'Why are you so sure our police were wrong?'
'Do you read newspapers? Do you own a television?'
'I don't think it's that clear.'
'That's because you've never seen the obvious.'
'I resent that.'
'Resent all you want. If you think we should defend the city against the Drumm family, then you're incompetent and you should resign.'
'I may resign anyway.'
'Great, and take Drew Kerber with you.'
'Kerber has a long record of bad behavior. He should've never been hired, and he should've been fired years ago. It's the city's fault he's still around, and I'm sure this will come out in court, right?'
'Oh yes.'
'Court? Is anyone here in favor of going to court in this case? If so, then you need an IQ test.'
The debate raged out of control for two hours. At times, all six seemed to be talking at once. There were threats, insults, lots of name-calling and flip-flopping, and no consensus, though it was generally felt that the city should do whatever possible to avoid a trial.
They finally voted-three to terminate Kerber, three to wait and see. As the tiebreaker, the mayor voted to get rid of him. Detectives Jim Morrissey and Nick Needham had taken part in the marathon interrogation that produced the fateful confession, but both had left Slone and moved on to police departments in bigger cities. Chief Joe Radford had been the assistant chief nine years earlier and, as such, had almost no involvement in the Yarber investigation. A motion was made to fire him too, and it failed for lack of a second.
Mr. Varner then raised the issue of the tear-gas assault in Civitan Park the previous Thursday night, and demanded that the city condemn its use. After another hour of hot debate, they decided to postpone further discussion. – The streets were clear and quiet late Wednesday night. After a week of gathering, protesting, partying, and in some cases breaking laws, the demonstrators, protesters, guerrillas, fighters-whatever they called themselves-were tired. They could burn the entire town and disrupt life for a year, but Donte would remain peacefully at rest in Greenwood Cemetery. A few gathered in Washington Park to drink beer and listen to music, but even they had lost interest in throwing rocks and cursing the police.
At midnight, the orders were given, and the National Guardsmen made a quick and silent exit from Slone.
CHAPTER 41
The summons from the bishop came by e-mail early Thursday morning, and was confirmed by a brief phone conversation in which nothing of substance was discussed. By 9:00 a.m., Keith and Dana were once again on the road, this time headed southwest on Interstate 35 to Wichita. As he drove, Keith recalled the same journey only a week earlier, same car, same radio station, but with a very different passenger. He had finally convinced Dana that Boyette was crazy enough to stalk her. The man had been arrested innumerable times, so he wasn't the craftiest criminal on the prowl. Until he was caught, Keith would not let his wife out of his sight.
Keith was ignoring the office and the church. Dana's nonprofit work and jam-packed daily planners had been placed aside. Only the family mattered at the moment. If they had the flexibility, and the money, Keith and Dana would have loaded up the boys and taken a long trip. She was concerned about her husband. He had witnessed a uniquely disturbing event, a tragedy that would haunt him forever, and though he'd been thoroughly unable to stop it or intervene in any manner, he was nonetheless burdened by it. He had told her several times how dirty he felt when the execution was over, how he wanted to go somewhere and take a shower, to cleanse himself of the perspiration and grime and fatigue and complicity. He wasn't sleeping and he wasn't eating, and around the boys he worked hard to carry on the usual banter and games, but it was forced. Keith was detached, and as the days passed, she was beginning to realize that he was not snapping out of it. He seemed to have forgotten about the church. He had not mentioned a sermon or anything related to the upcoming Sunday. There was a pile of phone messages on his desk, all waiting to be returned. He'd corralled their assistant minister into presiding over the Wednesday night dinner, blaming it on a migraine. He'd never had a migraine, never faked being ill, and never asked someone to pinch-hit in any situation. When he wasn't reading about the Drumm case, or researching the death penalty, he was watching cable news, some of the same segments over and over. Something was brewing. – The bishop was a man named Simon Priester, a huge round ball of an old man who was married to the church and had absolutely nothing else to do but micromanage those under him. Though only in his early fifties, he looked and acted much older, with no hair except matching white patches above the ears, and a grotesque abdomen that bulged out and hung grossly over the hips. There had never been a wife to scold him about his weight, or make sure his socks matched, or do something about the stains on his shirt. He spoke in soft slow words, hands usually clasped in front of him, as if waiting for every word to come from above. Behind his back, he was known as the Monk, usually in an affectionate tone, though often otherwise. Twice a year, on the second Sunday in March and the third Sunday in September, the Monk insisted on preaching at St. Mark's in Topeka. He was a crowd killer. The few who came to hear him were the hardiest of the flock, but even they had to be cajoled into attending by Keith, Dana, and the staff. Because of the slim crowds, the Monk was overly concerned about the health of St. Mark's. If you only knew, thought Keith, who couldn't imagine larger crowds at other churches on the Monk's tour.
The meeting was not urgent, though the initial e-mail began with 'Dear Keith: I am deeply concerned…' Simon had suggested a possible lunch, his favorite pastime, sometime the following week, but Keith had little else to do. In truth, a quick trip to Wichita gave him an excuse to leave town and spend the day with Dana.
'I'm sure you've seen this,' Simon said after they were properly arranged at a small table with coffee and frozen croissants. It was a copy of an editorial in the morning edition of the Topeka paper, something Keith had read three times before sunrise.
'I have,' Keith said. With the Monk, it was always safer to use as few words as possible. He was brilliant in taking the loose ones, piecing them together, and tying them around your neck.
Hands clasped, after a bite of croissant that had not been fully consumed because a large crumb was stuck on his lower lip, the Monk said, 'Don't get me wrong here, Keith, we are quite proud of you. What courage. You threw caution to the wind and raced off to a war zone to save a man's life. Dazzling, actually.'
'Thank you, Simon, but I don't remember feeling that brave. I just reacted.'
'Right, right. But you must've been terrified. What was it like, Keith? The violence, death row, being with Boyette? Must've been horrible.'
The last thing Keith wanted to do was tell the story, but the Monk looked so eager. 'Come on, Simon, you've read the papers,' Keith tried to protest. 'You know what happened.'
'Keith, humor me. What really happened?'
So Keith bored himself while humoring the Monk, who added to the narrative every fifteen seconds with a bewildered 'Unbelievable' or a clucking 'My, my.' Once, while he was shaking his head, the crumb was dislodged and fell into his coffee, but the Monk did not notice. In this rendition, Keith chose the chilling phone call from Boyette as the final chapter.
'My, my.'
Typical of the Monk, they had begun with the unpleasant-the editorial-then switched to the enjoyable-Keith's brave journey south-and suddenly it was back to the real purpose of the meeting. The first two paragraphs of the editorial commended Keith on his courage, but that was just the warm-up. The remainder chastised him for knowingly violating the law, though the editors, like the lawyers, struggled to set forth the exact violation.
'I assume you're getting top-notch legal advice,' the Monk said, obviously anxious to give his version of the necessary advice, if Keith would only ask.
'I have a good lawyer.'
'And?'
'Come on, Simon. You understand the nature of confidential relationships.'
The Monk's overloaded spine managed to stiffen. Chastised, he plowed on. 'Of course. I didn't mean to pry, but this does have our attention, Keith. There is the suggestion that there could be a criminal investigation, that you could be in hot water, so to speak, and so on. This is hardly private.'
