Author: Taggart Boyle
A small seaside town, summer break chaos, and a dead body. The tightly-knit community is outraged by the murder of one of their own and wants answers but will they like the answers they receive? Sometimes, it's better not to know.
Available in .mobi for Kindle, .epub for NOOK and most other e-readers, and .pdf.
Connor Patrick was scheduled to die by lethal injection.
It was a stormy night rife with crackling thunder and the sizzle of lightning.
I was dry inside and away from the brutal elements but felt no less vulnerable as I watched the man being prepared for execution. There was a stagnant chill in the air, which made goose bumps rise on my arms and the back of my neck.
The prisoner was strapped to the table with his arms secured out to the sides on cantilever-type extensions, like Jesus strapped to a horizontal cross.
A man of God gave him last rites, and then the needle was inserted into his arm.
An infuser pump held three vials. Each contained a different drug to be administered in a specific sequence and, when carried out correctly, would result in a peaceful death. The first vial contained sodium thiopental, a fast-acting anesthetic that would render Connor unconscious. The second vial held pancuronium bromide, a powerful paralytic agent. Potassium chloride was in the third and final vial. The final solution would stop Connor’s heart.
I’m sure that he knew what was about to happen, but he was so still and calm. It seemed as if he was already resigned to his coming death and would not protest his passing. I’m sure that he understood the concept of death, but the look on his face … He seemed so completely detached, as if he had absolutely no connection with reality. I’d seen that look on his face before, not once but several times.
The warden asked if there was anything he’d like to say.
I had to strain to hear him as he mumbled, “An eye for an eye, the world is blind.” And then he once again fell silent.
Unusual last words, you might say? Not, I had learned, for Connor Patrick.
To most he probably came off as a simpleton, a man apart from the crowd, shunned for being different, lonely, and socially awkward—the kind of person you’d avoid if there were any possibility of doing so.
Yet I was convinced that he was a very complex individual, albeit a man whose mind was irreparably damaged, a man with serious issues and concerns, a man who lived in his own aberrant reality.
My name is Wendell Benoit, and that was my opinion as the Rehoboth Beach consulting police psychologist.