Ultimate Justice: The Final Penalty

Prologue

Getting into the house proved to be a simple matter. The multi-paned window in the back door meant a minimum amount of glass breakage. The tall one covered the ten by ten pane with the masking tape, and a short, sharp rap with the side of his gloved fist allowed him to reach through and turn the inside knob. The breaking of the glass couldn’t have been heard in the next room, and certainly not by the sleeping woman or her two children upstairs. The two had agreed not to speak a word unless absolutely necessary. They’d gone over and over the plan before they ever got to the house, and each knew exactly what to do.

Because of the outside lighting from the front, it wasn’t quite as dark in the house as the pair had expected. It was easier to miss the hat rack in the hall as they headed for the stairway. They knew that any noise now could make their task much more complicated. They smiled at each other when they realized that the stairway had been carpeted. Their ascending steps would be virtually silent.

As the pair reached the top of the stairs, the tall one moved the length of the hallway toward the master bedroom, the fat one slipped around the doorway and into the girl’s bedroom. He wasn’t squeamish about children. As the tall one put the pillow over the mother’s face he was surprised at how little she struggled. She had obviously been in a deep slumber. The well sharpened, eight inch blade passed through her throat, allowing a spray of blood that the tall one was barely able to prevent from covering his jacket. In a matter of seconds the woman lay still, the dark red, arterial blood continuing to soak into her nightgown and bedding.

The fat one didn’t have it quite so easy. The younger girl woke up as his knife passed through the throat of her older sister, and upon seeing the ski masked apparition in her room, started to scream. Hardly a squeak escaped her lips and the fat one was on her. He slashed at her throat and saw the blood fly. Pleased with himself, he went to find the tall one.

They were supposed to grab what valuables they could, quickly, and make their way out of the house and away. The tall one was filling his pockets with jewelry from a cedar box on the dresser. The fat one began to rummage through the night stands. It was in the bottom drawer of the nightstand nearest the door that he found the small, Smith & Wesson, thirty-eight caliber revolver. They had agreed not to take anything that could be easily traced, but this was too good a find. He quickly transferred his prize to his inside jacket pocket, shielding it from the eyes of the tall one.

They moved down the stairs and into the living room. The tall one picked up the small, Panasonic camcorder from it’s place on top of the bookcase/entertainment center and the pair moved to the back of the house, exiting through the same door they had entered only six minutes earlier.

Through the gate in the back fence and into the alley that allowed the garbage collection trucks to do their business without requiring those unsightly trash cans to be placed out front. Down the alley to the non-descript, blue Chevy four-door sedan they had left at the end of the block, a twist of the key and the pair was gone.

CHAPTER ONE

As I handed the gray haired security guard my wallet with my drivers license exposed, I wondered how many other grieving people he had escorted down this same hallway.

Grant Franklin, he read, without signs of any real interest.

I nodded and he moved off down that hallway, while I trailed hesitantly in his wake, the small knot in the pit of my stomach beginning to grow. You notice the strangest things at the strangest times, I guess. Like the fact that the backside of his dark blue, uniform pants glistened from to many chair seats. That his black, military style shoes were run down at the heels, from too many trips down this hallway. Since I was behind and to his right, it was also easy to see that the front of his black leather belt was closer to the ground than the back, since it had to dive under his ample belly. He’d left his hat on the scarred, wooden desk near the door. For a man obviously nearing the age of mandatory retirement, he maintained a full head of hair, even though cut short and flat on top ala the US Marine Corp.

We clicked our heels down the tiled, antiseptic corridor until we reached a door labeled Morgue. He pushed through and the chill hit me like a bucket of water. I hadn’t expected it, although, I guess I should have. The room was tile and stainless steel with a long, stainless steel table as its center piece. Along the back wall were the rows of stainless steel refrigerator style doors that I had expected.

The guard checked a small card that he carried in his left hand and moved to a door with the number twelve stenciled just above its center. A quick jerk of the lever style handle and the door swung quietly open. Over his shoulder, I could just glimpse a sheet covered form inside. The guard hesitated and looked at me. I nodded once again to let him know that I was ok, and he pulled the drawer out . He stepped back and allowed me to lift the sheet.

She had been quite beautiful once, still was in a more middle aged sort of way. I had looked at that face a million times. She had been cleaned up and the wound across her neck was just some puckered, reddened flesh.

As I lowered the sheet back over her, the guard moved to door number four. Now I began to shake. This was going to be tougher. I steeled myself for what I was going to see, but I knew I had to look at her face one more time. As the drawer was pulled to its length, I again lifted a sheet.

This was a face that I had not looked at as often, but only because she was only eleven years old. My eldest daughter Beth, Elizabeth, actually. Janet, the lady who lay in drawer number twelve had always liked Elizabeth Taylor. If I didn’t look at the wound on her throat, I could believe that she was only sleeping. It took what strength I had left to lower the sheet rather than attempt to wake her. I was flooded with the sudden knowledge that I would never see this beautiful face again, all because someone wanted some cheap jewelry and trinkets from the house.

The guard closed the drawer and made sure that both door twelve and four were securely latched. He led me out the doorway and back down the hallway to his desk. I signed the cards attesting to the identities of the two people in drawers twelve and four as Janet and Elizabeth Franklin, and then made my way outside into the fresh air as quickly as I could. As I stepped into the hazy, May sunshine, I realized that I had not spoken one word to the old security guard.

Chapter Two

Janet and I had met not long after I had returned from Viet Nam back in 70. Introduced by a friend of a friend so to speak. We dated for several months, saw each other nearly everyday, and by the fall of 1970, it just seemed the natural thing to do was get married. After the Navy, I tried several different lines of work, truck driving, factory work, but with my winning personality and gift of gab, I always ended up in sales of some kind.

Our marriage had certainly seen its highs and lows, like most marriages, I guess. We didn’t rush into children right away. Beth wasn’t born until 76. Kathleen in 79. Janet had always seemed content to be a mom and enjoy her life at home. We lived, what I always believed to be a pretty good, suburban, three bedroom two bath lifestyle in Sacramento. As the kids grew older, however, I’d noticed a gradual change in her. She’d become more resentful of her daily chores. For the past several years, I’d been on the road covering the eleven western states working for Schuler Sporting Goods. I’d been doing well, moving up to regional sales manager after only six years with the company. It’s possible that I hadn’t paid enough attention to Jan.

Two years ago, I’d come home from a particularly grueling trip to a place I call Granola. Southern California, cause what ain’t fruits and nuts, is flakes. It was a fairly late arrival home, I kissed my girls off to bed and had just ensconced myself on the well worn, flower print sofa that we’d had for some years, when Jan announced that she’d decided to make some changes in her life and had contacted an attorney about a divorce while I’d been gone.

I won’t bore you here with the details of all of the conversation that occurred following this announcement. I’ll simply say that following hours of discussion over a period of several days, sometimes rather loud discussion, I had rented a small townhouse twenty minutes away in Rancho Cordova. Far enough away so as not to make Jan feel spied upon, and close enough to see my girls.

I had been on a swing through northern Nevada, traveling in my recently acquired, Pontiac Grand Prix company car, when I got a message on my company voice mail to contact the Sacramento Police department. I should speak to a Sergeant Willis at my earliest convenience.

I had checked into another one of the hundreds of look alike, shower, bed, and tv motels that are dotted across interstate 80 from Reno to Elko. This particular motel was in the thriving metropolis of Winnemucca, a town known for small casinos and thriving bordellos. It was Schuler’s off season special on hunting gear, this being May and hunting season not being until October in most places. I’d made my stops in Reno and one good size sporting goods account in Lovelock and had made it into Winnemucca just before dark. My plan was to hit two places in Winnemucca in the morning, travel on to Elko by the afternoon and spend the night in Twin Falls, Idaho.

I tried Sergeant Willis as soon as I received the message and was told he was out until eight o’clock the next morning. I wasn’t too concerned. Being a traveling salesman, I get my share of traffic tickets. I figured I’d forgotten to pay one, so I didn’t think anything was too serious. I tried the call again about 8:15 just before leaving the motel.

Sergeant Willis.

Sergeant Willis, this is Grant Franklin. I received a message to give you a call.

Oh, yeah, Mr. Franklin, I’ve been hoping you’d call. I want to make sure I’ve got the right Mr. Franklin. Your ex-wife is Janet, lives at 3221 Pioneer Circle.

That’s right, what’s going on, beginning to tense a little.

Mr. Franklin, could you get back to Sacramento right away, there was a break-in at your ex-wife’s house night before last.

What happened, how are Janet and the girls, what’s missing? The words spilling out of my mouth.

Mr. Franklin, I sure hate to do this over the phone, but we weren’t able to save Janet and your oldest daughter.

What do you mean, weren’t able to save? fear rising in my throat.

I’m sorry, Mr. Franklin, I mean they didn’t survive the attack.

I was stunned by the words, frozen in place.

And the younger girl is in Mercy Hospital, Willis continued reluctantly.

My open mouth snapped shut. It felt like the motel was suddenly caught up in the cyclone from The Wizard Of Oz. I could hear Willis on the line, but I didn’t have any idea that I should be talking to him. Finally I croaked out, I’ll be back in Sacramento by mid-afternoon and dropped the receiver.

I’d made the six hour drive from Winnemucca to Sacramento in just over five hours, without benefit of police intervention. I’d called Willis back on my cell phone after absorbing what I’d been told and advised him to meet me at Mercy hospital.

I parked in the Doctors Only lot, giving a hard look to a fellow in hospital greens whom I took to be a doctor, and made my way to the third floor where admitting had advised me I would find Kathleen. Exiting the elevator on the third floor I passed the nurses station, all of them too busy to notice me and made my way toward room 314. As I walked down the hall my nose filled with that smell peculiar to hospitals everywhere. That combination of antiseptic and illness, all rolled into one.

Standing just outside the door of 314 was a stocky, middle aged guy about 5’ 10" that had to be Willis. Thinning, brown hair, tweedy jacket with patches at the elbow, blue tie with red stripes, knotted loosely, hanging on a shirt that had once been white but had given up the fight some time ago. Gray slacks a little baggy at the knees from too much time at a desk. As I got nearer he gave me that cop like, appraising look.

Mr Franklin?

That’s me.

I’m Sergeant Willis.

I eased past Willis and into the darkened room. What I saw lying in that bed took the remaining strength out of me. My little Kathleen, somehow looking smaller than normal, so pale I wasn’t sure she was still among the living. I felt, more than saw, Willis move up alongside me. There were IV’s in both arms and a necklace of bandages encircling her throat.

They say they think she’ll recover ok. He spoke so softly I barely heard.

I reached a trembling hand toward her and lightly stroked her left cheek. It felt as though I were stroking a beautiful ice sculpture.

At that moment, a figure in hospital greens came up on my left.

Mr. Franklin?

Yes.

I’m Dr. Isaacs, chief of pediatric surgery.

Will she live.

She’ll live, although that was not the intent of whoever did this to her. I’m sorry about your wife and oldest daughter. I didn’t correct him regarding my marital status.

In one way, your a lucky man, he said with honest sympathy. Whoever did this, botched the job on Kathleen, the wound is deep but not quite deep enough. There was plenty of blood but he missed the carotid arteries and jugular veins. Our real concern is her ability to speak. The larynx was partially cut, and even though the vocal cords are intact, scarring in that area can affect and often eliminate the ability to speak. We just won’t know for a while yet, probably two to three weeks.

I was back in that cyclone again. I looked at Willis and he motioned me out into the hallway.

How you holding up? he asked softly. My youngest daughter may never speak again, my oldest daughter and ex-wife are dead and you ask how I’m holding up! I was louder.

Easy, Mr. Franklin, I didn’t do it, I’m on your side.

I just looked at him for a minute. Yeah, sorry, Willis. This is just an awful lot to hit a guy with. I’ve got a million questions, but I just want to calm down a little. What the hell happened?

There are some obvious things missing from the house. It appears to have been a chance burglary. Mr. Franklin, I sure hate to ask, but I’d appreciate it if you could go over to the morgue and identify your ex-wife and daughter. We’ve got her drivers license and the ID of Mr. Beck, but he’s not a relative.

Who the hell is Mr. Beck?

Geez, I’m sorry, I just assumed you knew. I guess he’s the boyfriend.

I had intentionally stayed away from the subject of men when I’d spoken to Jan. Partly because I knew it was none of my business, but mostly because I didn’t want to know about it.

Willis gave me directions to the Sacramento County morgue, and I promised to meet him at his office the following morning about nine-thirty.

Chapter Three

I didn’t have much trouble finding Willis the next morning. I’d seen the Sacramento Police Department headquarters downtown often enough. I was directed to the second floor by a shiny, new, rookie at the reception area on the first floor. He must have been fresh out of the academy because he still had enthusiasm, even for giving directions.

When I found Willis’ desk, it looked just like you would imagine a cop’s desk would look. Probably the last Underwood manual typewriter on the planet perched on one corner, balanced by the large, black telephone with the six lighted buttons, on the other corner. A half eaten danish of some kind was in the center of the desk resting quietly on a folded paper towel and keeping company with a mug of coffee that looked strong enough to walk away on its own. The same tweedy jacket with the patches on the elbows, hung over the back of the scarred, wooden chair.

The room contained about fifteen desks with varying degrees of occupancy. Some officers sat at their desks, some perched on a corner, and some were simply loitering nearby.

As I stood near his desk, I saw Willis approaching from across the room.

Mr Franklin, thanks for coming in. Have a seat in the chair there beside the desk.

As I planted myself in the offered chair, I’m sure it was obvious from the look of me that sleep had been an elusive thing the previous night. My eyes felt like I carried a pound of sand in each one.

I appreciate the identification you gave at the morgue yesterday afternoon. It’s a technical thing, but it helps me tie up the paperwork. I guess it’s time for those million questions you have. I just hope you understand that I don’t have a million answers.

I’m dealing with this the best I can. Screaming at you won’t help anything, I know. Just tell me what the hell happened. Do you have any idea who did it?

I’m sorry, Mr. Franklin, we don’t know a lot. Except for a couple of details, it appears to be just a random burglary.

What couple of details? I asked.

"Well, normally, the last thing a burglar wants is for the occupants of the home to wake up.