Family Ties (Flesh & Blood Trilogy Book 2) (2 page)

I turned to Mom and whispered, “Are you sure you want to listen to this?”

“No,” she said. “But I have to. I have to hear it from him or it won’t be real.”

I squeezed her hand and braced myself for what I was about to hear. Randy had refused to let either of us visit him in jail after his arrest, so we had never heard his version of what happened. He cleared his throat again and began to speak. He spoke so softly at first, the bailiff had to admonish him to speak louder. His voice rose and he slowly began to tell everyone in the courtroom the details of how he had killed nine prostitutes. He had picked them up at truck stops during his twenty-plus years as an over-the-road trucker. He never had sex with them, which was consistent with autopsy findings. Instead, he tried to minister to them. But when and if they failed to listen to the Good Word and refused to repent of their evil ways, he felt it was his calling from God to punish them and strike them from the earth. We had heard this part from his attorney and knew this was the basis for the insanity defense he had prepared should the case go to trial, but hearing it from Mr. Hayes and then hearing it straight from Randy’s mouth were two totally different beasts.

He finished by admitting he had disposed of the bodies by dumping them in various isolated locations (rivers, abandoned fields, parking lots) along I-75, hence his nickname, “the I-75 Strangler.” When he was done, the judge picked up her clear-rimmed glasses and set them back on her pointy nose. She took a few minutes to express her deep and abiding disdain for Randall Terrance McLanahan, and told him he was “the most evil and soulless person” she had encountered in her many years on the bench. She promptly accepted the plea deal and pronounced his sentence, making it official. If it were possible to live that long, Randy would be in prison for one hundred and eighty years. The judge closed my father’s file and banged the gavel, sending an electric jolt through me I can still feel to this day.

***

This trip down memory lane made me question my decision to help my father. How could he possibly expect me to believe he was innocent after he freely admitted twenty years ago that he was, in fact, guilty of everything he’d been accused of? But he had been so convincing when I met with him in the visiting room of the prison. Plus, I’d already promised to help him. What was the worst that could happen? I find out he’s lying and that he is guilty after all? I’d already lived with his crimes for twenty years. The only thing I would lose was the hope which had crept up into the smallest recesses of my brain, like a little mouse burrowing into the tiniest hole for warmth, and set up residence there. No, I’d stay the course. I promised myself I’d spend one year on his case, and no more. If I couldn’t find anything by then, or if it became glaringly obvious he was lying to me, I’d give up and come right back here to North Carolina and continue with the new life I had already begun to carve out for myself.

I printed out the Wikipedia page and about a dozen other articles, placed them in a brown expandable file leftover from my paralegal days, turned off the light, and went to bed. I was asleep within minutes, thanks to a little help from my friend Ambien.

Chapter 2

It took me two weeks to repack my belongings, get out of my lease on the condo, which cost me two months’ rent, and make my way back to Kentucky. Mom was thrilled when I showed up on her doorstep, asking if I could stay with her until I found a place to rent.

“Stay as long as you need,” she said. “Kick off your shoes and stay awhile.”

Within an hour, Mom had whipped up my favorite meal, beef stroganoff, and we were sitting at the white kitchen table, which she had recently distressed, following the instructions she found on a YouTube video. She hadn’t yet asked what I was doing back home, so I figured now was as good a time as any to let her in on my plans. I picked at the strips of beef covered in creamy brown sauce and, of course, organic noodles, with my fork, nervous about her reaction.

“So I know you’re curious why I’m back in Kentucky already.”

“You missed your mamma,” she said with a smile which told me she knew damn well that wasn’t the real reason.

“I have something to tell you. I’m not sure how you’re going to take it, but I want to be honest with you. Especially if you’re going to let me stay with you for a few days and feed me all this wonderful food.”

I used my fork to point down at the delicious meal Mom had prepared. She smiled back at me and waved me off with a flick of her wrist, as if swatting away a fly.

“I went to visit Randy, like you told me to.”

“Yeah? How’d that go? What was so important?”

Weeks ago, I had received a text message from Mom saying that Randy had called her almost every day for nearly two months, begging her to talk me into visiting him—that he had something important to tell me. This, combined with my desire to forgive him for his role in this past summer’s debacle and move on with my life, were the reasons I agreed to go visit him.

“You’re not going to believe this, but Randy told me he’s innocent. He said he never killed anybody.”

I had rehearsed this scene in my mind several times on the plane to Lexington and each time I had, Mom’s eyes popped wide open like a cartoon character and she’d nearly fainted. But to my great surprise, Mom gently laid her fork down on her mint green linen napkin and primly laid her hands in her lap, never meeting my gaze. She knew.

“Mom! You knew what he was going to say? Why didn’t you tell me?”

I wasn’t altogether that surprised. Even though my Mom and Randy had divorced a little less than three years after his incarceration, she had never stopped communicating with him. She had forgiven him years ago. Partly out of Christian altruism, partly because, no matter how much she protested, she still loved him. She had never given up hope that I would one day forgive him too.

“Your father wanted to be the one to tell you, Libby. It wasn’t my place. Please don’t be mad at me.”

I let out a sigh. “Of course I’m not mad at you, Mom.”

“Well? What else did he say?”

“I told him about my PI license. That’s when he told me that he’s innocent. He asked me to help prove it and get him out of prison.”

Mom leaned back against her chair. “Wow. That’s a lot to think about. Are you going to help him?”

“Well, that’s what I was just getting ready to tell you. I thought about it long and hard and I’ve decided I’ll help.”

Mom clapped her hands together and bounced in her seat, looking too much like a school girl who just learned her favorite crush likes her back.

“Mom, stop.”

“Sorry, Libby. I’m just so relieved that you’re willing to help. I was hoping you would agree.”

“So, wait, how long have you known? When did he tell you?”

A look of regret washed over Mom’s face. Her smile disappeared and frown lines appeared at the corner of her downturned mouth.

“Mom?”

“I’m sorry, Libby. He begged me never to tell you. He didn’t want to get your hopes up. After all, there never seemed there was any hope of ever proving his innocence. I guess after what happened with you and when he learned you are going to be a private investigator, he actually thought there might be hope.”

She was ignoring my question. “Mom…when did he tell you?”

She said it so quietly I barely heard her. “About two years ago.”

I stood up from my chair and threw my napkin down on the table. “Two years ago? You mean to tell me that for two years he’s been telling
you
that he’s innocent? And not a word to me about it?”

“Libby, you wouldn’t even talk to him. You didn’t go see him or speak to him for twenty years, for God’s sake.”

She had a point. I sat back down on the padded chair which she had reupholstered, again thanks to tips from DIY bloggers. “So I guess you believe him?”

“How can I not, Libby? He’s my…
was
my husband for nearly twenty years. I’ve known the man since we were twelve years old. I never really believed he was guilty in the first place.”

It was true. They had only divorced at his insistence, to protect her. Also at his insistence, Mom and I had taken her maiden name, Barrett, after the divorce, so people wouldn’t put two and two together and figure out we were the wife and daughter of a notorious serial killer. But Mom had never turned her back on Randy. She visited him in prison a few times a year and took his call every time. I always just assumed she was trying to be a good Christian woman, but it was becoming more and more apparent she had never given up hope. She still loved him.

“Do you believe him?” she asked, bursting my thought bubble.

“I dunno, Mom. I mean, I
want
to believe it’s true. I always wished it wasn’t. But eventually I grew up and had to face reality. He confessed, Mom. He confessed! Why on earth would he do that if he was innocent?”

“People do it all the time,” Mom said as she picked up her ivy-patterned plate and headed to the kitchen. She scraped it into the garbage bin, rinsed it off, and gently laid it in the sink. She walked back over to the table and held her hand out for my plate. I handed it to her. “You’ve seen it on TV…on those real crime shows on Discovery ID you like so much. People can be coerced into false confessions. It’s a real thing.”

“Yeah, that’s true, but that’s not what happened with Randy.”

Back in 1996, two days after Randy had called to tell us he’d been arrested, Mom and I had hired and met with B. Cecil Hayes. His office was on the top floor of a Victorian-era house in downtown Lexington, where he both lived and worked. He was too old for this, he’d told us as we followed behind him up the spiral staircase to his office, but he just couldn’t walk away from Lady Justice—she made for such an interesting bedfellow. When we made it to his office, there were files scattered all over his desk and even the floor. His bookshelves were lined with legal texts which I was sure he still referred to, despite the growing popularity of something called the internet. As soon as we took our seats and he sat down across from us behind his desk in a large maroon leather chair which enveloped his shriveled frame, he told us point-blank there was not much hope for Randy.

He fit the FBI profile, Mr. Hayes told us. A middle-aged white male with an upper-middle-class family in the suburbs and a job that allowed him to be gone from home for days at a time. A man with above-average intelligence and a strong connection to religion. Not only that, but when he was questioned by police, he immediately invoked his Fifth Amendment rights and clammed up. He didn’t admit guilt, nor did he protest his innocence. He just zipped his lips and said nothing.

B. Cecil Hayes had insisted on an insanity defense, should the case make it to trial, but Randy wouldn’t even speak to his own attorney. He never said word one to anyone about his charges. That was, until the day Mr. Hayes called to tell us it was Randy’s idea to approach the Commonwealth with plea negotiations. In exchange for taking the death sentence off the table, he would confess to all nine murders and accept whatever plea deal the prosecutor came up with.

“Well,” Mom said, leaning against the marble kitchen countertop. “I don’t know. But there has to be a reason he confessed. Maybe he wasn’t coerced by the police. Maybe it was someone else. That’s why we need you.”

“But how am I supposed to help him? I only just now got my license in the mail. I’ve never had a case on my own, so this is going to be my first one.”

“You figured out who killed Ryan. You’ll think of something. Use your paralegal training. You’re very intelligent. If anyone can figure out what really happened, it’s you.”

I didn’t want to remind her that the only way I’d figured out who really killed Ryan was because he’d broken into my house and confessed, right before trying to kill me too. “Thanks, Mom. But don’t you think we should hire somebody with more experience?”

“No. Apparently your father wants
you
. I assume that’s because he doesn’t trust anyone else. I don’t think it ever even crossed his mind to try to clear his name until you told him you’re a PI now.”

“I’ll do the best I can. I’ve already started researching all I can about the case.”

And it would take a lot of research. I had purposefully avoided hearing or learning anything about my father’s case starting in the late nineties. I didn’t want to hear the gory details. Everyone around me, especially the kids in my small town high school, knew a hell of a lot more about my father’s case than I did. But no one, not even my handful of close friends, had the balls to ever talk to me about it. So I remained in the dark. A teenage ostrich with my head in the proverbial sand.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Mom asked.

“I don’t know just yet. If so, I’ll let you know. For now, I just need a roof over my head and food in my belly. At least until I can find a place to rent.”

“Libby, you don’t have to do that. There’s plenty of room for you here. Don’t waste your money.”

Mom said this, I knew, as a politeness. She knew damn well I preferred to be by myself. And it was nothing personal. It had nothing to do with anyone else but me. Even when I was a kid, I never liked to spend the night at other girls’ houses. I always made up excuses, such as I’m not feeling well, I’m grounded, etcetera, to keep from having to pretend to enjoy sleepovers. It didn’t win me many friends back then and people thought it was odd now. I just enjoy my personal space, that’s all. Even when I met Ryan, and even after we were engaged, it took forever for me to agree to move in with him. I lied and said I wanted to be “traditional” and wait until we got married to move in together, despite the fact we had been having sex since the first night we met. All of this, combined with the fact I would need space to work on Randy’s case, meant I would definitely need to find a place to rent, and soon.

Until then, however, I could make it work at Mom’s house. She was right. There was plenty of room. I knew why she kept the big house, even after Randy had gone to prison and I had gone off to college. It was for the grandkids she just knew I would give her one day. I believe it hurt her more than it hurt me that I never gave her any.

Ryan and I had tried everything to have a baby. When I was diagnosed with endometriosis at the relatively young age of thirty-two, we even sought the help of a fertility doctor. The treatments never took and one day, Ryan and I just looked at each other, without saying a word, and we knew. It was never going to happen. I never went back to Bluegrass Family Center and all my dreams of becoming a mother disappeared. The only person who never knew we had given up was Mom. I never could work up the nerve to tell her. I didn’t want to see the disappointment in her face when I told her she’d never be a grandmother. Instead, I played along every time she’d gently ask me how my fertility treatments were going. I didn’t have the heart to tell her. So she kept the big house, as well as the minivan she could easily afford to replace, despite its one-hundred-thousand-mile speedometer reading.

Thinking of Ryan and the life we would never have together made me bitter. I didn’t want Mom to see the sudden shift in my emotions, so I forced a smile, thanked her for dinner, kissed her on her soft cheek, and excused myself.

My room upstairs was not the same as it had been when I stayed there twenty years ago. My white wrought-iron daybed was still there and so were my matching white wooden dresser and vanity, but gone were the clippings from magazines and photos of friends I had taped to the wall back in high school. Mom had replaced those things with neatly matching framed photos of roses from her rose garden. She had also painted my formerly pink walls a creamy beige color, which gave the room a more neutral feel.

The last time I had slept in this bed was during the couple of weeks between Ryan’s murder and my return to our house on Elm Fork in Nicholasville. Once my home was cleared and was no longer considered a crime scene, I was allowed to return. The worst part was having to clean up the bedroom where Ryan was murdered, but I managed to finish the task and was able to stay there, even though I slept on the living room sofa, despite what had happened. That was, until I had to kill Merle Jackson in my kitchen. That was the icing on the cake. Too much had gone down in that old house. We had bought the house from Ryan’s mother Marie after Ryan’s father had died of a heart attack. It had been his family home and I hated to let it go, but I just couldn’t stay there anymore. Marie understood, and once I received her blessing, I enlisted the help of a real estate agent and listed the house. That was two months ago and it was still on the market. I guess no one wanted to live in a house where not just one, but
two
people had been killed. Too many ghosts.