he’s screaming for mercy.”
Benny couldn’t stop the smile. “I know. That’s what I want to hear.”
They put Patrick at the end of a wing on the base hospital. His was the only room with doors which could be locked from the outside and windows that wouldn’t open. The blinds were closed. Two military guards sat outside the hallway, for whatever reason.
Patrick wasn’t going anywhere. The voltage had severely bruised the muscles and tissue in his legs and chest. Even his joints and bones were tender. The burns had laid open his flesh in four places, two on his chest, one on his thigh, one on his calf. Four other spots were being treated as second-degree burns.
The pain was intense, and so his doctors, all four of them, had made the simple decision to keep him sedated for the time being. There was no rush to move him. He was a wanted man, but it would take a few days to determine who got him first.
They kept the room dark, the music low, the IV full of delightful narcotics, and poor Patrick snored away the hours dreaming of nothing and oblivious to the storm brewing back home.
In August of 1992, five months after the money vanished, a federal grand jury in Biloxi indicted Patrick for the theft. There was sufficient evidence that he had pulled the heist, and there was not the slightest hint that anyone else might be a suspect. It occurred internationally, thus the feds had jurisdiction.
The Harrison County Sheriff’s Department and thelocal District Attorney had started a joint investigation into the murder, but had long since moved on to other, more pressing matters. Suddenly they were back in business.
The noon press conference was delayed while the authorities met in Cutter’s office in downtown Biloxi to sort things out. It was a tense meeting, attended by people with competing interests. On one side of the table sat Cutter and the FBI, who took their orders from Maurice Mast, the U.S. Attorney for the Western District of Mississippi, who had driven in from Jackson. On the other side sat Raymond Sweeney, the Sheriff of Harrison County, and his right-hand man, Grimshaw, both of whom despised the FBI. Their spokesman was T.L. Parrish, the District Attorney for Harrison and surrounding counties.
It was federal versus state, big budgets versus low, with serious egos around the room and everyone wanting most of the Patrick show.
“The death penalty is crucial here,” D.A. Parrish said.
“We can use the federal death penalty,” U.S. Attorney Mast said, a little timid, if that was possible.
Parrish smiled and cast his eyes down. The federal death penalty had just recently been passed by a Congress with little clue of how to implement it. It certainly sounded good when the President signed it into law, but the kinks were enormous.
The state, on the other hand, had a rich and proven history of legal executions. “Ours is better,” Parrish said. “And we all know it.” Parrish had sent eight men to death row. Mast had yet to indict one for capital murder.
“And then there is the issue of prison,” Parrish continued. “We send him to Parchman, where he’s locked down twenty-three hours a day in a steam room with bad food served twice a day, two showers a week, lots of roaches and rapists. If you get him, he gets a country club for the rest of his life while the federal courts pamper him and find a thousand ways to keep him alive.”
“It won’t be a picnic,” Mast said, on the ropes and covering badly.
“A day at the beach maybe. Come on, Maurice. The issue is leverage. We have two big mysteries, two questions that must be answered before Lanigan is put to rest. The big one is money. Where is it? What did he do with it? Can it be recovered and given to its owners? The second is just exactly who is buried out there. I gotta hunch that only Lanigan can tell us, and he won’t unless he’s forced to. He’s gotta be scared, Maurice. Parchman is terrifying. I promise you, he’s praying for a
Benny couldn’t stop the smile. “I know. That’s what I want to hear.”
They put Patrick at the end of a wing on the base hospital. His was the only room with doors which could be locked from the outside and windows that wouldn’t open. The blinds were closed. Two military guards sat outside the hallway, for whatever reason.
Patrick wasn’t going anywhere. The voltage had severely bruised the muscles and tissue in his legs and chest. Even his joints and bones were tender. The burns had laid open his flesh in four places, two on his chest, one on his thigh, one on his calf. Four other spots were being treated as second-degree burns.
The pain was intense, and so his doctors, all four of them, had made the simple decision to keep him sedated for the time being. There was no rush to move him. He was a wanted man, but it would take a few days to determine who got him first.
They kept the room dark, the music low, the IV full of delightful narcotics, and poor Patrick snored away the hours dreaming of nothing and oblivious to the storm brewing back home.
In August of 1992, five months after the money vanished, a federal grand jury in Biloxi indicted Patrick for the theft. There was sufficient evidence that he had pulled the heist, and there was not the slightest hint that anyone else might be a suspect. It occurred internationally, thus the feds had jurisdiction.
The Harrison County Sheriff’s Department and thelocal District Attorney had started a joint investigation into the murder, but had long since moved on to other, more pressing matters. Suddenly they were back in business.
The noon press conference was delayed while the authorities met in Cutter’s office in downtown Biloxi to sort things out. It was a tense meeting, attended by people with competing interests. On one side of the table sat Cutter and the FBI, who took their orders from Maurice Mast, the U.S. Attorney for the Western District of Mississippi, who had driven in from Jackson. On the other side sat Raymond Sweeney, the Sheriff of Harrison County, and his right-hand man, Grimshaw, both of whom despised the FBI. Their spokesman was T.L. Parrish, the District Attorney for Harrison and surrounding counties.
It was federal versus state, big budgets versus low, with serious egos around the room and everyone wanting most of the Patrick show.
“The death penalty is crucial here,” D.A. Parrish said.
“We can use the federal death penalty,” U.S. Attorney Mast said, a little timid, if that was possible.
Parrish smiled and cast his eyes down. The federal death penalty had just recently been passed by a Congress with little clue of how to implement it. It certainly sounded good when the President signed it into law, but the kinks were enormous.
The state, on the other hand, had a rich and proven history of legal executions. “Ours is better,” Parrish said. “And we all know it.” Parrish had sent eight men to death row. Mast had yet to indict one for capital murder.
“And then there is the issue of prison,” Parrish continued. “We send him to Parchman, where he’s locked down twenty-three hours a day in a steam room with bad food served twice a day, two showers a week, lots of roaches and rapists. If you get him, he gets a country club for the rest of his life while the federal courts pamper him and find a thousand ways to keep him alive.”
“It won’t be a picnic,” Mast said, on the ropes and covering badly.
“A day at the beach maybe. Come on, Maurice. The issue is leverage. We have two big mysteries, two questions that must be answered before Lanigan is put to rest. The big one is money. Where is it? What did he do with it? Can it be recovered and given to its owners? The second is just exactly who is buried out there. I gotta hunch that only Lanigan can tell us, and he won’t unless he’s forced to. He’s gotta be scared, Maurice. Parchman is terrifying. I promise you, he’s praying for a
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