Page 87 of Backtrack

She coughed again, even weaker this time, then gave a slow shake of her head. A sheen of blood coated cracked lips. “No,” she whispered, almost a gasp. “I’m saying I can’t do this any longer. … It’stime.”

Cutter leaned in and kissed her on the top of her head, sobbing openly.

She cradled his face in both her hands and wiped away the tears with her thumbs. “We both knew this was coming.”

“Not me,” he said, sniffing back a sob. “I just … the thing is, you talk to God so much, I thought He might see His way clear to giving you a miracle.”

“I’ve had a lifetime with you,” she said. “That’s miracle enough.” She looked up at him with a soft smile. “Sorry I burned your biscuits. …”

CHAPTER 38

Much to Pink and Duvall’s dismay, pond water did little to destroy human fingerprints. Texas Rangers and Parker County crime scene technicians were able to lift latent prints from both the driver and passenger sun visors of the copper Buick LeSabre—matching both suspects.

Limping with a swollen knee and wrapped ribs, Cutter and a team of Jack County deputies had been able to backtrack from the scene of Deputy Ewell’s murder across the field stubble and through the brush along the creek to several possible locations for a body dump. It took divers from Fort Worth Fire Department less than two hours to locate Hiram Dietrich’s corpse wrapped in a cocoon of plastic. The clear sheeting and the tape used to secure it also yielded latent prints belonging to Duvall, Pink, and Moffit. Ballistics from the slugs found in the body matched the Browning Hi-Power that had been in Moffit’s possession when Cutter shot him.

“The horseshoe nails,” LJ noted, when the fingerprints were mentioned by the prosecution. “The little things that brought down the outlaws.”

Cutter couldn’t help but smile. It was good to see the kid was paying attention.

District Attorney Jim Reed continued to poor-mouth his case in private conversations with law enforcement, but Cutter had to admit, the man hit it out of the park during the trial. It took the Parker County jury less than four hours to reach guilty verdicts for both outlaws on all counts.

The courtroom was packed on the day of Duvall’s and Pink’s sentencing, with reporters from every major news outlet in the Fort Worth/Dallas Metroplex and as far away as Abilene. Law enforcement, including Cutter and LJ, took up the entire front row. Families of the slain TexSafe guards, including Trina Foster’s parents and grandparents, sat immediately behind them. It had come out during the trial that the driver, Watts, was likely involved in the plot, but the survivors focused their fury on the defendants.

Gloria Blaisdell took time away from her shift at the Show Pony to come and watch the proceedings. Her polyester pantsuit and high-necked blouse looked like something out of the Sears catalog. Cutter almost hadn’t recognized her. Absent the heavy makeup and hairspray, she could have been somebody’s mom. Maybe she was, and for some reason that made Cutter incredibly sad.

Judge Douglas Skidmore swept back his black robe as he took a seat in his button-leather chair. He rubbed his hands together in front of him as if he was eager to get to work. He read the title of the case before him and then focused his attention on the defense table, where the two outlaws sat beside their lawyers. Transporting deputies had left them in their jail oranges, dispensing with the sham of dressing them up in coats and ties so they wouldn’t look guilty during the trial. There was no longer any reason not to give the impression that they were anything other than the depraved thugs they were.

“Let’s begin with you, Mr. Duvall.” The judge peered over the top of his glasses. “Please stand. Is there anything you’d like to say to the court before I pass sentence?”

Duvall’s mouth turned down into a derisive sneer. “You don’t have the diamonds, which means you got no proof I ever did anything. I don’t have the diamonds. Pink doesn’t have them. Maybe you should check with the shit heel cops who were snooping around the armored truck.” Duvall’s attorney touched his arm, but he jerked away. “You can all burn in Hell if you think I’m gonna stand here and apologize for something nobody ever proved!”

“I tend to hold the trail of bodies in your wake as proof enough.” Skidmore cleared his throat. “So, speaking of burning in Hell … Marion Allen Duvall, you have been convicted by a jury of your peers on counts one through five of the indictment. For the crimeof armed robbery, the court sentences you to confinement in the Texas Department of Corrections for a period of your natural life without the possibility of parole …”

A collective gasp ran through the gallery.

Duvall’s broad face turned down in a smug frown.

Judge Skidmore continued. “For the murder of Robert Foster, I sentence you to life in prison without the possibility of parole. For the first-degree murder of Bruce Goddard, I sentence you to death. For the first-degree murder of Curtis Watts, I sentence you to death. For the first-degree murder of Trina Foster, I sentence you to d—”

Duvall’s lawyer put a hand on his client’s shoulder, but he jerked away. “How many times you think you can kill me!”

“You raise an interesting question, Mr. Duvall,” Skidmore said. His tone was calm, matter-of-fact. “For the murder of Hiram Dietrich, I sentence you to death.”

Duvall spat on the table.

“You certainly make it easier for me to sleep at night,” Judge Skidmore said. “I have no doubt that a Jack County court will have little difficulty in coming to a similar conclusion regarding the murder of Deputy Sheriff Gary Ewell. Mr. Duvall, your crimes are monstrous and unthinkable, but you, sir, you are nothing more than a very small man on whom I will waste no more time. The court hereby orders the sheriff of Parker County to remand you to the Department of Corrections, where you will be housed until a date certain for your execution, which will be decided by the governor of the State of Texas. I feel certain the warden who sees to your execution will not need to expend too much energy to end your miserable life. You may be seated.” Without missing a beat, Skidmore swiveled away his chair, as if to underscore the fact that Duvall was a dead man—or at least dead to him.

“And now, Mr. Pink, we turn to your fate.”

The woman representing Ricky Lee Pink stood, motioning her client to do the same.

“How about you, young man? Do you have anything you want to say to the court?”

Pink took a deep breath, swelling his massive chest. “Me and Duvall, we have to pay for what we did. I get that. I just want to say it’snot right that the sheriff sitting there behind me gets off scot-free after he gunned down Vince Millner like a dog. Vince was my friend. And I want you to know, Judge, if there ever was five million in diamonds on that armored truck, someone else took them, because we never did.”

“Is that all?”

Pink breathed deeply again. His eyes shifted around the room like he was looking for some way, any way out.