Joelle Simpson was my next stop. Maybe what her late husband had told her would provide enough information for me to return to the prison and question Lawrence Washington again, this time telling him I had doubts about his guilt, just like Frank Simpson and the chaplain. Maybe then he'd talk.
After I hung up from Dugan, I'd called Frank Simpson's widow and told her I needed her help on one of her husband's old cases. She'd acted like I was a long-lost high school friend. ''Could you come today?'' she'd asked. ''Frank would want you to come right away if he were alive.''
A little stunned by this instant and eager cooperation, I got in the Camry a few minutes later, directions in hand. She lived in the northwest suburbs not far from a busy mall, and the traffic was horrendous at mid-morning. Maybe because I'm paranoid about being rear-ended—something that's happened twice in the last year near shopping malls—I looked in the mirror more than usual during the halting trip to Joelle Simpson's neighborhood—and realized I was being followed.
If you're going to follow someone, why drive a flashy apple-red Lexus? I'd noticed that car as I'd left my house. Noticed because none of my neighbors own a car with gold hubcaps and windows tinted too dark to be legal. That same car or its twin was several vehicles behind me. Vanity and gridlock will get you every time.
I was in the left-turn lane and my tail wasn't. Guess that would have been too obvious. Easy enough to go past me at this intersection and make a U-turn. Whoever it was could easily pick me up in a few seconds. But I'd be waiting.
I made my turn, went two blocks and pulled into a driveway, hoping the tail would think this was my destination and drive on by. Then I could read the plates. Less than a minute later, the Lexus came cruising around the corner and slowed, obviously spotting my car.
At that wonderful moment, someone pounded on my driver's side window. I was so startled I nearly jumped through the sunroof.
A man in his sixties holding a golf umbrella pressed his face to the glass. I glanced back at my tail and saw that the car had also pulled into a driveway, but in the first block. Damn. I couldn't see the plates. I rolled down my window.
''You selling something?'' the man asked, his irritation obvious. '' 'Cause if you are, we don't need your Avon or your Tupperware.'' He pointed at me with the handle of the umbrella as if scolding a child.
''Um, no,'' I answered sweetly. ''I'm kind of lost. Can you help me?'' I glanced back at the Lexus idling a block away.
''Oh.'' This seemed to deflate the man. Here he'd been ready to scare off one of those perfume predators who he probably didn't realize rarely sold doorto-door these days.
''Where you headed?'' he asked.
I gave him Joelle Simpson's address.
''You're almost there.'' He pointed down the street with the umbrella, telling me to drive three more blocks and turn right.
Since the guy was gesturing while giving directions, I might still be good. The tail would think I'd simply gotten lost, and once the Lexus was behind me again, I could make the plates and call them in to Jeff.
After I pulled out of the driveway and headed toward Mrs. Simpson's house, I watched in the rearview as my tail backed out and headed in the opposite direction. My heart sank like a rock with a hole in it. I couldn't read anything. The Lexus was too far away. The adrenaline rush that had surged through me at the prospect of obtaining a solid lead vanished like hailstones in July.
I drove on to the Simpson house thinking how my sister had been knocked silly at Verna Mae's place and now I'd been followed. Someone was paying close attention. Who? The only people aware of me working this case were Burl, HPD, Angel . . . and my sister . . . my aunt, oh, and the chaplain and then there were all the people I'd interviewed and—holy hissy fit. The whole frickin' world knew.
I'll be on the lookout for my friend in the Lexus, I thought, as I parked in the Simpson driveway. I only hoped Jeff or Angel hadn't put some babysitter on me. That would be worse than a bad guy hanging around.
A smiling Joelle Simpson, her ginger hair gray at the roots, greeted me at the door of her modest brick home before I could even ring the bell. She wore a loose-fitting cotton dress and no makeup, and had an almost ageless oval face. She must have avoided the Texas sun her entire life.
She grasped my hand in both of hers and smiled broadly. ''No one's ever asked me anything about Frank's cases before. I really hope I can help.'' Her attitude was a welcome departure from the prison visit yesterday and my conversation with Frank's partner earlier today.
As she led me inside, my initial take on the house was that it seemed like a cozy bungalow filled with comfy furniture. Then I took in the photographs filling the walls—photos in stark contrast to the smiling, sweet Joelle Simpson and her warmth. Not family photographs, but the work of someone with a serious hobby. No Texas landscapes or old barns or fields of bluebonnets. They were all people . . . haunting character studies. Some were in color, some in black and white—people young and old, crying, or with heads bent, or clinging to children or other loved ones. A few were so searing in their portrayal, I had to look away.
''Frank,'' Mrs. Simpson said quietly. ''He took them.''
''They're . . . amazing. Who are these people?''
''Families of the victims. He got their permission, if you're wondering. Most of the time, he'd invite them here later on, after he'd developed and framed their pictures. The families wanted to see, and the pictures offered an opening for them to talk about the day their lives changed forever. They welcomed the chance to sit and talk with Frank, sometimes for hours.''
''Sounds like Frank had a big heart,'' I said.
She blinked back tears. ''Funny, that's what killed him. A heart attack. I told our grandchildren his heart was so big it just burst. He was the kindest man I ever met.''
I reached out and squeezed her arm. ''I didn't mean to upset you.''
''That's okay, Abby. Can I call you Abby?''
''Of course.''
''I'm Joelle. Anyway, the occasional sadness, the bouts of tears, it's all part of missing him and I expect it will go on forever. Now tell me more. You mentioned Lawrence Washington on the phone.''
''Yes. Did Frank talk much about him?'' I'd learned from Dugan that he had, but I needed Joelle's take on this.
''Frank knew something wasn't right about that case, said he thought the boy was innocent. Let's go get Frank's book.''
His book? I wondered, as she led me up a narrow staircase and into a converted bedroom with wall-towall shelves. They were filled with hardback and paperback books as well as a slew of albums, each labeled with a month and year on the spine. On the left wall I noted more framed photographs, and one jumped out at me. It was an eight-by-ten black-andwhite of Lawrence Washington sitting with his cuffed hands resting on a small table. He was leaner than now and wore a Texas A&M T-shirt, his tired eyes staring into the lens, dark and as sad as I remember from yesterday. If I had seen this picture first, rather than the one from the newspaper, I would have known Will and Lawrence were most certainly father and son.
''I'm not sure of the month,'' Joelle said, stepping toward the 1987 shelf.
''April,'' I answered, wondering why Washington agreed to the photograph. Maybe he'd wanted someone to remember the worst day of his life.
She pulled the album and brought it to a card table set up in the center of the room. ''Frank used to have half of this space set up as a darkroom, but I finally had some friends remodel it about a year after he died. Took me that long to accept he wouldn't walk through the door with a new roll of film in hand.'' She pulled her lips in and out a few times, the album held tightly against her chest.
''I lost my daddy not long ago,'' I said. ''I understand.''
''I'm so sorry.'' Joelle reached out and squeezed my hand.
''What's with all these albums? More pictures?''
''Not exactly. I added more shelf space so I could organize these. He had them everywhere. I've always wished one of his old police buddies would write a boo
k and use them—they all say they're going to write a book, you know.''
I smiled. ''I have a detective friend. He tells me that half the force say they have a book in them.''
''Frank kept information about every case, though
I'm not sure he was supposed to do that. I'm hoping one day, because of him, a wrong can be righted.'' She set the album on the table.
We took folding chairs side by side and Joelle began turning the pages. Not only were there pictures and newspaper clippings, but Frank Simpson had kept notes about each case. Amanda Mason had been murdered in April, and Joelle pointed out a photo of Frank standing between a middle-aged couple. The picture was nowhere near the quality I'd seen hanging on the walls.
''Who took this?'' I asked.
''Randall.''
''Randall?'' I said.
''Frank's partner, Randall Dugan. He took some of the pictures for the books.''
This seemed so strange, the families posing like that, but kindness and compassion can open almost any door, and from what I'd seen of Frank's photos, he had been filled with both.
''These people are related to Amanda Mason?'' I asked, pointing at the picture.
''Her parents.'' She turned the page. ''And here's Lawrence Washington's parents. Frank considered them victims, too. They were as devastated by their loss as the Masons.''
Frank was standing next to a porch swing where Washington's parents sat. Mrs. Washington wore a bandanna around her head, a scarf that had slipped, revealing her baldness. Mr. Washington seemed like a giant next to her, his belly spilling over his belt and his long legs stretching so far his feet weren't even in the photo. Their anguished expressions showed how devastated they were. I'd never thought about those left behind, those who suffered when a child they loved was sent to prison.
''He didn't often take pictures of the suspect's family, but these people touched Frank. He talked often with Mr. Washington, kept in contact until Frank dropped dead. Now I'm the one who visits. Mr. Washington's not well. Diabetes. I need to get over to his place this week, as a matter of fact. Check up on him.''
''And Mrs. Washington?'' I asked.
''Cancer took her after Lawrence's trial. Double tragedy for Thaddeus.''
''Thaddeus?''
''I'm sorry. Lawrence's father.''
''Mind if I take more time with the book?'' I asked.
''Sure. Don't remove the cellophane coverings, though. When Frank put later books together, he learned not to use cellophane. You might tear something if you peeled it back now.''
''No problem,'' I said, my eyes on the notes I was eager to read.
She stood, and I looked up. Her slumped shoulders and concerned expression made me think of a new mother leaving her baby in the hands of a stranger— a rather ironic comparison.
''You don't have to leave. Help me with this,'' I said.
''I-I thought you might want privacy. Sure you don't mind?''
''Of course not.''
She reclaimed her chair, smiling.
The notes were neatly typed on what appeared to be thin paper and the black ink had already faded— might totally fade with time. I began to read.
Amanda Mason. 20-year-old WF. Found in Worthington Bank parking lot at 21:00, 4/24/87, after tip phoned in to precinct. Bullet wound to back of head. Pronounced at scene by ME. Morello and Kent processed. Dugan and I went to interview Thaddeus and Clara Washington, parents of suspect Lawrence Washington. Anonymous tipster said evidence linking LW to the murder was at the home. LW was with parents watching TV. Suspect stated he spent evening at a church youth meeting. Victim's wallet with fifty dollars and jewelry found in LW's room. Window unlocked. Fur ther investigation indicated LW would have had time to commit the murder after church function, since he did not arrive home until 90 minutes after the event ended. Came home on foot. Claimed he had been out selling his car. Refused to give name of buyer. Dugan theorized LW dumped vehicle, maybe because it contained evidence or suspect feared it had been spotted at the scene. He may have come in through window, hid evidence from parents before going back out window and entering house through the front door so as not to arouse parents' suspicion. Ground outside bedroom window disturbed but no usable footprint impressions. LW's shoes dirt-free. Dugan dismissed this. Said LW had time to clean them. Only fingerprints on the dresser drawer where victim's personal items found belonged to suspect and suspect's mother. Leads on tipster all dead ends. Call came from pay phone near suspect's church. No relationship between LW and victim uncovered. LW's family with medical bills. Mrs. Washington has breast cancer that spread to bone. Dugan considered financial need the motive. Deputy DA Foster handled case. LW refused to help with his defense. Convicted in four days. Sentenced twenty to life.
I sat back. All this circumstantial evidence pointed to Lawrence Washington, even as laid out by Frank Simpson. I turned to Joelle. ''Aside from intuition, why did Frank believe Lawrence was innocent?''
''Frank told me Lawrence's polygraph indicated no deception, but since Frank knew psychopaths can beat a polygraph every time, that was only part of it.'' Joelle rested a hand on the page, her gaze on Frank's typed words. ''It was more the boy himself. From the interviews, Frank believed he was protecting someone. Protecting the person he might have been with during those missing ninety minutes.''
''Protecting the killer? Or someone else?'' I was thinking about the mother of his unborn child, wondering how taking the fall for this murder would protect her. I didn't know.
''I don't know,'' said Joelle, echoing my thoughts.
''Frank never learned who could be so important that Washington would give up his own freedom and future to protect?''
''No. He was so frustrated that Lawrence wouldn't talk.''
''Was Lawrence protecting his father, maybe?'' I asked. After all, he might have been the one desperate to find money to help his sick wife.
''Thaddeus? A killer? Absolutely not. You'd be just as certain if you ever met him.''
''A brother or sister, then?''
''Lawrence was an only child. I think that's why Clara went downhill so fast after Lawrence was sentenced. She just didn't have the will to fight the cancer.''
''Is there more?'' I asked, turning the page. But what followed were pictures and notes from another case in May of that year. My stomach sank with disappointment. This wasn't as much as I'd hoped to learn. Frank's gut feelings weren't enough to help me. I mean, the chaplain had those, too, but faith in a convicted man's innocence was about as useful as a handful of dust.
''There is more,'' Joelle said quietly. ''Just not here. These were books Frank showed to the families, to his police friends, but . . . he did things on his own, looking for answers, you know? The department might not have been happy if they'd known, and he never wanted to let the brass down, have them think he was some kind of . . . 'rogue' is the word he used.''
Joelle pushed away from the table. A filing cabinet stood in one corner, and she walked to the shelf beside it, took a key from behind a book and opened the cabinet. After removing a folder stuffed to overflowing, she came back and handed it to me. ''Take this. After meeting you, I know he'd want you to have it.''
15
I saw no sign of the red Lexus on my way back from Joelle's, maybe because I kept glancing at the file sitting on the passenger seat rather than in the rearview mirror. I couldn't wait to read Frank Simpson's notes. Maybe a dead cop's dedication to his job would yield some solid clues.
On the drive home I encountered the same stopand-go traffic, giving me time to think about other avenues I hadn't explored on this case. Verna Mae hadn't lived in a vacuum. Who were her friends or, better yet, her enemies? Who did she talk to and what did they discuss? And who had she left out of that will? Surely one relative had to have been lurking in the background thinking they'd inherit.
That side of the case was Jeff's territory, but I needed to know, too. He'd been so busy lately, he hadn't shared much of anything, so before I took home the file a
nd concentrated on its contents, I wanted to talk to him. Okay, I wanted to see him, too. Smell cinnamon on his breath and, if I got lucky, make him smile.
I reached him on his cell, and he said he wanted to see me, too, if only for a little while. We agreed to meet at the Beck's Prime hamburger place on Kirby for lunch, one of our favorite places to eat.
Thirty minutes later we were sitting across from each other at a small table reminiscent of McDonald's. But the hamburgers? A whole other world. This was fast food with a reason to exist. I'd indulged myself with a chocolate shake along with my burger, and then kept stealing from Jeff's mound of ketchup-drenched fries. It's not like you can order your own fries when you've given in to a milkshake.
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