Sight Unseen(96)
Lynch snapped at Griffin. “It’s 26613 Breaker. That’s the target.” He turned toward Reade. “Pull up a photo of Dean Halley and make sure all teams have it. If you can’t immediately pull up a driver’s license or passport photo for him, check the UC San Diego Web site.”
Kendra barely heard him, her eyes were still locked on that screen.
Dean Halley.
San Quentin Penitentiary
“COZY.” COLBY SMILED AS HE STEPPED through an oval door and was escorted by his three guards into the octagonal execution chamber. It was approximately seven-and-a-half feet in diameter and centered around a single table. Five large windows separated the chamber from the witness area, which was populated by forty-five journalists, politicians, and so-called reputable citizens, some of whom included victims’ family members.
Colby didn’t attempt to make eye contact with any of the witnesses as he was led to the table and strapped down with nylon restraints.
He looked up at the execution leader, Ron Hoyle, a stocky man with a thick moustache. “I have a final statement to make.”
“You waived that right, Mr. Colby.”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
Hoyle glanced at the warden, who was standing next to the state attorney general in the back of the witness room. Salazar slowly nodded.
“Okay,” Hoyle said. “Go ahead. Make your statement from there. The witnesses can hear you.”
“I really don’t care whether they can hear me or not. It’s on my chest.”
“What?”
“My final statement is on my chest. Please unbutton my shirt.”
Hoyle hesitated.
“Or tear it open. Makes no difference to me. I won’t be using this shirt much longer.”
Clearly thrown by this break with protocol, Hoyle froze for a few seconds. He then leaned over and unbuttoned the top two buttons of Colby’s denim shirt. He pulled apart the fabric, glanced at Colby’s chest, then quickly let go of him in disgust.
Colby laughed.
Hoyle angrily turned toward the physician, who was standing with the cardiac sensors. “Proceed.”
Breaker Drive
San Diego
THE FBI AND THE SAN DIEGO PD had already barricaded off the 26600 block of Breaker Drive by the time Kendra and Lynch arrived. Agents had quietly surrounded Dean’s house, while uniformed officers escorted perplexed neighbors from their homes to barricades at the end of the block.
Kendra and Lynch got out of his car and ran for the other side of an FBI armored van parked in the cul-de-sac four houses away from Dean’s.
Griffin’s gaze was trained on the one-story, Spanish-style house through his binoculars. “That’s Dean Halley’s car in the driveway, but there are no other signs that he’s home.”
“He also has a motorcycle,” Kendra said. “He keeps it in the garage. You can see the skid marks he leaves at the top of the driveway.”
Griffin nodded. “We’ll wait for SDPD to finish securing the street behind his house before we make any kind of move. Anything else you can tell us about him?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. Except that I can’t freaking believe this.”
“Believe it. According to his record, Halley was in the Special Forces in Afghanistan during his military stint and damn good at removing the Taliban from his path.”
A tech officer handed Griffin a tablet computer in a reinforced plastic case. It offered a greenish night-vision live view of Dean’s house.
Griffin turned to Kendra. “If you’re up for it, I want you to try to call his home number.”
She stared at him. “You want me to call and talk to him?”
“Only when I give the word. He knows you, and he hasn’t already seen us. Your caller ID won’t raise any red flags. If he answers, keep him talking until our team can break in and rush him.” He gave her a cool glance. “You appear reluctant. After all, it’s for his safety as well as that of the personnel on the scene.”
Lynch nodded. “Good idea.”
She didn’t know if it was a good idea or not. She was bewildered and uncertain of everything that was going on. But the plan appeared to offer the best chance for nonviolence. “Okay.” Kendra pulled out her phone. “Just give the word.”
San Quentin State Penitentiary
Execution Chamber
THE SUPERVISING PHYSICIAN, Dr. Edward Pralgo, stepped back from Colby and checked the IV lines he’d placed into two veins of the condemned man’s left arm. Each line was running a slow drip of saline, primed for the three medications that would soon course through his system.
The doctor realized that his own hands were shaking. Hopefully not enough for anyone else to see. Any sign of psychological weakness would put him in front of a review board in spite of all his experience. Executioners were supposed to be above emotion. But executioners were also human beings, and he’d defy anyone not to have an emotional reaction toward Colby.