Read 72 Hours (A Thriller) Online
Authors: William Casey Moreton
72 Hours (A Thriller)
OTHER BOOKS BY WILLIAM CASEY MORETON
CHAPTER 1
Deep inside the massive walls of San Quentin State Prison, Gaston Dunbar was seated on the narrow bed inside his tiny cell.
The sounds of slamming doors echoed down the long tier.
His eyes were closed, his breathing perfectly steady.
He sat in the yoga lotus position.
His long blond hair was fixed in a ponytail that trailed down the back of his neck to his shoulders.
The hair was clean but had lost most of its healthy shine due to the poor diet the prison provided, and the deep tan had faded after these three long years locked away in a box under the glare of fluorescent light.
The monsters housed in the cells around him howled and hissed and cursed, their voices booming off miles of painted walls and iron bars.
Profanities ricocheted from cell to cell.
The monsters loved activity of any kind because the monotony of their daily existence drilled holes through the fabric of their psyches, draining sanity one painful drip at a time.
Freedom was forgotten.
Hope was gone.
Hell was waiting.
In three days the State of California would strap him to a table and stick a needle in his arm in the name of Justice, and then clear cell his for the next man in line.
He was confident that all the paperwork was already in order.
They would be making certain that the intravenous tubes were free of defect and that the chemicals were all up to code.
The warden probably didn’t sleep well in the days leading up to the big day.
It was stressful, this business of killing.
Only three short days.
Sure, he could have continued with his appeals for decades and clogged the court system with every conceivable legal petition and motion.
But that would have simply made them rich while he grew old in his concrete cage, slowly losing his mind.
There had to be a better way, he thought.
He was locked far away from sunshine and fresh air, and flowers and sex.
He had no intention of waiting thirty years for some lawyer somewhere to free him on a technicality.
In three days they would kill him.
He was a brilliant man whose only mistake had been a single bloody thumbprint on a boat.
And they had caught him.
But he had a plan that he was convinced they would never see coming.
Now it was time to find out.
CHAPTER 2
Special Agent David Kline of the FBI was seated at the desk in his office at 11000 Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles when his phone rang.
“Are you sitting down?” The voice belonged to Gaston Dunbar’s attorney, Leonard Monroe.
“No, I’m on my way to a meeting,” Kline lied.
“So, whatever it is you have to say, make it quick.”
“I’ve spent the morning at San Quentin.”
“How is Dunbar?
Is he ready to die?”
“Actually, my client is ready to talk,” Monroe said.
“He’s prepared to reveal the location of the bodies.”
“I’m listening.”
“He can see the end is near.
Soon it will be too late.
He’s willing to mark it on a map, or do whatever you need.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes, though there is one stipulation.
He wants to make a public confession.
He wants two minutes of live, uninterrupted television airtime.”
“Forget it.”
“It’s a remarkably small price to pay for the recovery of Sydney and Robin.”
“Tell him to give us the bodies, Monroe.”
“This is the best I can offer.”
“What you are asking is impossible.”
“We pull the offer in twenty-four hours.
Please consider the family.
Give them the opportunity to give Sydney and Robin a proper burial.
It’s an easy decision, Special Agent Kline.”
Kline closed his eyes and remained silent for a moment before replying, “This will have to go through the governor.”
“I’d suggest you get him on the phone immediately.
You have twenty-four hours.”
Then Monroe dropped off the line.
CHAPTER 3
The parking lot outside San Quentin was turning into a circus.
Special Agent Kline frowned at the sight of the media presence amassing inside the gates of the prison.
He had a good aerial perspective from the front seat of the FBI helicopter that had brought him up the coast from the field office in L.A.
He was frowning because he was about to inject himself into the chaos below.
“Crazy stuff,” Special Agent Jason Sperry said over his radio headset.
Sperry was seated behind him in the chopper.
He was looking out through the glass at the scene unfolding beneath them.
The chopper circled above the prison complex before gingerly touching down on the helipad, dust and grit swirling.
Kline was of average height, with short brown hair beginning to recede.
Sperry was fifteen years Kline’s junior and possessed a more natural charm and quick wit.
A prison administrator greeted them on the ground.
Protestors had gathered in anticipation of the coming execution, pleading for the condemned to be spared, asking the state to exercise the same spirit of forgiveness that God himself surely would.
They hoisted homemade signs on sticks, shouting and praying, often in the same breath.
Already there had been half a dozen books published on the subjects of Gaston Dunbar and the murders, along with hours of network programming dedicated to the topic.
There had been marriage proposals from desperate, lonely women across the country with nothing better to do with their empty lives than to correspond with a Death Row inmate.
Movie rights had even sold to one of the major studios.
So there was little question in Kline’s mind that this little stunt was nothing more than one final attempt by Dunbar to keep his face in the spotlight and his name on the front page.
Granting him two minutes on TV would not even have been an option if they had already found the bodies.
Inside the building, a queue was slowly advancing through a security checkpoint staffed by armed guards donning Kevlar body armor.
Both FBI agents flashed their badges and passed through.
The administrator escorted them around a maze of humanity and opened a door to a small room.
They crushed in, standing shoulder to shoulder amid the buzz of excited conversation.
The room reeked of stale coffee and floor wax.
The first familiar face Kline saw was that of the lieutenant governor, a very sober woman named Schaehart.
She wore a conservative pantsuit and a frown.
“The governor has made himself very clear about his feelings on this,” she said.
“He’s not thrilled.
His reelection campaign has stalled.
He can’t afford the kind of negative press this could generate.
Technically, this isn’t even the governor’s problem, but some of his advisors believe strongly this could be an opportunity to see a solid boost in his poll numbers.
We could ride a wave of goodwill all the way into November.
He wants those bodies in the morgue by sunup tomorrow.
We want you to make that happen, Special Agent Kline.”
Schaehart’s assistant was a tiny woman with short hair and a pale face who could have passed for a sixteen-year-old boy.
She had thin, pursed lips and hadn’t blinked for a minute and a half.
She stood at her boss’s hip and glared up at Kline.
Kline said, “I’m not in the business of negotiating with convicted murderers.
And I’m not interested in your boss’s self-serving political schemes.
I want to see those bodies recovered as much as the next guy, but not like this.
This smells rotten.”
Schaehart made an exaggerated display of folding her arms defiantly over her chest.
“The fact is this governor inherited a terrible economy,” she said.
“Gas prices rise every day and illegal immigration is out of control.
What he needs most right at this moment is the chance to deliver some good news to the people of this state.
For better or worse, Sydney and Robin Dunbar have become the most famous murder victims of the past half-century.
And in this Hollywood culture of ours, the public demands a happy ending.
They want to see that mother and daughter brought home, even if they are dead.”