Читать книгу Execution Eve - William Buchanan - Страница 13

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As he did each morning at five o’clock when reveille sounded for the inmate population, Warden W. Jesse Buchanan rose from bed in his private apartment on the second floor, administration building, of the Kentucky State Penitentiary. His sleep had been fitful. A subdued glow from the lighted front steps just below his window dimly illuminated the room. Moving quietly, so as not to awaken his wife sleeping in her own bed across the room, he slipped a red silk robe over his pajamas and went down the long hallway to the spacious marbled bathroom that had been designed to accommodate his great size. One of the country’s most esteemed wardens, he was by far the largest. Six-feet eight-inches tall, weighing three hundred pounds, he was, in spite of his fifty-nine years, solidly built. His biceps were as large as an average man’s thigh. The Kentucky cluster diamond ring he wore, a gift from his wife, measured a full inch in inside diameter. Every article of his clothing except socks, handkerchiefs, and ties was tailored by a clothier in Evansville, Indiana.

After bathing, the warden toweled briskly, then combed his silver hair into a part high on the left side. He would be shaved later that morning in the officers’ barber shop by an inmate serving a life sentence for armed robbery.

He detoured back through the hallway for a moment to retrieve a package he had stored in a desk there the day before, then went to the apartment’s country-size kitchen. He handed the package to a large black man who was turning sausage patties in a cast-iron skillet atop a coal-burning range. Lucien Greenwell laid down the spatula and wiped his hands on his apron. He took the package and laid it aside near the stove. “Yessir. I’ll put ’em on right after breakfast.”

Back-to-back, Greenwell stood a half-inch shorter than the warden. But in all other respects of girth and size the two were identical. The package the warden handed his cook that morning contained a new pair of shoes, size 15-EEE, just arrived from a cobbler in Boston. The warden detested new shoes. Lucien would wear them until they were well broken in, then return them. An amusing pastime at the prison was observing Lucien Greenwell’s feet for evidence that the warden had purchased a new pair of shoes.

The warden sat down and poured himself a cup of coffee. Lucien brought eggs, sausages, and biscuits to the table, laid two morning newspapers near the warden’s plate, then pulled up a chair and sat down. Then, as they had each morning for six years, the warden of Kentucky’s maximum security penitentiary and a convict serving life for murder ate the first meal of the day together.

Breakfast finished, the warden put on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and picked up the first paper. War news dominated the front page. With one son in the Navy and another preparing to enter the Army Air Corps, he read about the German advances in Europe and North Africa with heavy heart.

Finishing the lead stories, he thumbed through the following pages looking for the article he knew would be there today. He found it near the bottom of page two. Two columns wide, it read:

MILEY MURDERERS TO DIE TONIGHT

Lexington, Ky. — Barring intervention from Governor Johnson or the courts, a scar-faced carpenter, a burly cafe owner, and a dope-addicted handyman will die tonight in the electric chair at Eddyville. Thomas C. Penney, Robert H. Anderson, and Raymond S. Baxter, convicted for the murders of popular golf star Marion Miley and her mother at the Lexington Country Club in 1941, are slated to begin their walk to death just minutes past midnight tonight.

Subsequent paragraphs described the brutality of the murders, the trials, the previous stays of execution. The final paragraph posed a chilling question:

Is Anderson guilty? Despite the latest ruling from the Court of Appeals, doubts about Robert Anderson’s guilt continue to plague legal scholars and some officials close to the case. Anderson’s attorneys vow to continue the fight to save their client’s life and are planning to meet again with Governor Johnson in Frankfort today.

The warden laid the paper down, removed his heavy glasses, and rubbed his eyes wearily. He’d been thinking about Bob Anderson for days. Indeed, it had ruined his sleep for nights. There were too many unanswered questions about the man’s involvement in the killings—too many loose ends. Surely the truth about Bob Anderson would surface some day. But someday might be too late—for both Anderson and himself.

His mind focused on another thought, something that had come to him during the night, though he realized on reflection that he’d been mulling it over for days. Perhaps there was a way to determine if Anderson was guilty or innocent before it was too late. It would be risky, controversial, perhaps even unlawful. It would mean reneging on a plan he had formulated earlier with Governor Johnson. But that would be a small price to pay to save the life of a possibly innocent man. He made a mental note to inform the deputy warden of his plan following the morning staff meeting.

He finished his second cup of coffee, folded the papers, and handed them to Lucien to read later. Then he went to his bedroom to finish dressing before going downstairs to his office.

It was going to be a long day.