblance of normalcy, get up every morning and go to work, do something productive.

Daniel pounded the floor with his fists. “Is that too much to ask, God?” he wailed. “Must I suffer? Isn't there some way out? Why am I being punished?”

“What do you know about God, momma's boy? If you wait until tomorrow, you can meet him in person. You're dead, you disgusting asshole. You'll be back in a padded cell. That's a little like dying, isn't it?”

Daniel's fingers trembled as he frantically whipped through the pages in his Bible. He chanted the scriptures aloud, his eyes leaping from one section to another. The portion of the New Testament that was highlighted in red blurred, then melted into a river of blood. His blood. Demon blood. Damaged blood.

He walked to the closet and removed something from the top shelf, placing it in the center of the room. The large Bowie knife slowly began spinning on the floor. If he held his breath, he could hear it speaking to him, hissing like a snake.
“Pick me up, loser. You want an answer to your problems, don't you? I'm the answer. Slit your wrists and it will all end.”

Daniel pressed his thumbs hard against his eyelids, trying to make the hallucinations stop.

“You know there's only one way to stop it. All you have to do is pick up the knife. Maybe you should slit your throat. That way, you'll die faster.”

“H-help me, God,” he stammered, pressing his palms together in prayer. It was as if he'd been pulled into hell. His furniture turned into abstract blobs of brown. The walls closed in on him, trapping him in a tight box. He choked on his own saliva. Without thinking, he placed the knife at his throat, directly over his jugular vein.

A sudden breeze from the open window distracted him. He watched as the pages in the Bible fluttered. Almost as soon as the breeze came, it stopped. His gaze locked on the open page.

God was sending him a message.

Daniel read, beginning from Ecclesiastes 4:10: “For if they fall one will lift up his companion. But woe to him who is alone when he falls, for he has no one to help him up. Though one may be overpowered by another, two can withstand him. And a threefold cord is not quickly broken.”

Daniel's eyes sprang open when he heard the jailer turn the key in the lock. The scripture had been right. The three awful boys had been waiting in the alley for him.

“Stand up,” the large man said. “We're moving you to another cell.”

Daniel stood, pushing the past away. Why was he in jail? He'd lost all his work. Was there really a reason to keep living? He'd fallen into the pit again.

When he didn't move, the deputy came inside and seized him. “Get your butt moving, Metroix,” he said. “Are you deaf?”

 

After consuming three cups of instant coffee and two bowls of Lucky Charms, Carolyn threw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt to head out to the bank. Once she got some cash and had them issue her another instant teller card, she would go to the jail. With the two agencies disagreeing as to how to proceed, the paperwork on Daniel's release might not be processed until the following day. She could imagine how he must feel. Only two weeks after his parole from prison, and he was once again behind bars. Not only that, the man had lost a lifetime of his work. He was probably more concerned with the loss of his inventions than the fact that he was incarcerated.

Grabbing an old brown handbag and her car keys, Carolyn exited the front of the house. When she saw her car in the driveway, she suddenly halted. Both the front and rear windshields of the Infiniti were shattered, and the side and rear panels had been bashed in as well. For a moment, she wondered if the car had been damaged from falling debris during the explosion. She knew this couldn't be true as John wouldn't have been able to see to drive the car home the night before. She also doubted if her son would fail to tell her about something this disturbing.

Moving closer to the car, she saw a gray, letter-sized piece of cardboard held in place by the windshield wipers. Careful not to cut herself from the shards of broken glass, she plucked it out by the tips of her fingers, hoping whoever had written it had left fingerprints or some other form of identifying evidence. The words were written in large block letters with a black magic marker:

 

METROIX IS A MURDERER. MURDERERS
HAVE NO FUTURE. HELP HIM AND YOU WILL
DIE WITH HIM.

 

Carolyn felt her breath catch in her throat. At eleven forty-five in the morning, the sun was high in the sky and the temperature in the mid-seventies, but she felt as if a dark cloud had formed over her head. She stared at the menacing words. Not only was her own life in jeopardy, but also the lives of her children.

Most of the people on the block worked, and their children attended school during the day. Why hadn't she heard anything? The crime had to have been committed some time after eight o'clock that morning, when John and Rebecca had left. Someone could have trashed the car while she was in the shower as her bedroom was located at the rear of the residence.

Carolyn carried the note back inside the house. She set it down on the kitchen table, then placed it inside a plastic sandwich bag. Burying her head in her hands, she tried to decide what to do next. She had to report the crime to the police. If she didn't, her insurance wouldn't cover the damage. The problem was she didn't know whether she could trust Hank Sawyer, or anyone else related to the Ventura police, the same department where Charles Harrison had once been chief. Jurisdiction was jurisdiction, however, and she had no other course of action.

After she notified the police, she called her brother. “Neil,” she said when a groggy male voice answered, “I need to borrow your van.”

“What time is it?”

“It's past noon,” she told him. “John tried to call you last night. You'd already turned off your phones. I was involved in an explosion. This morning someone came to the house and vandalized my car. They also threatened to kill me.”

She heard him whispering to someone. She assumed it must be the model with the face and body of an angel. “I'll borrow Melody's car and come right over,” he told her. “You can't use my van. We've got it loaded with my paintings for the show. I promised the gallery I'd drop them off this afternoon.”

“How is that going to help me?” Carolyn blurted out, her nerves frazzled. “I need transportation. Your model friend, or whoever Melody is, isn't going to let me use her car for the next week, is she? The police are probably going to impound the Infiniti for evidence. Then I'll have to get it to a body shop.”

“Can't you use a county car?”

“The pool cars are death traps, Neil,” she told him. “The last time I drove one, the brakes went out on the freeway. I almost went through the windshield. Don't you remember? I spent two days in the hospital.”

“Melody is going to hang out here this afternoon,” her brother told her. “We'll figure things out when I get there. Calm down, sis. You're bombarding me with all this shit and I'm not even awake yet. Make me some coffee.”

“I broke the coffeepot.”

“What didn't you break?” he said, groaning. “Forget it. I'll be there in ten minutes.”

Carolyn saw two police units pull up in front of her house, as well as the unmarked black Ford Crown Victoria driven by Hank Sawyer. She went outside to talk to them.

While the crime scene tech snapped photos and another officer began writing his report, Hank and Carolyn moved to the other side of the yard so they could converse privately. She leaned back against a large weeping willow tree.

“You're going to violate Metroix's parole now, I hope,” he said, tilting his head in the direction of the Infiniti. “Didn't I tell you last night that you're walking on the wrong side of the track?”

Carolyn's emotions had gone from shock to anger. She narrowed her eyes at the detective. “Maybe you wrote the note and had one of your men take a crowbar to my car.”