Prologue

The unusually hot Wyoming summer had given way to crisp fall nights. At almost two in the morning on a night god made for every cop to be on the street capturing depraved criminals, except for the detective and the suspect, the dimly lit Cheyenne alleyway was deserted.

“You have the right to remain silent,” the detective hissed. The stringy man, his back compressed into the red brick wall, trembled with fear.

          “I’ve waited a long time to do this, Vinnie.” The detective shifted his weight and released a punch at the man’s body. The suspect doubled over, grabbed his stomach, and howled, his face contorting in pain. He cowered and tried to roll up into a ball. Garlic breath exhaled strongly. Saliva sprayed from his opened mouth, curdling the air around them.

“You’re making a lot of noise, asshole. Does this mean you are giving up your right to remain silent? You still have the right to remain silent. By law I have to tell you that. Miranda deal. This suggests you don’t have to say a thing. You don’t have to grunt. You don’t have to moan. You don’t have to belch, or make any noise at all. The law allows you those rights, you disgusting bastard.”

           For almost two decades, Detective Scottie “Bench” Colvin had been baffled, following the trail of clues to Vinnie Luciano. Everyone had called Scottie “Bench” since the day he bench-pressed four hundred forty-five pounds—more than twice his weight. An avid weight lifter, he stayed in top physical shape and continued to surprise many men with his strength whenever a scuffle broke out and someone needed to be subdued. Vinnie was receiving a brute testimonial. Again, the detective held him up against the wall with one hand; another strong blow hit the ribs on the man’s left side, and he let out another howl.

“Well, I guess that makes it official. You’ve been asked twice and both times you’ve chosen not to remain silent.

         “You did it, didn’t you? You raped and killed her.” The detective threw the man against the wall.

           “You’ve got the wrong man!”

“Oh, you are Vinnie Luciano. I’ve kept your picture in my pocket for more than nineteen years. I even got some colored pencils, and every time you added a new wrinkle or gray hair to my face, I added some to yours.”

Bench held the man with his left hand and pulled a photograph, protected by a transparent plastic covering, out of his pocket. “Wanna see it? Look.” He shoved the photo in the man’s face. “It’s you, Vinnie. And, for being the most ugly, repugnant, repulsive man I can think of, your face in front of me right now is a beautiful sight. It won’t be long now till I read your obituary in the newspaper.”

The detective threw his fist into Vinnie’s cheekbone. His big rough knuckles drew blood. It rolled down his face. “Admit it, Luciano. Tell me you raped and murdered Jacqueline Webbingham.”

“Okay! Okay! I’m Vinnie Luciano. I’ll confess to anything! Take me to jail. Just don’t hit me no more! I give up! I’ve had enough.”

“Will you sign a confession?”

“Yes! Yes! Anything. But don’t hit me no more.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear, Vinnie. Now, just in case we get in front of a Mr. Nice Guy judge, who may think that everybody, even trash like you, deserves equal treatment under the law, let me tell you all the little words you need to hear.

“If you give up the right to remain silent, which you already have, anything you say and do, can and will be used against you in a court of law, provided you’re still breathing when you get there. You have the right to a high-priced lawyer, or a good attorney, or a bad attorney. Your choice! Personally, I don’t give a damn who you get to defend you. You’re guilty and you’re gonna pay for your sins. However, if you find you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. You even have the right to have an attorney present during this questioning. Do you understand these rights as I’ve cited them?”

“Yes! Yes! I did it!”

“I didn’t ask you if you did it, stupid! I know you did it. I asked you if you understood your rights as I have read them. I don’t like it when you don’t listen to me.”

          As he readied himself to go on with the beating, the night many years earlier when he was called to the murder scene came back to him with every detail. Bench had taken one look at the dead woman, and his stomach contracted violently. The sight of the once-beautiful body, now so inhumanly defaced, was more than he could take. He had gagged, making an effort to hold back the puke. He ran outdoors, and violently vomited on the lawn; recoiling until the heaves produced nothing. From that moment long ago, his hair began changing from dark brown to salt and pepper, and her face has appeared in front of him every day since.

“Again! Do you understand your rights?”

“No. I…”

“No! You raping, murdering bastard!” Bench screamed, biting off Vinnie’s sentence before he could finish his plea. “This is for Mrs. Webbingham, and all of those years.” Bench targeted the man’s face, pulling the man’s head down to meet his swiftly rising knee. Blood flew in every direction as the bone in his nose instantly broke and crushed against his cheek. Vinnie’s legs collapsed. He dropped to the concrete walkway.

The veteran police officer felt renewed strength. He grabbed the man’s shirtfront with both hands, lifting him off the ground. “You were asked a simple question. Now, answer me. Do you understand your rights as I’ve presented them?”

“Yes! Yes!” The suppressed words rolled off the swollen lips of Vinnie’s mashed and bloody face.

           “By the book. Now, I can tell everyone this was by the book,” the officer echoed as he released his grip and the man collapsed onto the floor of the parking lot. “Let’s see what you have in your pockets.” Bench began to frisk the murder suspect for weapons.

“Well, what do we have here? A Mexican driver’s license. And here is a birth certificate. These papers confirm that you are Vincent Luciano. Now, why doesn’t this surprise me? So, you’ve been in Mexico all this time, huh? You weren’t planning to go back real soon now, were you? I’ve changed your plans.”

Hearing leather heels slapping the blacktop, Bench spun around and saw News, a local reporter and photographer, who seemed to have a knack for showing up anywhere, everywhere, and at any time. The five-feet-four-inch Danny DeVito look-alike had already arrived and had aimed his camera.

“Don’t you take that picture.” Bench held up his arm and pointed a threatening finger at the journalist.

The camera’s flash exploded in Vinnie’s face. News turned and began running back down the street.

“If I ever see that picture, I’ll kick your ass, News. And you know damn well I’ll do it.” Bench’s warning rushed like a cyclone and caught up with the man’s ears. He continued running without looking back.

Later that evening, after settling down in his favorite chair with a cold bottle of beer, Bench felt as if a backbreaking weight he had been carrying for twenty years had been lifted from his shoulders. His captain would have notified Governor Webbingham that Vinnie was in custody. He’d be overjoyed. Now, Bench could retire from the force. He had promised the governor he would get Vinnie, and he did. As he looked at his swollen knuckles, a nostalgic smile spread across his face. He lit a joint, smoked it, and fell asleep. For the first time in two decades, he did not awaken for eight wonderful hours, unaware of what was about to happen.

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