No Place to Die (30 page)
Authors: James L. Thane
The crime lab quickly confirmed that Carl McClain’s pistol had been the weapon used to kill Alma Fletcher, David Thompson, Karen Collins, Harold Roe, and Larry Cullen. The techs were not able to tie McClain conclusively to the murder of Walter Beckman, but we had absolutely no doubt about the fact that McClain was responsible for the judge’s death. Beverly Thompson told us that McClain had boasted of committing the murder, and the case was declared closed.
No one stepped forward to assume the responsibility for McClain’s burial. The afternoon after his death, Amanda Randolph appeared at my office, looking tired and anxious. “I hope you don’t think me a horrible person,” she said in a soft voice, “but the truth is, I’m glad that he’s dead. Especially given what he’s done in the last few weeks, the thought of him being out there alive…the thought that he might have attempted to see Tiffani…”
“What have you and Mr. Randolph decided to tell Tiffani?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she replied, shaking her head. “When we joined her in California, we simply told her that we’d decided to take a break and come over to watch her play in the tournament.
“She knows, of course, that Richard is not her biological father, but she has no idea that Carl McClain was. Several years ago, when I thought she was finally old enough to discuss the matter, I told her that I’d been in a relationship with a man and that I’d gotten pregnant. I told her that the man had not loved me, or the child he had fathered, enough to stick by us. I told her that he had abandoned me and left the state—that I had never heard from him again and that I had no idea where he might be.
“Tiffani loves Richard, and she knows that Richard loves her. She understands that by any meaningful definition of the term, he is and always has been her father. After our discussion of the issue, she’s never expressed any curiosity about her natural father, and I’m hoping desperately that no one will ever discover that I was Carl’s wife and that Tiffani was his daughter.”
In McClain’s backpack, we found a safe-deposit-box key that we ultimately traced to the bank where he had rented a box under the alias Alan Fischer. In the box, we found just under $100,000 in cash, two additional sets of fake ID, a tarnished Saint Christopher’s medal on a broken chain, eleven major-league-baseball cards bound in a rubber band and dating back to the middle nineteen seventies, a faded picture of a woman we assumed to be McClain’s mother, and a note indicating that in the event of his death, McClain wanted to be cremated with no services of any kind. Underneath the note was a small studio photo of McClain’s daughter and his former wife that I managed to palm and slip into my pocket while everybody else was distracted by the sight of all that money.
In accordance with McClain’s wishes, his remains were cremated and the charges were deducted from the money found in his safe-deposit box. A week later, one of Larry Cullen’s ex-wives filed a lawsuit claiming
the balance of the money in lieu of the alimony she would have received had McClain not murdered her ex-husband.
Beverly Thompson spent several days in the hospital recovering from the abuse she had suffered during her captivity, but a week after her escape she was able to attend a memorial service for her husband and to see him properly buried. After an extended break, during which she moved into a condominium and sold the house where her husband had been killed, she returned to work at the end of April.
And early in May, while Elizabeth was back in Minneapolis volunteering at a celebrity golf tournament, Julie contracted pneumonia. Her immune system, which had been steadily weakened during the long months of her illness, was unable to repel the virus that now assaulted her lungs. For two days and nights, I sat at her bedside as her condition steadily deteriorated. And at ten twenty-seven on a beautiful spring morning, I held her in my arms as she died, a week before her thirty-fourth birthday.
I am indebted to a number of people without whose assistance this book would not have been possible. Principal among them is my agent, Alanna Ramirez, who was the first person to read the book and to believe in its potential. I am also extremely grateful to Barbara Peters, who inspired the book with a chance remark.
Sam Reaves read portions of the early manuscript and made valuable suggestions for its improvement. Thanks to my editor, Don D’Auria, who polished the book. Also at Dorchester, thanks to Tanya Reynolds and to Cindy Johnson.
Karl Huntoon and David Gannon offered legal and medical advice respectively, though I alone am responsible for any mistakes I might have made in utilizing the counsel they provided. Finally, Lieutenant Randy Force of the Phoenix Police Department’s Homicide Unit provided insights into the inner workings of the department and patiently answered all of my questions. For the sake of the story, I have taken some liberties with the organization of the Phoenix PD; I hope Lieutenant Force will forgive me.
It is customary at this point for an author to thank his spouse and friends for their contributions to his efforts. I would very much like to do so, but it would be impolite for a writer to lie to his readers. The truth of the matter is that my wife and friends constantly distracted my attention away from this project, insisting that I play golf and tennis, that I go out to dinner or to the movies, and that I do scores of other such things. Without their repeated interference this book would have been finished months earlier than it was. These people know who they are and I will not embarrass them by naming them here, except for Victoria Kauzlarich, Dick and Pat Ballman, Tom and Pat Nauman, Todd and Jane Nicholson, Hal and Rosann Welser, and Bob and Vicky Wyffels.
Come to think of it, my cat was no damn help either.
A LEISURE BOOK®
August 2010
Published by
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
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Copyright © 2010 by James L. Thane
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