Saltwater in the Bluegrass (35 page)

It was like the life had just drained out of Lizzy as she sat their bewildered and dazed by the news, so we knew it was time to say our goodbyes. Lamar Jr. helped her back into the house and made sure she would be all right, and then we left.

By the time we drove across the Sherman Minton Bridge and back into Louisville, it was getting late. We had Lamar Jr. drop us off at my car and said that we would talk early tomorrow morning. I also asked him not to say anything to anyone yet about what we knew. Jenny and I had made plans with Texi and Charlie downtown. We were to meet them at one of their favorite places down on the Ohio River called King Fish for dinner. Even with good food and great atmosphere, sitting next to the riverbank, I found myself pondering my feelings. I wanted to blow this story wide open. I was trying to recap the events of each day, and as quiet as I must have been, it must have started showing during dinner.

“Hey, stranger, what is on your mind?” Texi asked. She knew me better than anyone at the table, and I guess it was becoming very noticeable that I was somewhere else. I was fading from their conversation quicker than even she liked.

You know the feeling, part of the job, when you get too close to a case or get close enough to the end where you can begin to feel it closing in all around you? That is when I usually get off on it, the thrill, the rush, the ability to hang out their on the limb, but not this time. This case was beginning to live inside of me. It was starting to pull at too many strings. I wanted it over. I was used to living vicariously and working cases from the outside in, not the other way around. There were still quite a few questions I needed answered. The only way this was going to happen was to take the shovel in hand and dig deeper.

The next morning I went to the Jefferson County Courthouse with Lamar Jr. Together we pulled some old architecture plans for the estate. After two hours, three different clerks, and two different buildings, we were holding the property blueprints to the Ingram Mansion.

On page thirteen of the plot plans there it was, the landscaping breakdown showing the pool and the pool house that had once been behind the house. It was exactly fifty-two feet north of the front porch across from where the circular driveway turns in front of the house and where a flower garden now stands.

On this location there had stood a pool and behind it a bathhouse. Our first question was, where was it now, and why had it been covered up?

Through all my years of investigating, I have found that sometimes it is better to not say anything until you have a mouthful of questions or answers. I had Lamar Jr. agree to keep this quiet until I was ready to add the next piece of the puzzle.

It was now early
on the morning of May 3rd, Friday morning, the first Friday in May. Light breezes were out of the south. It was the morning before the main event, The Kentucky Derby, known in these parts as the Running of the Roses. Today, the information we had obtained had now found its way into our calendar of events. Final preparations and the last minute pursuits of readiness were in full swing around the area as locals made their last-minute party plans. It was the day before. It was the last chance.

This was the morning that Lamar Jr. and I walked into the brightlylit, newly-remolded downtown Louisville Police Department Headquarters off Liberty Street.

This was something that had needed to be done for a long time. The sudden coldness of the atmosphere hit us as we walked in. The sterile lockdown of passageways, the painted white concrete walls, the inch-thick shatterproof glass, all made to look as though this place had been designed after the old television show
Highway Patrol
but based in the future. The measure of taking old-town law enforcement ideas and covering it up with new fangled construction, paint, and wallpaper, and then having the community think that it had become a great place to visit.

The force of protection in the Ohio Valley was now a more productive, kinder state, where gentler gun-carrying psychologists were housed to serve and protect the people at a single moments notice.

The building was now newer, bigger, and more polished. The basic premise was to preserve the faction that believes everyone in the world is innocent until the glove fits. That isn’t so. It doesn’t always work that way, not in the real world. This had to change.

I was starting to get the feeling from the get-go that this was going to be an exercise in futility.

At the beginning, no one from the department, especially Detective Langley, wanted to hear from two men who were being vague about the subject matter at hand. Yes, the information we had was circumstantial, unformulated, hazy, and ill-defined, but with the amount of information we were presenting, the picture of possibility was being formulated and growing with each individual detail. Lieutenant Greg Langley of the Louisville Homicide Unit met us in one of the small cube-sized briefing rooms down a long hall that was warm to the touch, but cold in personality and character. The room was eight feet square and made of concrete blocks painted white. The floor was finished in white, square tile with light blue specks running through it for design. There were no windows. The furniture was sterile and drab, consisting of a clean, gray metal table in the middle of the room, four wooden chairs without padding, and a triple-bulb light that hung a foot from the ceiling. At first, Detective Langley acted as if we were keeping him from a rendezvous at the local donut shop, but he soon became intrigued with the idea. He warmed up to the possibilities of our story, the manner in which we found our information, and the story of the late Mrs. Elizabeth Ingram actually being alive and living across the river in Indiana.

Once we began talking about disappearing pools and bathhouses on the Ingram Mansion, he was hooked. He got excited. The merit of our claims was warranted. The ideas and details of our speculations presented Detective Langley with a clear picture. He could be responsible for bringing down the rich and powerful Katherine Ingram, a businesswoman with ties to many of the prominent business players and politicians in town, not to mention the possible ties she might have to organized crime and politicians out of state. This could further his career. The idea of that alone was worth the risk of listening to us.

In time, it was decided it was a risk Detective Langley was willing to take. The likes of the prominent daughter of Baxter Ingram being charged with murder intrigued him, the daughter of the man forever synonymous with the business world of Louisville and the Ohio Valley. It would definitely bring headlines.

If everything panned out, this case would be in the spotlight for quite awhile. The possibility of getting a murder conviction against Katherine Ingram, or even just the thought of bringing her down a notch or two, interested him.

Soon the three of us were building the lines of defense for the case. Through talking and planning our strategy, we knew that we needed to be completely accurate in our presentation of the facts to Detective Langley’s superiors. The case we would pursue needed the assurance of a positive solution, a conviction. The timing had to be perfect.

Detective Langley and his superior would present the evidence to the Louisville District Attorney’s Office. Once this was accomplished, once the warrants were issued, we would then let the District Attorney’s office go after Katherine.

Lamar Jr. had nothing to lose.
He did, however, have everything to gain from this. That much he was sure about.

He loved his grandmother. He loved her kindness and her warmth. He loved the way she showed him how she cared. It was by being there and by talking with him, saying she loved him and asking him about his feelings. No one had ever done this. Those wishes, hopes, and dreams that grandparents have for their grandchildren with no ulterior motives.

Lamar Jr. was not used to this. He was not used to someone who did not use their friendship or love to better themselves. It was new, it was different, and he loved it.

In turn, he hated his Aunt Katherine. He despised her for what she had done to Lizzy and more for what she might have had done to his father, and possibly his mother as well.

Lamar Jr. and I continued talking to Detective Langley. We had substantial amounts of information, times, places, dates, and events that could be used by his department to get the search warrant signed. We needed Detective Langley and his people to search the property of the Ingram estate and find the remains of the pool and bathhouse and see if something, anything, lay beneath in the dirt. We knew that we had enough circumstantial evidence to find Katherine guilty of intent to commit murder, but we still wanted to pin a capital murder charge on her that would stick, especially for the murder of Lamar Sr. and possibly the murder of Willy Bowen.

It was early Saturday
morning—
the morning of the Kentucky Derby. No other race in thoroughbred racing history has the charm, the appeal, and the greatness of this event. If you win the ninth race at Churchill Downs, you stand alone with the best of all time, you own a piece of history.

The morning air was brisk. It was sixty degrees at seven a.m., just like it is most mornings this time of year. The forecast for post time was for temperatures to reach near eighty-five degrees, with partly sunny skies and a light southeasterly wind. Conditions were perfect for the day’s eleven races.

The track was expected to be dry and fast. Times were expected to be above average.

Every Derby the experts anticipated another Secretariat-type race, but after the running, the fans could only dream of such a horse, the horse they had once watched and had come to love. In 1973, Secretariat had run the mile and a quarter in the record time of one minute and fifty-nine and two-fifths seconds.

This record still holds today and continues to be the mark by which horses are gauged. Never had a horse raced across the finish line with such command and authority as that great one did winning all three races and becoming known as a Triple Crown winner.

Maybe this would never happen again, not with those times, but the crowds still gathered each year with lusty howls to watch and to hope and to dream. And the experts kept predicting and looking for the next great, but again, it’s an improbable possibility of horsemanship. Horses will continue to win, and even if they do not match the speed set by Secretariat, their wins will still show the splendor, strength, and grace these magnificent animals possess.

Jockeys, trainers, and owners were milling about the track. They were
finishing up their morning workouts with the horses they were preparing to run in the day’s eleven races. For now, they were either out on the backstretch of the track or in one of the many stables along the backside of Churchill Downs. Some of the horses were recovering from injuries or illness, while others were still preparing for races in the coming weeks, as the Racing Meet continues on for several more months.

The horses that were to run today had had a light workout early in the day and were now resting in their stalls until post time. Each owner and trainer felt confident, eager to have their horse race. Distractions had to be kept to a minimum inside the stables. The race chaplain was usually on the backstretch, moving through the barns and stables and talking with different jockeys. Out in front of the horse stables, owners of today’s possible winners were filling storylines for all the local and national news reporters. Cameramen and photographers were busy taking pictures. Thousands of people from Kentucky and the surrounding states were making their way over bridges, along interstates, converging on the many little streets surrounding the racetrack.

Parties were being thrown. Tents and awnings were popping up all over the state with backyard barbeques. Politicians were making the rounds. Local entertainers were performing throughout the day, and top-name comedians were in town entertaining guests at night. People were gathering at local establishments, pubs and bars, and parks. Television personalities were on the airways sending their version of the day’s events back to those around the country who were watching. There would be ten hours of local coverage and two hours national.

It was Derby time in the Bluegrass.

The fastest two minutes in sports was still hours away, but people were coming, and they were coming early by the thousands. The whole idea was to savor the entire day, living a piece of history. Men and women drinking mint juleps, woman showing off their new hats, people sitting around reading their racing forms, friends gathered talking, people walking around or sitting in their reserved box seats. Some people were busy watching as the rich and famous stars arrived and made their way up to millionaire’s row. As positioning went, there were seats for the rich and influential, and then there was the infield for the partygoers, the young people, and the patrons of the event not lucky enough to have seats passed down from generation to generation.

Over one hundred thousand people were expected. Today was going to be special. It was going to be special for everyone who loved life and horse racing.

It was special for everyone in the state except Katherine Ingram and the hidden truth that lay beneath the dirt covering the Ingram Estate.

It was eight thirty
in the morning when things started moving fast. The search warrant filed against the residence of Katherine Ingram was now signed. Judge Preston of the Louisville District Court had put his signature on the affidavit and then had it hand delivered, by the court clerk on duty, to the Louisville Police Precinct. It was issued to the Homicide Squad Watch Commander. He in turn handed the signed document over to Detective Langley, who was in charge of the investigation.

It was now time to break the case wide open. It was time to find the evidence. It was time to bring down Katherine Ingram.

Sort of ironic, ten miles away people from all over the country were gathering at the Churchill Downs Race Track getting ready for the Running of the Roses, and over at the Ingram Estate the Louisville police department was getting ready to dig up a bunch of roses. I had been given the pleasure of riding up to Ingram Mansion with Detective Langley. His intentions were to serve the documents that had just one hour earlier been signed by the judge and then begin, in a quick and orderly fashion, to tearing up the place.