Family Ties (Flesh & Blood Trilogy Book 2) (7 page)

I had seen the witness statement in the file, but had not had time to read it. I made a mental note to do so when I got home, and to have Harper track down the witness for me to speak with.

“I see. I guess that makes sense. What about physical evidence?”

He leaned back again. “You sure have a lot of questions, darlin’. You sure you’re not working some angle here?”

“No angle. I just have to know for my own peace of mind. I need closure.”

“Well, I guess that makes sense. If my father was a serial killer, I’d want closure too. As for physical evidence, well, we had the coroner’s report on all the bodies. He determined they were all strangled by some sort of soft clothing or blanket, and we found a scarf in the cabin of your father’s truck. Coroner felt confident it was the likely murder weapon.”

I hadn’t seen any mention of the scarf in the file I’d read, but then again, I hadn’t been through it with a fine-tooth comb yet. “What about fibers from the scarf? Were there any on any of the victims?”

“No. No fibers, unfortunately. It was a red silk scarf. But what man keeps a silky woman’s scarf in their work truck in the middle of summer?”

Good point.

“Will that be all, Mrs…Libby?” He stood and started walking toward me with his arm extended. “Lunch break’s about over and I’ve got some work to catch up on.”

I let him guide me out of his office gently, but turned to face him again, once we were on the landing of the staircase. “Actually, I have one more question.”

“I’m all ears.”

“What about his confession?”

He looked genuinely perplexed. “What about it?”

“Didn’t you find it odd?”

“Odd in what sense?”

“Well, it was awfully convenient, don’t you think?”

His face clearly reflected defensiveness, whether he meant for it to or not. He shook his head. “I certainly don’t know what you mean by
convenient
, Mrs. Carter.”

Uh-oh. Back to my formal name. He was no longer in a sharing mood, I could sense. But I wasn’t about to drop the issue. Not when I was speaking to one of the people responsible for my father’s predicament, if he was, in fact, innocent.

“What I mean is, there was no physical evidence, only one witness, and all you really had against him was that he fit a certain profile. Without his confession, you would have been facing an uphill battle at trial.”

“I see.” He ran his hand through what remained of his white hair and let out a deep breath. “Okay, Mrs. Carter, look. I’m sorry for what your father’s actions have put you through. You must have had a tough life. But I can assure you, your father is as guilty as they come. His confession was just icing on the cake. If you’re looking for some cause to champion, choose another one. Your father is a lost cause. He’s in prison where he belongs. Now, if you don’t mind…”

Realizing I would get nothing more out of the retired detective, I nodded my head politely and excused myself from the building.

On the way home, I called Harper and asked her to find the witness statement, see if she could track him or her down, and reach out to them to see if they were willing to speak to me. Something was starting to feel all wrong. In my cursory review of the attorney’s file and my all-too-brief conversation with the investigating detective, one thing was becoming alarmingly clear. My father’s spontaneous confession was likely the only reason he was behind bars.

Chapter 7

Harper tracked down the witness, one Alma Jean Glover, and talked her into speaking with me. Harper texted me the address for a restaurant in Dry Ridge, about fifty miles south of Lexington off I-75. It took me all of an hour to get to Beans Café & Bakery on Broadway Street, thanks to construction in the southbound lanes. I had never been to Dry Ridge, let alone Beans, but I was glad Harper had picked this place to meet Ms. Glover. As soon as I entered, the delicious smell of freshly-baked pastries and donuts enveloped me. Almost as good as a Yankee Candle store.

I sat down at a table near the entrance, told the hostess I was waiting for someone, and asked her to bring me a coffee with creamer and sugar. She returned after just a few minutes with a white ceramic cup filled with piping hot coffee, just as I’d ordered it.

I didn’t have to wait long. I had no idea what Mrs. Glover looked like, but somehow, I knew her the instant she walked in. She was a squat, round woman with thick-rimmed glasses, which rested on pudgy cheeks. She waddled through the door, huffing and puffing as if every step was a journey. I knew it was her by the way she looked around the small restaurant. When her squinty eyes landed on me, she smiled and waved tentatively. I wiggled my fingers at her and then motioned for her to join me.

She ambled over to the table. “You must be Libby.”

I stood and extended my hand. “Yes, ma’am. And you must be Mrs. Glover.”

She swatted my words out of the air with a pudgy hand. “Pffft. Call me Alma. No need for formalities.”

I gestured toward the empty chair across from me. “Please, have a seat.”

She slung her large black purse over the back of the chair and then plopped down in the seat.

“Would you care for some coffee?” I asked politely.

“I’d love some, thank you.”

I waved at the waitress, who hurried over to our table and asked if she could get us something else.

“Coffee,” said Alma. “Black, please.”

The waitress nodded and left us alone at the table.

“So, your assistant said you wanted to speak with me about Randall Terrance McLanahan.”

“Yes,” I said. “He’s my father.”

Alma’s eyes went wide as pancakes. “Oh, I see. Well, what can I possibly do for you, Libby?”

“Well, you see, I’m just curious about what you saw that night at the truck stop. Do you mind talking to me about that?”

“No, but I hardly see how this is going to help you, Libby. I’m sorry to say this, but your father is a monster. Now, that’s no reflection on you and I don’t hold the sins of the father against the child. Who would? But what exactly do you want from me?”

“I’m just trying to make sense of it all,” I said, hanging my head a little lower.

“It’s been twenty years,” Alma said matter-of-factly. “Why now?”

I had to think fast. I couldn’t tell this woman my father had hired me to prove his innocence. She would likely not help me then. “I just need closure.”

“Ah,” she said, leaning back in her chair and resting her hands on top of her big belly. “That I understand. So how can I help you?”

“I just want to know what you saw. I’ve read your witness statement, but I’d like to hear it from you.”

Just then the waitress arrived with Alma’s coffee and two menus. I laid mine down, not feeling a bit hungry, but Alma picked hers up and stared at it. I couldn’t help but notice how closely she held the menu to her face. Even with her glasses on, she was nearly blind, it appeared.

“I think I’ll have the blueberry scone,” she told the waitress with a smile.

“Um,” said the waitress bashfully. “We don’t have blueberry scones. Perhaps you meant the blackberry scone?”

“Yes, yes. I’m sorry,” Alma said with a self-conscious chuckle. “I must have misspoken. The blackberry scone will do just fine. Libby, do you want anything?”

“No, thank you. I just ate.” I hadn’t, but I just wasn’t hungry at the time.

After the waitress scuttled away, Alma looked at me plainly. “Now, where were we?”

“Your witness statement?”

“Oh, yes, that. Well, as I told the police…mind you, this was twenty-odd years ago…but as I told the police, I was on my way to Pigeon Forge—that’s in Tennessee—and anyway, I stopped at the big truck stop there on the exit ramp off I-75 to get some snacks. I always go to the truck stops, if I can. They have more to choose from. Anyway, I parked near the entrance…safety first…but when I got out of my car, I heard two people shouting, a man and a woman. It was coming from the back of the parking lot, so I turned and looked and that’s when I saw the man and woman yelling at each other. They were standing in front of one of those big eighteen-wheeler trucks. I thought it was strange, but what could I do? So I went on inside and grabbed my snacks and checked out. When I got back outside, I looked out of curiosity to see if the couple was still there, but the truck was gone. So were the man and woman. I shrugged it off as some domestic dispute and thought nothing of it, until one day I was watching the news and I saw that girl’s picture on the TV screen. The news said she’d been found dead in a ditch along the interstate. I knew it was the same girl I’d seen arguing with that man. Poor girl.” Alma clutched the silver cross on her bosom and bowed her head, as if saying a silent prayer for the girl, whom I knew to be Shiloh Blackwater, the killer’s last victim.

“What happened next?”

“Well, I called the police, of course. Told them how I’d seen that poor girl arguing with a man at the truck stop. I gave a description of the man to a sketch artist. And that was that. Well, that is, until that detective called me a few weeks later.”

“Detective Chambers?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“Why did Detective Chambers call you?”

“Well, he wanted me to identify the…your father…in a lineup.”

“And did you?”

“Yes. I drove down to Lexington one day in…September, I think…and they put me in this tiny room with a large window. Then they turned on the lights and brought in five or six guys and he asked me to point out the man I’d seen with that girl at the truck stop.”

The waitress returned with Alma’s scone on a small white plate and laid it in front of her. Alma thanked her politely.

“And you identified my father in the line-up?”

Alma shoved the scone into her mouth and chewed for a few seconds before she answered me. “Yes. I’m sorry. This is quite uncomfortable. But yes, your father was definitely the one I saw at the truck stop with that girl.”

“Shiloh Blackwater?”

“Yes!” she said, pointing a meaty finger at me. “That’s the one. Poor, poor girl. She didn’t deserve what that monster did to her. Oh…” She looked at me with what I perceived as genuine regret. “I’m so sorry, darlin’. I know this must be hard on you. But I know what I saw.”

“I understand. It’s okay. Can I ask you one more question?”

“Of course.”

I had to tread lightly. I didn’t want to offend Alma, but I had a job to do. “Alma, have you always worn glasses?”

“Yes, but I don’t understand…” Alma’s face changed from one of confusion to one of sudden awareness. “Oh, I see where you’re going with this. Yes, I’ve always worn glasses, but no, I did not make a mistake.” The tone of her voice had changed too. Gone was the syrupy sweet tea voice; in its place, something harsher and colder. “I can’t imagine how hard it must be for you, being the daughter of a serial killer, but I assure you, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I saw your father yelling at that girl the same night she was murdered. Sure as I’m seeing you right now. The police knew I was telling the truth. Your father got what he deserved. Better, actually. He should have gotten the electric chair for what he did to those poor, innocent girls.”

I couldn’t help myself. “The electric chair hasn’t been used in thirty years.”

She looked at me with squinty, piercing eyes. “I think we’re done here. Waitress!”

“I didn’t mean to offend you, Alma. I’m simply trying to find the truth.”

“The truth is that your father is a serial killer. It’s been twenty years. Let sleeping dogs lie. Accept the truth and get on with your life.”

“Here,” I said, laying a ten-dollar bill down on the table between us. “It’s on me.”

“I don’t want your money. Just don’t ever contact me again.”

“I’m sorry, Alma. I really am.” And with that, I left Alma sitting there at the table and walked out of the restaurant toward my car.

I slid behind the wheel and turned on the heat and warmed my hands in front of the vents. I sat there in the parking lot of Beans, thinking over what I’d just learned. I watched as Alma exited the restaurant and fumbled with the keys to her minivan. She finally found the right key and screeched out of the parking lot, leaving a plume of gravel and dust in her wake.

On my drive back to Nicholasville, I contemplated everything Alma had said. It was one of two things. Either Alma was right and she had correctly identified my father, in which case, Randy was arguing loudly with the last victim the same night she was murdered. Or, Alma had incorrectly identified Randy, due to her horrible eyesight, and she had hammered the final nail in a possibly innocent man’s coffin. But if it wasn’t Randy she had seen that night, who was it?

Just as all these thoughts were beginning to overwhelm me, my cell phone rang. It was a collect call from the prison, which meant it was Randy.

“Hello,” I said after the prerecorded message ended.

“Libs?” I still hated when he called me that, but I was tired of correcting him. “You there?”

“Yes, Randy. I’m here. What do you want?”

“I just wanted to see how you were doing…with the investigation, that is. Found out anything useful?”

I told him how I’d retrieved his file from Mr. Hayes, spoken with the detective on his case, and interviewed the sole witness to his alleged confrontation with the final victim.

He drew in a deep breath and let it out. “That wasn’t me,” he said.

While it was true Alma Jean Glover was blind as a bat, she had still identified him in the police lineup. I said as much.

“That proves it!” he nearly shouted into the phone.

“What proves what?”

“If she can’t see very well, that explains how she mistakenly identified me. That’s great, Libs. You can use that, can’t you?”

“Maybe. But she was very unhappy with me when I suggested as much to her. She’ll stand by her story and swear it was you, so it’s a double-edged sword. I don’t know what else to do, Randy.”

“You’ll come up with something. I believe in you. Plus, I’m innocent. Please don’t give up on me yet.”

“I’m not giving up, Randy. It’s just…do you promise me you’re innocent?”

“As God is my witness. I’m innocent. I wouldn’t put you in this position if I weren’t. I wouldn’t send you on a wild goose chase. Why would I do that? Why would I mess with you like that? No, Libs. I wouldn’t waste your time or mine.”

“Randy, can I ask you something else?”

“Shoot, kiddo.”

“What about the scarf?”

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah, that. The police report says they found a red silk scarf in your truck. That’s a lady’s scarf. Why would you have that in your truck? Especially since it was summer?”

“I honestly don’t know how that got there. I promise you. I had never seen that scarf before in my life. Not until they laid it out in front of me at the police station during an interview. I don’t know where it came from. You have to believe me.”

“All right,” I said, although I truly didn’t know what to believe at that point.

The prerecorded voice came on with its standard thirty-second warning.

“I’ve got to go, Randy.”

“Libs, just promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Promise me you won’t give up on me. Promise me you will do everything in your power to clear my name. I’m innocent. I thought I could do it, but—”

The line went dead.

What did he mean by
I thought I could do it
? He must have been referring to the fact he had confessed to several horrific crimes he allegedly didn’t commit. But that still begged the question…why on earth would he confess to something so terrible? He had told me previously that he didn’t want to face the death penalty, but everything I had learned so far told me the police didn’t really have that strong of a case against him. All they had was some inconclusive forensic evidence, a scarf, the FBI profile, and the word of a woman who I now knew was almost completely blind. Not nearly enough to convict a man, a former preacher with no criminal history whatsoever, of nine murders.

I pondered this the whole drive from Dry Ridge toward Nicholasville. The more I thought about everything, the more confused I became. My head was swimming with contradictory thoughts. Either my father was really guilty or he had been railroaded by the police. Either way, he had confessed. How was I ever going to overcome his own words? True, people recanted their confessions all the time. Some even eventually won their freedom through DNA evidence. But there was no DNA evidence in his case. All I had so far was a tiny bit of doubt. Not even reasonable doubt, as is the court system’s standard for proving innocence. So what would it take for me to clear his name? No judge was going to throw out his conviction and set him free based on a few flimsy points of doubt. The only thing I could come up with was that I would have to find the real killer. But how was I supposed to do that all by myself when the police with all their resources had failed?