The Confession (6 page)

“Why didn’t the bigger schools recruit him?” Pryor asked. Keep him talking, Robbie said to himself.

“Size. He stopped growing in the tenth grade, and he could never get his weight above 220. That’s not big enough for the Longhorns.”

“You should see him now,” Pryor said without missing a beat. “He weighs about 150, gaunt and skinny, shaves his head, and he’s locked up in a tiny cell twenty-three hours a day. I think he’s lost his marbles.”

“He wrote me a couple of letters, did you know that?”

“No.”

Robbie leaned closer to the speakerphone. He’d never heard this.

“Not long after he was sent away, when I was still living in Slone, he wrote to me. Two, maybe three letters. Long ones. He went on about death row and how awful it is—the food, the noise, the heat, the isolation, and so on. He swore he never touched Nikki, never got involved with her. He swore he was nowhere near the mall when she disappeared. He begged me to tell the truth, to help him win his appeal and get out of prison. I never wrote him back.”

“You still have the letters?” Pryor asked.

Joey shook his head. “No, I’ve moved around so much.”

———

The waitress appeared and removed the platter. “Another margarita?” she asked, but Joey waved her off. Pryor leaned forward on his elbows until their faces were two feet apart. He began, “You know, Joey, I’ve worked on this case for years. Spent thousands of hours, not only working, but thinking, trying to figure out what happened. Here’s my theory. You went nuts over Nikki, and why not? She was cute as hell, popular, hot, the kind of girl you want to put in your pocket and take home forever. But she broke your heart, and nothing is more painful for a seventeen-year-old. You were devastated, crushed. Then she disappeared. The entire town was shocked, but you and those who
loved her were especially horrified. Everyone wanted to find her. Everyone wanted to help. How could she simply vanish? Who snatched her? Who could harm Nikki? Maybe you believed Donté was involved, maybe not. But you were a wreck emotionally, and in that state you decided to get involved. You called Detective Kerber with the anonymous tip, and from there everything snowballed. At that moment, the investigation took a wrong turn and no one could stop it. When you heard the news that he’d confessed, you figured you’d done the right thing. Got the right guy. Then you decided that you wanted a little piece of the action. You concocted the story about the green van, and suddenly you’re the star witness. You became the hero to all those wonderful people who loved and adored Nicole Yarber. You took the stand at the trial, raised your right hand, told something that was not the whole truth, but it didn’t matter. You were there, helping your beloved Nikki. Donté was led away in shackles, taken straight to death row. Maybe you understood that he would one day be executed, maybe you didn’t. I suspect that way back then, when you were still a teenager, you could not appreciate the gravity of what’s happening now.”

“He confessed.”

“Yes, and his confession is about as reliable as your testimony. For many reasons, people say things that aren’t true, don’t they, Joey?”

There was a long gap in the conversation as both men considered what to say next. In Slone, Robbie waited patiently, though he had never been known for his patience or quiet moments of self-reflection.

Joey spoke next. “This affidavit, what goes in it?”

“The truth. You state, under oath, that your testimony at trial was not accurate, and so on. Our office will prepare it. We can have it done in less than an hour.”

“Not so fast. So, I would say, basically, that I lied during the trial?”

“We can dress up the language, but that’s the gist of it. We’d also like to settle the matter about the anonymous tip.”

“And the affidavit would be filed in court and end up in the newspapers?”

“Sure. The press is following the case. Any last-minute motions and appeals will be reported.”

“So, my mother will read in the newspaper that I’m now saying I lied at trial. I’ll be admitting that I’m a liar, that right?”

“Yes, but what’s more important here, Joey? Your reputation or Donté’s life?”

“But you said it’s a long shot, right? So, chances are I’ll admit to being a liar and he still gets the needle. Who wins that one?”

“He damn sure doesn’t.”

“I don’t think so. Look, I gotta get back to work.”

“Come on, Joey.”

“Thanks for lunch. Nice meetin’ you.” And with that, he slid out of the booth and hurried out of the restaurant.

Pryor took a deep breath and stared at the table in disbelief. They were talking about the affidavit, then the conversation ended. He slowly pulled out his cell phone and talked to his boss. “Did you get all that?”

“Yep, every word,” Robbie said.

“Anything we can use?”

“No. Nothing. Not even close, really.”

“I didn’t think so. Sorry, Robbie. I thought at one point he was ready to snap.”

“You did all you could, Fred. Nice job. He’s got your card, right?”

“Yes.”

“Call him after work, say hello, just remind him you’re there and ready to talk.”

“I’ll try to meet him for a drink. Something tells me he tends to overindulge. Maybe I can get him drunk and he’ll say something.”

“Just make sure it’s being recorded.”

“Will do.”

O
n the third floor of St. Francis Hospital, Mrs. Aurelia Lindmar was recovering from gallbladder surgery and doing well. Keith spent twenty minutes with her, ate two pieces of cheap, stale chocolate mailed in by a niece, and managed to make a graceful departure when a nurse popped in with a syringe. On the fourth floor, he huddled in the hallway with the soon-to-be widow of Mr. Charles Cooper, a stalwart member of St. Mark’s whose bad heart was finally giving out. There were three other patients Keith needed to see, but their conditions were stable and they would live until tomorrow, when he would have more time. On the second floor, he tracked down Dr. Herzlich, who was eating a cold sandwich from a machine and reading a dense text as he sat alone in a small cafeteria.

“Have you had lunch?” Kyle Herzlich asked politely as he offered a chair to his minister. Keith sat down, looked at the puny sandwich—white bread with a thin slice of some brutally processed meat in the middle—and said, “Thanks. I had a late breakfast.”

“Fine. Look, Keith, I’ve managed to snoop a bit, got as far as I can go, actually, you do understand these things?”

“Of course I do. And I did not intend for you to pry into private matters.”

“Never. Can’t do it. But I’ve asked around, and, well, there are ways of gleaning some of the facts. Your man has been here at least twice in the past month, lots of tests, and the tumor thing checks out. Not a pretty prognosis.”

“Thanks, Doctor.” Keith was not surprised to learn that Travis Boyette was telling the truth, at least about his brain tumor.

“Can’t say any more than that.” The doctor managed to eat, read, and talk at the same time.

“Sure, no problem.”

“What’s his crime?”

You don’t want to know, Keith thought. “A nasty one. Career boy, long record.”

“Why’s he hanging around St. Mark’s?”

“We’re open to the public, Doctor. We’re supposed to serve all God’s people, even those with criminal records.”

“I suppose. Anything to worry about?”

“No. He’s harmless.” Just hide the women and girls, and perhaps the little boys too. Keith thanked him again and excused himself.

“See you Sunday,” the doctor said, his eyes glued to a medical report.

———

Anchor House was a square, boxlike building of red brick and painted windows, the type of structure that could be used for anything, and probably had been since it was hastily constructed forty years earlier. Whoever built it had been pressed for time and saw no need for involving the architects. At 7:00 on Monday evening, Keith entered from the sidewalk off Seventeenth Street and stopped at a makeshift front desk where an ex-con was monitoring things. “Yes, sir,” he said without a trace of warmth.

“I need to see Travis Boyette,” Keith said.

The monitor looked to his left, to a large open room where a dozen
or so men were sitting in various stages of relaxation and gazing at a very loud, large television, enthralled with
Wheel of Fortune
. Then he looked to his right, to another large open room where a dozen or so men were either reading battered paperbacks or playing checkers and chess. Boyette was in a wicker rocker, in a corner, partially hidden behind a newspaper. “Over there,” the man said, nodding. “Sign here.”

Keith signed in and walked to the corner. When Boyette saw him approach, he grabbed his cane and scrambled to his feet. “Didn’t expect you,” he said, obviously surprised.

“I was in the neighborhood. Got a few minutes to talk?”

The other men were taking casual note of Keith. The checkers and chess went on without interruption.

“Sure,” Boyette said, glancing around. “Let’s go to the mess hall.” Keith followed him, watching the left leg as it paused slightly with each step, causing the shuffle. The cane jabbed the floor as they clicked along. How awful would it be, Keith asked himself, to live each minute with a grade-four tumor between your ears, growing and growing until your skull seems ready to crack? As miserable a person as he was, Keith couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. A dead man.

The mess hall was a small room with four long folding tables and a wide opening at the far end that gave way to the kitchen. The cleanup crew was making a racket back there, slinging pots and pans and laughing. Rap music came from a radio. It was the perfect cover for a hushed conversation.

“We can talk here,” Boyette said, nodding at a table. Crumbs of food were scattered about. The thick smell of cooking oil hung in the air. They sat down across from each other. Since they had nothing in common but the weather, Keith decided not to waste time.

“Would you like some coffee?” Boyette asked politely.

“No, thanks.”

“Smart move. Worst coffee in Kansas. Worse than prison.”

“Travis, after you left this morning, I went online, found the Web site for Donté Drumm, and spent the rest of the day lost in that world.
It’s fascinating, and heartbreaking. There are serious doubts about his guilt.”

“Serious?” Boyette said with a laugh. “There should be serious doubts. The boy had nothing to do with what happened to Nikki.”

“What happened to Nikki?”

A startled look, like a deer in headlights. Silence. Boyette wrapped his hands around his head and massaged his scalp. His shoulders began to shake. The tic came and went and came back again. Keith watched him and could almost feel the agony. The rap music thumped mindlessly from the kitchen.

Keith slowly reached into his coat pocket and removed a folded sheet of paper. He unfolded it and slid it across the table. “Recognize this girl?” he asked. It was a copy of a black-and-white photo printed from the Web site, a photo of Nicole Yarber, posing in her cheerleader outfit, holding a pom-pom, smiling with all the innocence of a sweet seventeen-year-old.

At first, Boyette did not react. He looked at Nikki as if he’d never seen her before. He stared at her for a long time, then the tears came without warning. No gasps, no sobs, no apologies, just a flood of moisture that ran down his cheeks and dripped off his chin. He made no effort to wipe his face. He looked at Keith, and the two men stared at each other as the tears continued. The photo was getting wet.

Boyette grunted, cleared his throat, and said, “I really want to die.”

———

Keith came back from the kitchen with two cups of black coffee in paper cups, along with some paper towels. Boyette took one, wiped his face and chin, and said, “Thanks.”

Keith resumed his seat and said, “What happened to Nikki?”

Boyette seemed to count to ten before saying, “I’ve still got her.”

Keith thought he was prepared for every possible answer, but in fact he was not. Could she be alive? No. He’d spent the past six years in prison. How could he keep her locked up somewhere? He’s crazy.

“Where is she?” Keith asked firmly.

“Buried.”

“Where?”

“Missouri.”

“Look, Travis, these one-word answers will keep us here forever. You came to my office this morning for one reason, and that was to finally confess. But you couldn’t muster the courage, so here I am. Let’s hear it.”

“Why do you care?”

“That’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? An innocent man is about to be executed for something you did. Maybe there’s time to save him.”

“I doubt it.”

“Did you kill Nicole Yarber?”

“Is this confidential, Pastor?”

“Do you want it to be?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Why not confess, then make a full admission, then try to help Donté Drumm? That’s what you should do, Travis. Your days are numbered, according to what you said this morning.”

“Confidential or not?”

Keith took a breath, then made the mistake of taking a sip of coffee. Travis was right.

“If you want it to be confidential, Travis, then it is.”

A smile, a tic. He glanced around, though they had yet to be noticed by anyone else. He began to nod. “I did it, Pastor. I don’t know why. I never know why.”

“You grabbed her in the parking lot?”

The tumor expanded, the headaches hit like lightning. He grabbed his head again and weathered the storm. His jaws clenched in a determined effort to keep going. “I grabbed her, took her away. I had a gun, she didn’t fight much. We left town. I kept her a few days. We had sex. We—”

“You didn’t have sex. You raped her.”

“Yes, over and over. Then I did it, and buried her.”

“You killed her?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Strangled her with her belt. It’s still there, around her neck.”

“And you buried her?”

“Yes.” Boyette looked at the photo, and Keith could almost see a smile.

“Where?”

“South of Joplin, where I grew up. Lots of hills, valleys, hollows, logging trails, dead-end roads. She’ll never be found. They never got close.”

A long pause as the sickening reality settled in. Of course, there was a chance he was lying, but Keith could not force himself to believe that. What could he possibly gain by lying, especially at this stage in his miserable life?