W is for Wasted

While I listened, I worked on my oatmeal. I pushed the raisins to the bottom of the bowl so the heat would plump them. Then I folded in the milk and sugar. My Aunt Gin favored a couple of pats of butter, but that’s too decadent for my taste.

Aaron was saying, “What Dace doesn’t know is this guy Cates is a registered sex offender and he has his eye on the teenaged girl in a bikini, sunning herself the yard next door. She’s abducted that night, and two days later they find her body stuffed in a sewer pipe half a mile away. She’s been raped and strangled with the cord from the rope-and-pulley system on the very pruning saw Dace was using that day.”

I lowered my spoon. “Are you sure about this? I never even met the man, but I find that hard to believe.”

“Sheriff’s department didn’t have a problem with it. Cates was identified from a palm print left at the scene and he’s the one who implicated Dace. Eventually, Cates ended up on death row in San Quentin, but Dace insisted all along that he was innocent. His wife got on the stand and testified he was home the night the girl was kidnaped. Jury figured she was lying through her teeth. Vote on the guilty verdict was unanimous and the judge sentenced him to life in prison. He spent the next twelve years writing letters to anyone and everyone.”

“I’ve had letters from inmates and they always sound like crackpots. Long, garbled tales about political conspiracies and corruption in the legal system.”

Aaron leaned forward. “Here’s the kicker. Two years ago, Cates finds out he’s terminal. He’s diagnosed with stage four lung cancer, three months to live at the outside, and he decides he doesn’t want to die with a bad conscience. He finally tells the authorities Dace wasn’t the guy, that it was someone else.”

“Amazing.”

“That’s what I said. You’d think Cates’s recanting would be sufficient, but no deal. Prosecutor thinks it’s bullshit. Dace’s original defense attorney is retired and suffering early stage dementia so he’s no help. The judge doesn’t want to hear about it and there’s no one willing to go to bat for him. Twenty-five letters later an attorney finally agreed to look into Dace’s claims. He went back and reviewed all the old police files and the evidence in storage, including a bloody shirt Dace had always sworn wasn’t his. The attorney got a judge to sign an order submitting the semen sample and the bloody shirt for DNA testing that wasn’t available back then. Sure enough, results ruled him out.”

“What about the real guy?”

“He’d been killed in a prison riot two months before. Dace was freed but his life was in pieces, as you might imagine.”

“Humpty Dumpty.”

“That’s about it. This was a major embarrassment for the department. Let’s not even talk about the DA’s office. No one believed Dace was innocent. Some still won’t accept the fact because who wants to take responsibility when you’re that far off? Dace’s attorney uncovered a host of other issues. Crucial reports were ‘lost.’ Exculpatory evidence was swept under the rug.”

Aaron glanced at his watch and signaled the waitress for the check. “There’s more, but it can wait.”

We finished the last of our coffee and Aaron paid the bill. We went out into the morning sun and crossed the street to the bank without saying a word. Dace’s story made chitchat seem inappropriate.

Ted Hill had been watching for us and he held the door open as we approached. Aaron introduced himself and the two men shook hands. Both of us provided photo identification. Aaron had brought a letter from the coroner, identifying the John Doe as R. T. Dace, verifying the date and cause of death, and asking the bank’s cooperation in the matter of the safe deposit box. Hill barely paid attention. Once he’d made up his mind to help, the official folderol didn’t seem to matter to him. Hill introduced us to a teller named Joyce Mount, who would accompany us into the vault. Ted Hill excused himself and suggested Aaron call him later in the day.

Aaron and I went into the vault with Ms. Mount. Aaron used the key we’d found in Dace’s backpack and the teller used the master. In fewer than ten seconds, the safe deposit box was on the table in front of us. Aaron and I pulled up chairs side by side. The teller remained on hand as the bank’s representative, probably as curious as we were about what we’d find.

Aaron removed the contents of the box and fanned out the papers on the table. He had a notebook and he kept a written inventory, cataloging each item as he examined it and passed it on to me. The first was a savings account passbook. He flipped through, looking at a number of entries, and then checked the final balance. He blinked, made a note, and handed it to me.