“This seems a little different.”
“Because the information didn’t come to light until the guy got the needle. And didn’t the tip come to them by untraceable e-mail? You have to wonder why the tipster bothered. He’d held off too long to save his buddy, not that it would have worked anyway.”
“Maybe he sent the message in time,” TJ suggested, “but it got hung up in cyberspace somewhere. There’s days when some of the service providers are as slow as the post office.”
“You know,” Elaine said, “there’s a lot more information in today’s paper. Would it kill you to read the fucking article?”
“Probably not,” I said. “Where is it?”
“Never mind. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.”
“Can I see the article?”
“It’s probably not gonna be that interesting.”
“Elaine—”
TJ, his eyes rolling, got to his feet, walked over to her, took the paper out of her hand, and came over to present it to me. “It’s nice having a family,” he said, “even if it is what you call dysfunctional.” I read the article.
One or two paragraphs in, I said, “I see what you mean.”
“It’s weird, isn’t it?”
“And complicated,” I said. “Let me finish.” A Times-Dispatch reporter had thought to contact the authorities at Greensville, where the execution of Preston Applewhite had taken place. The warden there recalled several visits by a Yale professor of psychology named Arne Bodinson. Bodinson’s initials were the same as those of the rather transparent pseudonym of the e-mail tipster, which might or might not be purely coincidental.
This was where I’d come in, as all of the foregoing had been in the All the Flowers Are Dying
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story I read yesterday or the day before—except for Bodinson’s first name, which had originally been erroneously reported as Arnold. Since then, the reporter had established conclusively that no one at Yale had ever heard of Bodinson, Arne or Arnold, that he was not a member of the Yale faculty, nor had he, as his resume claimed, earned a doctorate from that institution. This prompted the reporter to check with the University of Virginia in Charlottesville, where Bodinson had allegedly done his undergraduate work, and where they too had no record of his ever having attended, let alone having been awarded a degree.
“This is fascinating,” I said. “Did you see where this Bodinson actually attended the execution? As an invited guest of Applewhite?”
“Isn’t that something? The best thing we ever get invited to is the Mostly Mozart patrons’ dinner.”
“Least they gave you a T-shirt,” TJ put in. “Bet you Bodinson didn’t get one.”
“ ‘My Friend Just Got a Lethal Injection,’ ” Elaine said, “ ‘and All I Got Was This Fucking Shirt.’ ”
I said, “It’s hard to figure this out. There doesn’t seem to be any trace of Bodinson. He was in the area for several days, he kept visiting Applewhite in his cell, but none of the local motels remember him.
There’s a picture.”
“Where? I didn’t see it.”
“Not in the paper. Everyone who passes through security at Greensville walks in front of a security camera. They don’t have a photo in hand, but they will, once they run through all the stored tapes. Of course, if Bodinson was savvy enough to fake credentials that got him into Applewhite’s cell, he probably didn’t give the security camera a very good look at him. They’ll have shots with his hand in front of his face, or his head turned away. They’ll probably be in tomorrow’s paper, because this story’s going to get a lot of national play.”
“I can see why.”
“According to the warden, Bodinson told Applewhite he believed his claim of innocence. Of course we don’t know that’s what he told Applewhite, because nobody heard him but Applewhite, and he’s not 212
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talking. But that’s what he said he was going to tell him. But in the meantime he told the warden that he’d be lying to Applewhite for the sake of the study he was doing, that it was obvious to him the man was guilty as charged. How can you figure the son of a bitch?”
“I suppose more will be revealed.”
“I wonder. If he knew Applewhite from before, why not just visit him in the normal fashion? You’re allowed to have friends visit. If he was a stranger, what was the point?”
Elaine suggested the man might be a kindred spirit, part of an un-derground network of predatory pedophiles.
“Offering aid and comfort to a fallen comrade,” I said, “and keeping it anonymous. He promised the warden he’d try to find out where the missing boy was buried. And evidently did find out, but instead of telling the warden what he’d learned he waited and tipped off the Richmond paper. I don’t get it.”
“Maybe Applewhite told him, but swore him to secrecy until after his death. Maybe he wanted to be able to die proclaiming his innocence.”
“It’s all so damn convoluted,” I said. “Applewhite’s just a pervert and a murderer, but Arne Bodinson a/k/a Abel Baker is something else again. You’ve got to wonder where he’ll turn up next.”
27
It is, he has to admit, a disturbingly good likeness. It’s in the papers and on television, a full-face drawing of
