The Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted: A Psychological Thriller (13 page)

“Well hello to you, too, Mr. Manners.”

“I know you’ll forgive me. Got any answers about Samuels yet?”

He sighed. “Just now. It took some work. And the answer is, nothing.”

“Damn.”

“The D.L. number never existed, and the name Michael Samuels doesn’t match up with anything close to it, either.”

“Phony name and numbers.”

“Sure looks that way.”

“Okay. Thanks, Sully. I owe you one.”

“More than one.”

“I’ll take care of my tab later.”

“Have fun.”

“Doubt it.”

I hung up, thought for moment. Hiding his identity; I wasn’t surprised. Yet another shadow cast upon a case that was already looking awful shady.

Some things were starting to fall into place, but many others still weren’t. Jean Kingsley being murdered didn’t tell me a thing about my mother and Warren’s involvement; in fact, it only seemed to confuse things. No clear or logical connection that I could find.

And then there was the other missing link still pulling at my gut: Ronald Lucas. No association, no way to figure out why he killed the boy. Could he have somehow been in-cahoots with Samuels? If he was, I had nothing to prove it.

I stopped by the convenience store, grabbed a six-pack of soda, headed back to my motel room; it was starting to feel uncomfortably familiar. Not home, not even welcoming. Just recognizable.

And lonely.

I popped the top off my soda and wrote the word
deformity
twenty-seven times in my notebook.

***

I’m not sure how much time I spent stretched out on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and wondering how long I’d have to stay in Texas. How long until something here started making sense. Then the phone pulled me out of it. I grabbed it mid-ring.

“Mr. Bannister?”

“Who’s this?” I replied.

“My name’s Nissie,” she said, her voice shaky but determined. “I need to speak to you.”

“About what?”

She paused, and then, “In person.”

“Listen … Nissie. It’s late, and I’m tired—”

“You’ll want to see me,” she interrupted.

“Convince me,” I said, my tone quickly changing to match my annoyance. I reached for my notebook and wrote
rummage rummage rummage rummage…

“I have information you need. About Nathan Kingsley.”

I stopped writing. “Okay. You’ve got my attention. How did you find me?”

“It’s a small town Mr. Bannister. Everyone knows you’ve been asking questions about the Kingsley case. I think I may have some of the answers you’ve been looking for.”

Someone in Corvine who actually wanted to talk to me. “Okay, when and where?”

Chapter Twenty-One

I arrived at Jimmy’s All Night Diner and spotted her immediately: she had to be the nervous wreck in the booth at the back. Fifty-something, tiny, brownish hair with streaks of gray running through it. Worry lines all over her face.

She shifted awkwardly and gave a cautious smile as I took my seat.

I waved down a waitress with a coffee pot, who filled my cup and flashed a Big Texas Smile. Nissie was busily folding and unfolding an empty sugar packet.

“So…” I said, wrapping my hands around my cup. “Does Nissie have a last name?”

A single nod. “It’s Lambert.”

“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Lambert.”

“But you’ll probably do better with my maiden name. It’s Lucas.” She watched me with interest as if measuring my reaction, and then, “Ronnie was my brother.”

I tightened my feet around the base of the table, fought to keep my face from registering the shock I was feeling.

“He didn’t kill that boy.”

I gave her an appraising glance, then stared down at my cup, turning it slowly in its saucer. “Ms. Lambert, from what I’ve read and heard, there was a good amount of evidence against your brother, evidence that left little doubt that he—”

“Was guilty. Yes, I know how it appeared
.
But I’m here to tell you there’s more to this than what you’ve read and heard, Mr. Bannister. Lots more.”

“Okay,” I said, motioning for her to continue. “Care to enlighten me?”

She looked down and continued re-folding the empty sugar packet. “You’re
aware that there were a few problems
during the trial, aren’t you?”

I shook my head.

She gave a cutting grin. “Guess the papers buried
that lead.”

“What kinds of problems?”

“Well, for one, their star witness? The mailman? Lou Taggert? Let’s just say he had some credibility issues.”

“Such as?”

“A drinking problem.”

“Sounds more like a personal issue than one concerning credibility.”

“Not when you consider what happened as a result.”

I leaned back in my seat, waited for more.

“Had a few run-ins with the law. Drinking and driving, times two, one of them a hit and run. Think that might affect his credibility now, Mr. Bannister?”

“It might, yes.”

“And if the man had a drinking problem—which it appears he clearly did—who’s to say he wasn’t also drunk on the job, maybe even the day he supposedly saw my brother wandering through the neighborhood? See where I’m going with this?”

“I do.”

“And, in fact, who knows
what
he really saw, anyway…or if?” she said, the wrinkles on her forehead now growing deeper and more pronounced.

“What about the judge? If the mailman was such a lousy witness, why did he allow the testimony?”

She flashed a smile that looked more bitter than happy. “Taggert claimed he hadn’t touched a drink in over a year, and since there was no proof he’d been drinking that day, the judge ruled it as admissible. Not that the jury would have held it against him anyway. We’re talking about Texas in the seventies.”

“Even so,” I said, “there was other evidence against your brother.”

“Nathan’s bloody clothing.”

I nodded.

“Well, there’s more to that, too.”

“Like what?”

“Like, they lost it.”

“Excuse me
?
”

“That’s right,” she said, nodding. “Lost. Oh, they eventually managed to find it, but there was a gap of a few days in there, certainly long enough for it to get tampered with or contaminated.”

“How did that happen?”

“Nobody knows for sure, except that somebody screwed up.”

“And the judge still let the evidence into court?”

“Shades of gray, Mr. Bannister, shades of gray. With no proof the evidence was tampered with, he allowed it. Besides, the clothes
were
Nathan’s, and they
were
found in Ronnie’s apartment.”

“So how do you explain that?”

“I don’t, really,” she said, with a sigh. “I’ve always thought it must have been planted there.”

“By whom?”

“I was hoping maybe you could find out.”

“Ms. Lambert, I don’t have a problem investigating leads, but I usually need something to go on before I do. What you’re telling me here is all circumstan—”

“My brother wasn’t a murderer.”

“It’s not my place to say he was or he wasn’t. That was the jury’s job, and they convicted him.”

“Based on lost and possibly tampered evidence? Based on bad testimony from a questionable witness?”

“With all due respect, Ms. Lambert, your brother also had two prior sex offenses going into this. Did he not?”

“One,” she said, raising her index finger, “and it was for statutory rape. He was nineteen, and she was sixteen. Not the best judgment on his part, I’ll grant you that, but it doesn’t make him a child killer.”

“And the other charge?”

“Dropped.” She was looking into my eyes but still folding and unfolding the sugar packet. “When you’re a convicted sex offender, you become an instant suspect in just about anything that happens within a twenty-five mile radius of where you live, sometimes even farther. But when all was said and done, they had zip for evidence. Couldn’t charge him.”

I gazed at her for a long moment and thought. Nothing earthshaking here, but it did raise some questions. I said, “The cops were led to your brother because of an anonymous tip. Ever find out who that was?”

She laughed, but again there was no humor. “Sheriff wouldn’t say. No way to know if the person even existed.”

“You don’t have much faith in law enforcement, do you?”

She leaned forward and looked directly into my eyes; I could have sworn I saw something burning in hers. “My brother went to the electric chair for a crime he didn’t
commit. How in God’s name
could
I trust them?”

“Okay,” I said, raising my hands. “I get what you’re saying here, and it does appear there could have been some evidentiary issues during the trial—there’s no denying that. But to be perfectly honest, what you’ve told me doesn’t necessarily scream out his innocence, either.”

She reached into her bag and removed a sheet of paper. Slid it across the table, and said, “How about this Mr. Bannister? Does
this
scream it loudly enough?”

She watched me carefully as I picked it up and read it.

Chapter Twenty-Two

It was a handwritten statement:

I Emma Louise Stephenson hereby swear the following is true:

I was with Ronnie Lucas from the hours of 4pm to 5 pm on June 29, 1976.

My hand shook slightly as I took it in. I said to Nissie, “Why wasn’t this introduced during the trial?”

“Ronnie didn’t tell anyone he had an alibi.”

“Even though it would’ve saved his life?”

She was rolling her hands against one another. “It’s complicated, but let me see if I can explain. Emma was Ronnie’s on-again-off-again girlfriend. Mostly off again. A real winner, I might add. She was in the process of losing her two-year-old girl in a custody fight. Her ex claimed she was an unfit mother, which she was.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Drug problem,” Nissie said, “and the father was worse. Abusive as hell. He liked to beat the crap out of Emma, even smacked the kid around a few times. That’s when Emma decided enough was enough, that it was time to get out of the marriage. Of course, she had Ronnie’s arms to run into. They’d been carrying on together for quite some time by then.”

The waitress came by to refill our coffee cups. We paused, watching and waiting for her to finish and leave. She flashed me another Big Texas Smile as she left the table.

Nissie continued, “So one day, Ronnie calls, wanting to meet, but she tells him she can’t, that she has the baby at home and doesn’t have a sitter. Of course, he couldn’t come to her. His parole officer wouldn’t allow him to go near any minors, and obviously, Emma couldn’t bring the baby with her, either. But he insisted, told her he was thinking about ending the relationship. Well, that was all Emma
had to hear. She put the baby in the crib for a nap and rushed off to meet him at The Alibi bar a few blocks from her house.” She saw my response to the name and smiled. “I know, talk about irony, huh?”

“And this is the same time that Nathan went missing...”

“Yeah. The exact time.”

I held the paper up. “So why didn’t he use this to clear his name?”

She raised her hand. “I’m getting to that. So, they argued for a while, and then they made up…it took a while. Fast forward to when she gets back home. She finds the baby on the floor, bleeding. She hadn’t closed the crib properly and the baby fell out and hit her head. Emma panicked. She rushed to the emergency room and told them the baby had fallen while playing in the driveway.”