Aricia folded his hands and calmly said, "Now tell me, what exactly did he say?"
"I haven't heard the tape yet. It was supposed to be delivered to my office this afternoon, but now things are complicated. Plus, it was sent from the jungles of Paraguay."
"I know that."
"According to Guy, he broke after five hours of shock. He said the money was still intact, hidden in various banks, none of which he could name. Guy damned near killed him when he couldn't, or wouldn't, name the banks. By then, Guy figured, correctly, that someone else had control of the money. A few more jolts, and the girl's name came out. Guy's men immediately called Rio, and confirmed her identity. She had already vanished."
"I want to hear that tape."
"It's brutal, Benny. The man's skin is burning and he's screaming for mercy."
Benny couldn't stop the smile. "I know. That's what I want to hear."
THEY PUT PATRICK at the end of a wing on the base hospital. His was the only room with doors which could be locked from the- outside and windows that wouldn't open. The blinds were closed. Two military guards sat outside the hallway, for whatever reason.
Patrick wasn't going anywhere. The voltage had severely bruised the muscles and tissue in his legs and chest. Even his joints and bones were tender. The burns had laid open his flesh in four places, two on his chest, one on his thigh, one on his calf. Four other spots were being treated as second-degree burns.
The pain was intense, and so his doctors, all four of them, had made the simple decision to keep him sedated for the time being. There was no rush to move him. He was a wanted man, but it would take a few days to determine who got him first.
They kept the room dark, the music low, the IV full of delightful narcotics, and poor Patrick snored away the hours dreaming of nothing and oblivious to the storm brewing back home.
IN AUGUST of 1992, five months after the money vanished, a federal grand jury in Biloxi indicted Patrick for the theft. There was sufficient evidence that he had pulled the heist, and there was not the slightest hint that anyone else might be a suspect. It occurred internationally, thus the feds had jurisdiction.
The Harrison County Sheriffs Department and the local District Attorney had started a joint investigation into the murder, but had long since moved on to other, more pressing matters. Suddenly they were back in business.
The noon press conference was delayed while the authorities met in Cutter's office in downtown Biloxi to sort things out. It was a tense meeting, attended by people with competing interests. On one side of the table sat Cutter and the FBI, who took their orders from Maurice Mast, the U.S. Attorney for the Western District of Mississippi, who had driven in from Jackson. On the other side sat Raymond Sweeney, the Sheriff of Harrison County, and his right-hand man, Grimshaw, both of whom despised the FBI. Their spokesman was T.L. Parrish, the District Attorney for Harrison and surrounding counties.
It was federal versus state, big budgets versus low, with serious egos around the room and everyone wanting most of the Patrick show.
"The death penalty is crucial here," D.A. Parrish said.
"We can use the federal death penalty," U.S. Attorney Mast said, a little timid, if that was possible.
Parrish smiled and cast his eyes down. The federal death penalty had just recently been passed by a Congress with little clue of how to implement it. It certainly sounded good when the President signed it into law, but the kinks were enormous.
The state, on the other hand, had a rich and proven history of legal executions. "Ours is better," Parrish said. "And we all know it." Parrish had sent eight men to death row. Mast had yet to indict one for capital murder.
"And then there is the issue of prison," Parrish continued. "We send him to Parchman, where he's locked down twenty-three hours a day in a steam room with bad food served twice a day, two showers a week, lots of roaches and rapists. If you get him, he gets a country club for the rest of his life while the federal courts pamper him and find a thousand ways to keep him alive."
"It won't be a picnic," Mast said, on the ropes and covering badly.
"A day at the beach maybe. Come on, Maurice. The issue is leverage. We have two big mysteries, two questions that must be answered before Lanigan is put to rest. The big one is money. Where is it? What did he do with it? Can it be recovered and given to its owners? The second is just exactly who is buried out there. I gotta hunch that only Lanigan can tell us, and he won't unless he's forced to. He's gotta be scared, Maurice. Parchman is terrifying. I promise you, he's praying for a federal indictment."
Mast was convinced but he couldn't agree. The case was simply too big to hand over to the locals. Cameras were arriving at the moment.
"There are other charges, you know," he said. "The theft happened offshore, a long way from here."
"Yeah, but the victim was a resident of this county at the time," Parrish said.
"It's not a simple case."
"What are you proposing?"
"Perhaps we should do it jointly," Mast said, and the ice melted considerably. The feds could preempt at any time, and the fact that the U.S. Attorney was offering to share was the best Parrish could hope for.
Parchman was the key, and everyone in the room knew it. Lanigan the lawyer had to know what awaited him there, and the prospect of ten years in hell prior to death could loosen his tongue.
A plan was devised to divide the pie, with both men, Parrish and Mast, tacitly agreeing to share the spotlight. The FBI would continue its search for the money. The locals would concentrate on the murder. Parrish would hastily summon his grand jury. A united front would be presented to the public. Such sticky matters as the trial and its subsequent appeals were glossed over with a hasty promise to address them later. It was important now to reach a truce so that one side wouldn't be worrying about the other.
Because a trial was in progress in the federal building, the press was herded directly across the street into the Biloxi courthouse, where the main courtroom on the second floor was available. There were dozens of reporters. Most were wild-eyed locals, but others were from Jackson, New Orleans, and Mobile. They pressed forward and bunched together like children at a parade.
Mast and Parrish walked grim-faced to a podium laden with microphones and wires. Cutter and the rest of the cops made a wall behind them. Lights came on and cameras flashed.
Mast cleared his throat and said, "We are pleased to announce the capture of Mr. Patrick S. Lanigan, formerly of Biloxi. He is indeed alive and well, and now in our custody." He paused for dramatic effect, savoring his moment in the sun, listening as a ripple of excitement played through the throng of vultures. He then gave a few details of the capture-Brazil, two days ago, assumed identity-without giving the slightest hint that neither he nor the FBI had had anything to do with the actual locating of Patrick. Next, some useless details about the arrival of the prisoner, the pending charges, the swift and sure hand of federal justice.
Parrish was not as dramatic. He promised a quick indictment for capital murder, and for any other charge he might think of.
The questions came in torrents. Mast and Parrish declined comment on just about everything, and managed to do so for an hour and a half.
SHE INSISTED that Lance be allowed to sit through the appointment with her. She needed him, she said. He was quite cute in his tight denim shorts. His muscular legs were hairy and brown. The lawyer was scornful, but then, he'd seen everything.