Mind Games (14 page)

“Did you?” Beecher asked.

“Not when I was younger, but now, yeah, I kind of like it. I’ve traveled the world, seen things I’d never have seen otherwise. If it weren’t for Galen, I’d probably be working in a discount store somewhere in South Carolina, wiping the asses of half a dozen kids and married to a trucker who took off every weekend to go hunting with his buddies and a case of Busch.” She laughed. “So I owe my father a lot.”

“Guess so.”

Though Lucier’s expression was unreadable, his tone conveyed everything he felt in two words.

“You don’t like him very much, do you?”

“What I think about your father doesn’t matter. I’m doing my job to catch a killer and making sure no one else gets hurt. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Well, then. I’d better get back to business.” Feeling the heat rise on her cheeks, she turned to study the six names, thinking back to the worst times of her life. They meant little to her other than the local boy. The incident was like a distant memory, even as she read the details of his crime.

Before long, Galen barreled through the door, followed by Blanche trying to keep pace, and Mickey Halloran behind her.

“Now what’s this about a killer from Diana’s past trying to get even? I know all about them guys. I remember everything that ever happened. A genuine encyclopedia, I am. Ask me anything.”

Diana noticed a few men rolling their eyes in silent acknowledgment that another know-it-all had entered their domain to teach them a thing or two. Her father never failed to cause a stir wherever he went. His booming voice and arrogance alienated everyone in his path. Bragging about outmaneuvering Mickey Halloran at the poker table hadn’t helped either. She wasn’t immune to his effect on others, but she chose to ignore that part of him in favor of the warm, compassionate father she’d always known. He was a good husband to her mother too.

“We’re not sure anyone in your daughter’s past is causing these homicides, Mr. Racine, but we don’t want to ignore the possibility.”

Lucier spoke in a calm, neutral voice, with no hint of the disdain she believed he felt.

“Since Ms. Racine is finding particulars from her childhood hazy, we hoped either you or your wife might fill us in.” He indicated the blackboard. “Anything you can tell us about these people?”

Diana noticed Lucier’s formal references to her. All of a sudden she was Galen’s daughter or Ms. Racine. Not once did he call her by name in her father’s presence.

Galen sat down at the table facing the blackboard and studied the names. He turned to Lucier. “I remember ’em all, Lieutenant. Every last dang one.”

Chapter Seventeen

An Encyclopedia’s Point of View

L
ucier inhaled a deep breath. Diana knew this was going to be a long day. She hadn’t realized how long.

“Finding a killer with a motive is a lot easier than finding one who kills for fun or whose reason is playing a psychotic game.” Lucier studied the board. “If the answer is right in front of us, we need to find the link.” He turned to Galen. “While we wait for computer printouts on these men, you can tell us what you remember. Let’s start from the top, if you don’t mind. We’ll make notes on the blackboard.” Lucier picked up a piece of chalk and pointed. “First one, 1985, Randolph DeWayne Nesbitt, Greensboro, North Carolina. What can you tell us?”

“Do you want to hear all this, Diana?”

“I’m not a child, Galen. A killer might be after me because of something that happened back then. I need to know what I’m dealing with.”

Galen thought about it, nodded in consideration, and focused on the list of names, obviously delighted to demonstrate his extensive memory. “Ah, Nesbitt. Mean son of a bitch. Killed his wife and two of his kids. Blanche kept those articles in a separate scrapbook. We didn’t want Diana to see. Back then, reporters kept a lid on the gory detail
s. Now, every fact’d be discussed and rehashed on television, pictures’d be all over the front pages of the newspapers. Nothing’s sacred no more.” He paused and scoffed. “Nesbitt smothered his family one by one while they was sleeping―that’s what he done.
Then he put plastic under ’em, cut ’em up in little pieces and buried their body parts all over the place—some in the woods, others in the lake near his house. Told the investigators they’d disappeared. Kidnapped, he said. His house was clean as a whistle. From the beginning, no one believed him. You know how the spouse is always the first suspect.”

Blanche waved a finger in Galen’s face. “Keep that in mind, Galen Racine, if you ever want to get rid of me.”

“Now, darlin’, you know I couldn’t live without you. You might be more tempted to do me in than th’other way ’round.”

“After all I’ve seen?” Blanche said. “Besides, I’m not smart enough to get away with it.”

Galen patted her hand and carried on. “The police’d dug up Nesbitt’s property before they called my little girl in on the investigation. You should’a seen her. Six years old, holding one of the kid’s teddy bears, leading police to a place in the woods way out of town where they found the little girl’s head. Cops couldn’t believe it.”

Lucier asked, “Do you know what happened to him?”

“He died in prison. Someone cut him up in little pieces.” Galen smirked. “Just deserts, don’tcha think?”

Lucier ignored the question and marked an X next to Nesbitt’s name. “Next. Homer Poteat, Clayton County, Georgia. Killed three black men in 1986. Says here he was never convicted. Crime was racially motivated. Duh,” Lucier scoffed.

Galen shot to his feet. “Was not. Three black men went missing; no sign of ’em anywhere. Diana was called in by the NAACP. She led them to the spot where they was buried. All three dead from shotgun wounds. The shells were traced to Poteat’s shotgun. At first, he said the gun was stolen. Later, he said the three nigras broke into his house to rob him while him and his wife was sleeping. Took the shotgun to the three of ’em but didn’t think anyone’d believe it wasn’t premeditated. The wife kept her mouth shut, and they couldn’t make her testify. Didn’t matter. Jury found him not guilty, and rightly so. Said the evidence showed how he was protecting his property ’n all.”

Lucier flashed a glance at Diana that sent a shiver down her spine. She lowered her gaze to the paper on the desk, hiding her humiliation at her father’s blatant defense of an obviously racist triple murderer. Lucier started to say something when Beecher came into the room with a sheaf of papers.

“Forget Poteat,” Beecher said, entering the room holding a sheaf of papers. “I got the printouts right here. He’s not our guy. Too old. Shouldn’t have been on the list in the first place.”

Beecher’s intrusion broke the poison glare Lucier lasered at Galen and eased what could have become a nasty confrontation between the two men. She flashed him a grateful nod.

“Pass them out, will you, Detective? And take over for me for a while.” Lucier slouched into a chair, his mouth drawn tight, body language stiff. With a few deep breaths, his anger dissipated. His gaze never once lighted on her.

Now that Lucier had made his disinterest in her clear, Diana found him even more attractive, posing the question why she wanted what she couldn’t have. She forced her gaze away as Beecher moved to the next name on the list.

“Kyle Sanders,” Beecher continued smoothly. “Says here he still lives in Memphis, so he’s a viable candidate. Right age too. In 1988, he and his high school sweetheart killed their baby. No one knew she was pregnant. Hmmph. Must not have looked like my wife when she was carrying. Anyway, the girl gave birth in a hotel room, and they decided to get rid of the poor thing. Took the body to the dump and buried it under a heap of garbage.”

“Nice kids,” Lucier mumbled.

“Them two was the dregs.” Galen said, oblivious to the tension he’d generated.

Diana listened as he reconstructed the murder, vaguely remembering how she directed the police to the garbage dump. Her father relished the spotlight, astounding everyone with his total recall of events twenty-plus years old.

“They was both rich kids and their daddies got good lawyers. Because the two was only sixteen, they got handed probation.”

“And he was six foot one,” Diana said, referring to the paper.

Lucier shook his head. “Right age, right height, but unlikely. Why wait all these years before taking out his revenge on Diana? And from this report, it didn’t ruin his life. I’m inclined to give him a pass.

“Okay, moving right along. Maryland, 1981, Clyde Cutter, fisherman. What’s the latest politically correct tag? Intellectually challenged? He killed another fisherman for stealing his catch. Confined to a mental institution. Got out ten years ago. What can you tell us about this one, Mr. Racine?”

“Wait,” Diana said. “The man who approached me and called me on the phone was not mentally disabled. No way. I’m sure. Unless he miraculously became sexy-voiced and normal, it isn’t him.”

“Diana’s right,” Galen chimed in. “This man was heavy set and one can short of a six-pack.”

“Okay, scratch Cutter,” Lucier said. “I think the next one can be eliminated too. Tyrone Jackson, African American, six-two, would be forty-two.”

Galen opened his mouth to say something, but Diana cut him off. “I saw Cyrano’s hand, and it wasn’t black. Besides, maybe Buffy Tyler might be tempted by a black man but not shy, southern Eleanor Hartwell.” She glowered at Galen, daring him to say anything. He didn’t.

Lucier brushed his hand across his mouth to hide the smile twitching his lips. The smile disappeared when he glanced at Diana.

“Next,” Beecher barked in a futile attempt to defuse the escalating frustrations all around, putting him in the role of peacekeeper. He pinched the bridge of his nose and continued.

“Tony Farisi, 1990, Boston. Convicted of the mob assassination of two men and dumping their bodies in an auto compacting facility, twenty-two at the time. Plea-bargained his way into a witness protection program by giving up a couple of the big boys. No details on present whereabouts, but he’s within the right age span.”

Galen rebounded, bringing his substantial recall of the facts to life once again. “This guy was quite a charmer. Good-looking and deadly. You remember him, don’t you, Blanche?”

“
Very
good-looking,” Blanche said. “I remember him and his woman lawyer canoodling at the defense table. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had a little hanky-panky going on. He’d be just the type to charm women to death.”

“Why would he be interested in me?” Diana asked. “He never served a day in jail.”

“Maybe he’s pissed because you’re the reason he’s stuck in some godforsaken place with a boring job and trying to stay out of trouble,” Beecher said. “Who knows what goes through the minds of these nuts?”

“Doesn’t seem like his MO,” Lucier said. “He was a mob hit man. There’s no evidence he ever committed sexually motivated crimes. In fact, none of the men we’ve discussed so far fits the profile.” He looked down at the sheet, read. “But…this one does. Harley Dean Macon, seventeen years old, six-two and a hundred-eighty pounds. Big boy. Says here he was convicted of raping and murdering a fourteen-year old girl, in Pacolet, South Carolina. Isn’t that near where you lived?”

“Diana was born in Pacolet,” Galen said, “but we lived in Spartanburg at the time. Pacolet was practically down the street. I remember that boy clear as yesterday. A country boy, all right, but good looking ’n smart too. Honor student. Would’a been valedictorian of his class if his butt hadn’t wound up in jail. Diana found the girl’s body.”

Shaking her head, Diana said, “I don’t remember this at all. Do you think I could have blocked it out?”

“That’s ’cause we kept the bad stuff from ya, honey. You didn’t know what all he did. At first people didn’t believe he’d done anything wrong, but then when the cops started checkin’ deeper, they found out some weird stuff. He never admitted killing the girl, neither. Swore up and down he was innocent. Three other girls went missing within a ten-mile radius, all teenagers or younger, but they never could pin nothing on him, and Diana never found ’em. The newspapers compared him to Ted Bundy.”

“I want to hear more about this one,” Lucier said. “What gave him away?”

Galen puffed out his chest. “When Diana found the girl’s body, they matched tire tracks to the treads on Macon’s pickup. He said there was hundreds of tires like that around, but a large pebble stuck in the tread fit a mark in the mud near where the girl was found, and he’d been seen in the area that afternoon. At first, his girlfriend said he was with her, but after the police told her she’d be an accessory to murder, she changed her story. Top it off, she’s the one who told about his kinky ways and like how when he got mad he damn near hit her a few times. That kind of finished him. They tried him as an adult. The evidence was circumstantial, but people ’round there wanted the case closed. The young public defender didn’t help his cause neither, and the jury gave him twenty years. After they put him away, no more girls went missing.”

“Says here he was released two years ago after serving his full twenty. That means when he got out, he was free as a bird.” Lucier tapped the report. “Sam, I want to know everything about this guy. Where he is, where he works, who he’s with, and what he eats for breakfast.”