A Room For The Dead (THE GHOST STORIES OF NOEL HYND # 3) Read online

  A ROOM FOR THE DEAD

  A Dark Malevolent Ghost Story

  Author’s revised 2011 edition

  by Noel Hynd

  A Room for the Dead

  Noel Hynd

  Published by Noel Hynd

  © Copyright 2011 Noel Hynd

  This edition was especially created in 2011. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Formatting and layout by

  Nicholas J. Ambrose

  for my good friends

  Joan and George Kaczender

  with thanks and appreciation

  Et clamor meus ad te veniat.

  And let my cry come unto Thee.

  -Roman Catholic Mass

  True love is like seeing ghosts. We all talk about it, but few of us have ever seen one.

  -Francois de Rochefoucauld 1613-1680

  Chapter One

  June 6, 1993. Tallahassee, Florida. Four-fifteen A.M. on an ugly, humid morning that was growing uglier by the second. And not because of the weather.

  Florida State Correctional Facility. Two burly guards escorted Father Robert Trintino down the long corridor on the second floor. Death Row. Father Trintino stopped at a spot where he had been a dozen times previously.

  The priest turned to Correctional Officer Butch Thurman and drew a breath. This was the moment that Trintino had dreaded for months. He had asked God many times to help him through it. He was not sure that God had listened.

  Father Trintino calmed himself. Then he waited. Within the command center of the prison, a captain of security fed a combination of numbers into the prison's central computer. In response, the door to cell 211 E. slowly opened.

  The portal had a chunky, creaking, unforgiving sound to it, a grudging mechanical noise, combined with a hissing reminiscent of the air brakes on a truck. A blend of old prisons and new, the worst aspects of both.

  Father Trintino wore the traditionally turned collar and a black shirt with short sleeves. He walked slowly into the cell.

  The condemned man's name was Gary Ledbetter. Gary was wide-awake, playing solitaire with a fresh deck of Budweiser playing cards. A tray of food, delivered forty-five minutes earlier, remained untouched. Behind him, along the walls, beside his cot, were several books. Classic stuff in several categories: Charlie Dickens to Tommy Pynchon, Steve King to A1 Camus. Gary called all the authors by diminutive first names once he had made friends with them. Then again, he had also taught himself French in his first year on Death Row and read Jean Genet in the original. Saint Genet would have gotten off on that one.

  Yeah, Gary was a pile of contradictions: a self-educated eighth grade dropout. Well-read and badly spoken, but an intellect among convicted killers. Even played the piano pretty well-played hymns in church when he was a kid down South. But, of course, the prison wouldn't let him touch a piano. Warden's opinion-Gary would make a shiv out of a key or a garotte out of a string. Ledbetter was too damned smart, too damned self-destructive, too bad-assed for his own good. That's the only thing upon which everyone agreed.

  Ledbetter was twenty-eight years old and had been in trouble with the law since he was nine. Before age nine, there had been incidents. A number of them. Some involving people. Others involving neighborhood dogs and cats. But no one had ever kept track, except his mother, who quickly lost track.

  Gary Ledbetter. Stocky, muscular, and occasionally sadistic. Five feet ten, and all seventy inches as mean as a wounded bobcat. A misspent life that the newspapers could latch upon. Could have been a musician. Could have been a novelist. Instead, he liked to murder. He himself confessed that he had a “wicked streak.” Gary's own words.

  A face you could trust, naturally. Round. Angelic. More contradictions: Off-kilter handsome. Love me or hate me. Love me and hate me. Dirty blond hair. The typically bad hairchop of a prison inmate, but still-even after a few dozen months on Death Row-a white trash Adonis. Could have been a fine actor, too. Brooding presence. In a crowded room, all eyes gravitated to him. In a cell, there was no choice.

  Gary Ledbetter looked up. Two cobalt blue pilot lights: the kind of eyes that made women trust him. Fall in love. Go willingly to bed with him before he murdered them, the prosecutors of four states had claimed. The owner of that face-of those eyes-had been implicated in the mutilation-murders of five young women up and down the east coast, Maine to Florida. Five unsuspecting girls, each murder a little more calculated and grisly than the preceding one. So the cops said. The newspapers and several police departments had wondered, how many more had there really been?

  Gary had an answer. None. No other murders. No, sir. And he surely hadn't snuffed the first four, either. Like half of the Death Row inhabitants in the United States, Ledbetter swore he was innocent. The victim of a terrible frame-up. Mistaken identity. Witnesses who were vindictive and wrong. A bunch of liars. Who me? Hurt them? No way. Not Gary. “I done some bad things in my life, but I didn't kill no girls. Fact is, I got some good in me. Everybody does.”

  That's what Gary swore in court.

  After a three-day trial for one of the homicides, a jury had taken an hour and fifteen minutes to decide. It didn't believe Gary. Not a damned bit. Hell, the jurors had all read the tabloids, so they knew exactly what they were doing. Given the opportunity, the jurors would have executed Gary several times, each time a little more painfully than the last. The victims' families suggested that electrocution was too good for Gary, after what he had done to those innocent girls.

  But, “No, sir,” Gary kept insisting. “I never harmed no girls.”

  Outside the prison there were the usual vigils. On the north side of the main gate there were the softies who believed in Gary's innocence. Among them were the bleeding hearts who felt that capital punishment was inherently cruel and unusual.

  South of the main gate there was the redneck cheering section. The execution freaks. The crew who turned out for any good electrocution. Zap Gary, they said. Toast him and roast him. And, hey! Make it slow and painful!

  The door closed behind the priest. Father Trintino gazed at Ledbetter. “Good morning, Gary,” the priest said. Even he knew that his words, just those two, contained a terrible irony.

  Gary tried to place a three of hearts into the four rows of playing cards, then absently looked up at his visitor. A cobalt blue glance that continually unnerved the priest. Sheer, cold, chip-on-the-shoulder malice when Gary didn't smile.

  “Good morning, handsome,” Gary answered. A voice like velvet to go along with those eyes. Gary continued his game of solitaire without missing a beat.

  “I asked you not to call me that, Gary,” the priest said. “I'm a pastor.”

  Ledbetter turned over a series of spades, then clubs. His eyebrows raised over the sequences of the cards.

  “Why can't you leave me alone?” Ledbetter finally asked.

  “I don't feel you should be alone,” Father Trintino said.

  Ledbetter shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he answered. He turned back to his cards.

  The priest found a seat in the cell. From behind a heavy glass in the ceiling, a closed circuit camera monitored the encounter. Outside, the two guards waited. Beneath the NO SMOKING sign, they broke open a pack of unfiltered butts. Behind bars, Joe Camel was one popular dromedary.

  Father Trintino was dark and nice-looking. Three decades old. Classic Mediterranean features. Pacino in Dog Day Afternoon. Yet his bearing conveyed great understanding and patience. This morning, he was also ill at ease. He knew th
e condemned man no better now than he had the time he had first visited.

  “This is our final meeting, Gary,” Trintino said.

  “Think I don't know that?”

  “You were raised as a Christian, Gary,” the priest attempted bravely. “I know this idea has never appealed to you before. But it is never too late to-”

  “Forget it, Father. Save your breath.”

  The priest forged ahead. “It is never too late to make your confession. Or to ask God for His forgiveness.”

  Ledbetter laughed. “Hell, Father,” Ledbetter said. “It was too late for me fifteen years ago, my first felony bust. I knew that this day would come. So what of it? All I bring into this world is misery, so why not let me take myself out of it?”

  Father Trintino sighed. He found Ledbetter infuriating.

  “It matters to me, Gary,” the priest tried.

  Gary flipped him a finger.

  “And you should want to go to God with an unburdened soul.”

  “My soul is unburdened.”

  “Is it really?”

  “Yes.” Ledbetter's gaze was as unflinching as a terrier's. It was the priest who finally looked away. “My soul ain't burdened 'cause I never killed no girl,” Ledbetter said. “A court found differently, Gary. There was evidence. Witnesses. Testimony against you.”

  “Lies.”

  “I'm sorry. I wish I could believe you, Gary.”

  “Yeah, right,” Ledbetter answered, quickly seizing upon the point. “You come here all these times and you don't believe me no how. So what can I do?”

  The priest tried to phrase a response. But Ledbetter forged ahead.

  “Let me ask you something, Father,” Gary continued, hanging cynically upon the word “Father.”

  “Why did you join the church, anyway? Was it a thing you had for boys?”

  “Gary, please don't continue this.”

  “Answer me,” Ledbetter demanded. “Another priest could come. But you do. Are you attracted to me?”

  “I am not attracted to you.”

  “Liar. You love me.”

  Father Trintino experienced a sinking feeling. “Gary, time is short. I'm offering you a final opportunity to accept Christ.”

  “You're interfering with my damned card game,” the prisoner said. “Know how much I had to pay the guards for a new deck?”

  “Gary. . .” the priest said, “I have my duties. And there are certain things I have to ask.”

  Ledbetter was silent for a moment. “Then let's get on with it,” he finally said.

  The priest pressed his agenda. “Would you like to talk?” he asked. “About life? About Heaven?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like to accept Holy Communion?”

  “Of course not.” Ledbetter made three final moves with his remaining cards.

  “May I pray for you?” Trintino asked.

  “Can if you want. Don't matter none to me.”

  Gary leaned back from his table and smiled triumphantly. He had completed his suites. “Look at that. I did it,” he said proudly. A final game of solitaire and he had won.

  Now the priest sighed. “Would you like,” he asked with some hesitation, “to talk about what's going to happen today?”

  Gary turned toward the clergyman. “Are you going to watch my execution?” Ledbetter asked.

  The priest eyed him, unblinking. As had happened on previous meetings, the prisoner had read his thoughts.

  “Why did you ask me that?”

  “Because that's what worries you, isn't it? Having to watch. That bothers you more than coming in here and talking to me.”

  “No, Gary. That's not the case.”

  “You're lying, Father. Answer my question.”

  Father Trintino experienced a sinking feeling. “Are you asking me to be your witness?”

  “Wouldn't you like to be?”

  “I don't care to see you die.”

  “Why's that?” Ledbetter demanded.

  The priest didn't answer.

  “I have the right to ask for a witness,” Ledbetter said. “I want you.”

  “Gary. . . ',

  “Hey, where's your courage, Father?” Ledbetter taunted, blue eyes narrowing. “This is my time of need. Or does it upset you especially to watch my cojones get cooked because-”

  “All right, Gary. I'll be your witness.”

  The prisoner thought about it.

  “That's good,” Ledbetter said, a taunt in his voice. “I think someone who cares about me should watch them kill me. Cares about me physically, I mean.”

  The cleric cringed.

  “Ever seen anyone killed close up?” Gary asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you find it disturbing?”

  “Very.”

  “Then it should happen no other way. That's what death is about, Bobby. Pain and suffering.”

  The young priest stiffened. “Why did you call me that?”

  “Call you what?”

  “Bobby.'“

  “That's your name, ain't it?”

  “I was called that as a boy. How did you know?”

  The prisoner paused and smiled. “Lucky guess, Bobby.” Ledbetter paused and rose to his feet. “Or maybe I can see what a man really likes.”

  “And what's that?”

  Ledbetter stepped to Father Trintino. The priest rose but made no effort to move. Ledbetter inclined gently forward and kissed the other man, squarely on the lips. Father Trintino held still, then an expression of quiet disgust overtook him.

  The prisoner smiled.

  “There you go, Bobby,” said Ledbetter. “An abomination. A sin against your church. And the best part is that it's exactly what you wanted.”

  “That's not the case, Gary.”

  “Sure it is.”

  Trintino turned and rapped on the door. The guards manually opened the cell from the opposite side. One of the guards stepped in. Fresh tobacco smoke followed.

  “Bobby?” Ledbetter asked.

  The priest paused and waited.

  “Hasta la vista, Bobby,” the prisoner said. “Be good.”

  Ledbetter smiled. Father Trintino left. The guard eyed the condemned man belligerently. Then he, too, stepped from the cell.

  The priest didn't look back. The door closed behind him, another creaking metal groan.

  The guards exchanged a glance as the door closed. Both entertained the same thought. Another hour and they would feel damned good about being rid of Gary Ledbetter.

  The predawn glow was on the horizon, the prelude to a hot, sticky, eighty-eight-degree daybreak. Seven minutes later, a Supreme Court justice, considering a final appeal, phoned the prison. The justice told the State to get the job done. Fry Gary as the lower courts had decided. Even Gary's own mother admitted that he was no good. Then dawn came at 5:24 A.M. There was no further possibility for a reprieve.

  Guards led Gary Ledbetter from his cell at 5:33 A.M. They took him to the execution chamber. He walked past a row of other convicts on his wing. Most of them banged on their cell doors as he passed, a salute to Gary's final exercise in macho. A calm upright swagger to his own execution. A big, wet, gooey spit in death's eye.

  Ledbetter was given an enema, compliments of the State of Florida. Two guards shaved his body hair and washed him with salt water.

  Father Trintino appeared again moments before the execution and gave him the last rites of his church. The priest's voice was halting. Ledbetter looked at him and smiled.

  “Know the only thing that bothers me, Bobby?” Ledbetter asked.

  Trintino waited.

  “There are a couple of people who deep down know this is a sick joke,” he said. “They know I didn't kill no girls. And they didn't do nothing.”

  “I'm sorry, Gary,” the priest said.

  Ledbetter looked at the guards. “Tell them to start cranking it up,” the prisoner said. He turned back to the priest and rejected the last rites.

  Ledbetter off
ered no resistance as he was shown to the chair. He had no further remarks. No relatives attended. No friends, either. Families of the dead girls also stayed away. A coroner served as witness for Florida. A prosecutor and the warden of the prison were also present.

  At 5:59 A.M. Gary Ledbetter was strapped into the electric chair. At 6:00 A.M. the application of the amps and volts began.

  Father Trintino watched it happen. He saw the torment as Gary's body coursed with fifty thousand volts of electricity. Ledbetter writhed and kicked. He snarled the most sacrilegious profanities imaginable. The blood vessels in his neck and forehead looked like they would burst.

  Trintino watched Gary's eyes. One moment, as Gary fought the surges of electricity, they were focused on the priest. Moments later, they went wide with something. It was as if Ledbetter's eyes were focused on this world one second and something beyond human imagination the next.

  Then Gary's body spasmed a final time. It kicked and went slack. Gary was dead. The execution had taken forty-five seconds. Officially, it was still six A.M. The air breathed by the witnesses was filled with the odor of burning flesh. There was a trace of smoke in the chamber.

  The medical technicians appeared and removed the corpse. But Father Robert Trintino did not move.