“I know that now,” he said. “But she loves me. Mommy loves me very much. I’m her only son.”
He sounded almost childlike when he said those words. I noticed every time he spoke of his mother, he reverted to this adolescent behavior. I’m no therapist, but I’ve been to enough of them to know this was classic reversion. Every time he thought of his mother, it took him back to his childhood. I didn’t even want to think about what might have transpired between mother and son during those years.
“Brian,” I began. “You do realize that Randy, our father, has spent the last twenty plus years in prison for the things that you did?”
“I don’t want to talk about that,” Brian said matter-of-factly.
I was out of things to talk about. He wouldn’t talk about Randy and I didn’t want to hear him talk about his mother. And anything else seemed petty and insignificant given everything that was currently going on in our lives. So we rode in silence for the next fifteen minutes or so.
When we approached Richmond, I debated on whether or not to drive into the station and immediately turn Brian over to Web. I knew by now the Richmond Police had figured out who rented the house on Jacks Creek and had put out an APB on Brian and his red truck. We’d at some point have to figure out how to get his truck from the Larsons’, but given the situation, I thought there probably was no better place to keep it. But I wasn’t sure I was ready to turn Brian over to the police. I knew that if I walked him in, he’d probably be safer than he would have been on the run, but something was nagging at me on the inside, telling me…not yet.
I detoured around the police station and took the bypass to get to Nicholasville. Within minutes, we were on I-75. The same Interstate where Brian had dumped all of his victims during his twenty-year killing spree. It sent a chill up my spine to think of him driving along this same highway, looking for places to dump his victims’ bodies. But for some strange reason, I didn’t feel at all threatened or in fear for my life. I felt relatively safe with Brian. Maybe it was because he seemed to like me. Maybe it was because I saw him as an overgrown child with mental issues, who was never given a proper chance in life. His mother was wacko, his father never knew he existed, and his grandparents told everyone he was dead. Those facts, combined with some piss-poor genetics, probably contributed to his diagnosis and behavior.
Eventually, I looked over and saw that Brian had fallen asleep. He had his head leaned against the passenger side window and his mouth was parted slightly, but he made no sound. He looked peaceful for the first time since I’d laid eyes on him. Some small part of me was tempted to reach out and touch his hand, which was lying across his lap, and squeeze it. Let him know I cared. Let him know that even though he had done some very bad things, I didn’t hate him and that I would be there for him throughout the entire process, whatever that turned out to be. But I thought better of it.
I really needed to decide what I was going to do with Brian. I was only ten minutes from home and although I’d already decided not to turn him in to the Richmond Police, that didn’t mean I was willing to hide him from the police. At least not indefinitely. So what are my options, I wondered. I could turn him into the Nicholasville Police Department. They weren’t hunting him down, at least not yet, and I knew some detectives there from my previous dealing with the NPD—although I loathed every one of them for what they had put me through. I could see if I could find an institution that would take him in on an emergency basis. Then maybe I could convince Web and the Commonwealth’s Attorney to allow him to stay there until his trial date. He may even be lucky enough to be sentenced to an institution rather than prison, given his diagnosis. Those were the only options I could think of at the time, and neither of them appealed to me. Sure, Brian should pay for his crimes, but I wanted to, had to, make sure he was treated fairly and not railroaded. After all, he was my brother.
Finally, a thought occurred to me. I could take him home, find a good criminal defense attorney—I knew quite a few from my former paralegal days—and let him or her decide the best course of action for Brian. Yep, that’s what I was going to do. I would keep Brian at my house in the meantime. I wasn’t a bit afraid for my safety. Brian liked me. He trusted me. I still didn’t know exactly why he killed those nine prostitutes and Jo, but for some strange reason, I still felt safe with him. I knew there was a possibility I might regret the decision later on, but it felt right at the time.
I turned onto my street, pulled in the driveway, put the car in park, and turned off the ignition. I sat there for about thirty seconds, second-guessing my decision. Then I made my mind up once and for all and reached over and gently shook Brian by the shoulder.
“Brian,” I said quietly at first. “We’re here.” He didn’t move. I shook him a bit harder. “Brian. We’re here. Wake up.”
Finally, he roused a bit and lifted his head from the window, looking at me with a confused expression at first.
“Brian, we’re at my house. You’re going to stay here with me until we figure out what our next move is. Is that okay?”
“Sure, Libby. I trust you,” he said with a sleepy smile.
“All right, then. You need to wake up and come inside with me. I have a friend who lives with me. Her name is Harper, but don’t worry. She’s a very nice person and she’ll understand what’s going on. I just don’t want you to be startled when you see her.”
“Okay. If she’s your friend, she’s my friend too.”
“That’s right,” I said.
I exited the Sorento, walked around to Brian’s side, and opened the door for him. He stumbled out onto the paved driveway and followed me up the steps to the side door. I turned the key, opened the door slightly, and called out to Harper.
“Harper! Are you here? I need to tell you something.”
Brian walked in behind me as I entered the kitchen and flipped the switch. When I did, he threw his hands up to cover his eyes from the harsh light.
“Sorry,” I said. “I just replaced the bulbs, so they are kind of bright.”
He dropped his hand and looked around the kitchen. “It’s very nice,” he said as his eyes scanned the iridescent amber glassware which lined the top of the cabinets.
“They’re Carnival,” I said, grateful to have something to talk about after so much awkward silence. He looked at me quizzically. “They’re a certain brand of glassware mostly made in the early twentieth century as a lower-cost alternative to Tiffany products. They were given out at fairs and carnivals as prizes, hence the name “Carnival” glassware. They were passed on to me by our grandmother, Randy’s mother.”
“They’re very pretty,” he says before turning his attention to the rest of my kitchen. I watched as he glanced next at the pictures hung on my fridge by different-shaped magnets. There was one of Mom looking up from her desk as I snapped a quick shot of her leaning over her drawing board. There was the one of Ryan and me on the beach at the Outer Banks. There was the one of my best friend Dani and me on her wedding day—she in her pretty cream-colored wedding gown and I in my not-so-horrible plum-colored bridesmaid dress. There was even a new one of Harper and me standing in front of the house, taken the day I hired her. But for the first time, I realized, there were no pictures of my father. Mostly because he’d been in prison for the past twenty years, but also because I didn’t want anyone to know I was the daughter of a serial killer.
I explained each picture to him and he nodded at each one.
“Want to see my living room?”
He nodded again. I made a quick turn out of the kitchen, and he followed me. I held my arms out to my sides and said, “Well, here it is.”
I was proud of my living room. Of course, I didn’t love it as much as I loved the one in my old house on Elm Fork, where I lived with Ryan. But I was still proud of how well I’d pulled together the used furniture I’d found on Facebook and Craigslist. I was especially proud of the two white wooden bookshelves on opposite sides of my flat-screen TV, because I’d spent
countless hours putting them together myself, and then filling them with all of my favorite novels, from the classics to my former favorites—true crime novels—to my favorite current bestsellers by authors like Greg Iles, Stephen King, and Gillian Flynn. The tan leather sofa was not my first choice, but I had gotten a great deal on it, plus, it doubled as a hide-a-bed.
I told Brian about the pull-out mattress and that he could sleep there for now, until we figured out our next move. He agreed, thanked me, and then helped me pull the mattress by the metal framing until it was fully extended across the living room floor.
“I have extra sheets and a spare pillow in the closet,” I told him. I turned the corner and opened the hall closet, found the sheets, a pillow, and a thick flannel blanket and made up the temporary bed while Brian stood looking out the back window into the dark night.
“All right,” I said when I was finished. “That ought to do it.” I reached for the DirecTV remote and handed it to Brian. “All you need to know are these buttons. This one turns it on and this one takes you to the guide. You can navigate the channels by—”
“I don’t watch TV,” he said awkwardly. “Mommy always said that TV fries your brain, so I read instead.”
I hated to agree with “Mommy,” but it was nice to know Brian and I at least had that much in common. I told him he was free to read any of my books and he thanked me profusely. Not just for the books, but for letting him stay at my house.
“It’s really no big deal,” I told him. “We’re family, right?”
Just then, Harper came in through the side door, already yammering on about something I couldn’t quite understand. She had the day’s mail in her hands and was sorting through it.
“Anyway, so I told him…” She stopped mid-sentence and nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw Brian and me standing in the middle of the living room. It was only in that moment I realized I had forgotten to call Harper on the way home and tell her I was bringing home a stray.
Brian looked at me as if he wanted to melt into the ground and disappear. I knew he wasn’t used to being around people, let alone strangers. Harper and Brian looked at each other, then at me, then back at each other.
With her eyes still on Brian, Harper slowly began walking toward the living room. “Libby…who’s your friend here? Tell me that’s not—”
I interrupted her quickly before she made Brian feel any more uncomfortable than he already did. “Harper, this is Brian. Brian, this is Harper. Brian is going to be staying with us…at least for tonight, until I figure out a plan.”
“Um, Libby, can I talk to you for a minute? Privately?” Harper nodded her head in the direction of the kitchen. I knew she wanted to get me away from Brian just long enough to ask me what the fuck I’d been thinking by bringing a fugitive serial killer into our house. If she did that, I’d be obliged to remind her that this wasn’t our house, it was my house and that I could bring whomever I wanted home whenever I wanted. It might actually start an argument between my partner and me. But the truth was, Harper wasn’t really my partner. Although we had become good friends over the past couple of months, she was my employee. And she was only staying with me until she got back on her feet after her recent divorce. Ultimately, the decisions regarding houseguests were completely up to me.
To avoid any potential conflict, I shot her a glance which I hoped would warn her not to say anything else in front of Brian. She must have picked up what I was laying down, because she exhaled deeply and said, “Whatever you think is best.”
“We’ll talk later,” I told her with a sincere smile, so she didn’t think I was upset with her. Harper and I had never had a disagreement, and although I could definitely understand her hesitance, I didn’t want to have our first battle right in front of my very volatile brother.
Harper nodded, turned on her heel, and headed upstairs toward the office.
“Are you going to be okay for a little while?” I asked, turning my attention back to Brian. He had already picked up my copy of Stephen King’s 11/22/63 and was reading the first page. “That’s an excellent choice. His best work, in my opinion. But you’ll be up all night reading.” It was an attempt at humor that fell flat at my feet. Brian either wasn’t in the mood for witty banter, or it just wasn’t his style. Either way, he seemed content, and that was the best I could hope for, for the time being. “All right, then. I’m going to head upstairs. You try to get some rest. If you need anything, just let me know. Bathroom’s down the hall to the left. You going to be okay?”
“Hm?” Brian looked up from the book. “Oh, yes. I’ll be fine. I’ll just sit here and read for a little bit and then I’m going to sleep. I’m very tired.”
“Good night, Brian,” I said as I turned on the lamp near the couch and pulled the light cord hanging from the ceiling fan. “I’ll see you in the morning. Maybe I’ll make pancakes.”
“I love pancakes,” he said with a smile.
I smiled back and then turned and left him alone in the living room. As I headed up the stairs toward the office, I began to question my decision. Was I doing the right thing? I was breaking the law, after all. By now, Web had probably convinced the other detectives that Brian was the real I-75 Strangler and they were probably hunting him and his red truck at that very moment. I was probably harboring a fugitive. I had broken the oath I had sworn as a private detective, to uphold and never hinder the process of the law, and I was probably breaking at least a few laws myself. Not to mention the fact that I now knew Brian to be a man capable of killing women in cold blood. I must be insane, I thought.
But at the end of the day, I knew I was doing the right thing. Maybe not ethically, or even legally, but morally. I had turned my back on my father for twenty years and ignored his many pleas for forgiveness. Now I knew that not only was he innocent, but he was a martyr. Willing to sacrifice his freedom to protect a son he had never even known. I wasn’t about to make that mistake again. If there was any way to help Brian and make sure he was treated fairly and that he received the medical treatment he so desperately needed, even though he was guilty, I was going to do it. He was my brother and it was my duty.
When I made it to the top of the stairs, Harper was standing there, waiting for me with her arms crossed over her chest. “What in the world are you thinking?” she whisper-shouted at me.
“Harper, don’t start,” I said as I walked past her into the office. “He’s my brother. I couldn’t just let him be hunted down like a wild animal. He’s not well. He needs help.”
“You should at least call Web and tell him Brian’s here. You trust him, don’t you?”
“Sure, I trust him. But he’s a cop first and foremost. He’ll insist on picking him up or he’ll try to talk me into bringing him in myself. That might be the best thing for him in the end, but for tonight, I just want to rest and think about our options. I’m going to find him an attorney tomorrow and we’ll go from there.”
“I sure hope you know what you’re doing. He’s killed ten people—that we know of!”
“But I’m his sister. He won’t hurt me. I just know it. And he won’t hurt you, either, if that’s what you’re worried about. I can’t explain it, but I just have this feeling in my gut that there’s more to this than we can see right now.”
“I’m locking my door,” Harper said as she stepped into the office. “Sorry about the mess. I was going to pick it all up tonight anyway.” She gestured to the investigative file we’d gotten from B. Cecil Hayes that was strewn about the office floor as Harper was in the middle of organizing it.
“Let’s just finish it now,” I said. “I’m not tired enough for bed yet. Help me out?”
Harper and I set about the task of stacking the documents. I bent down to pick up a stack of papers which were completely unorganized. When I stood up, intent on taking them to my desk to begin sorting them by date, one page fell from the bottom of the stack and flittered to the ground. I set the stack on the desk and returned to pick up the lone d
ocument. I squatted down, picked it up, and scanned the top of the page. It was an autopsy report for Bambi Williams, the second to last victim. I had never gotten around to reading all of the autopsy reports in detail yet and I read it with curiosity. The first thing I noticed was the cause of death—manual strangulation—the same as all the others. No surprise there. She was found splayed out in a ravine about thirty yards from the interstate near Exit 87, near Berea. Very sad.
Just as I was about to lay the report on top of the stack on my desk, something caught my eye and I looked back down at the page. The coroner’s estimated date and time of death was approximately eleven p.m. on July 20, 1995. Something was wrong. At that moment, I didn’t know what it was, but something at the back of my mind was pulling, nagging, telling me something was very wrong. I stumbled over my own two feet until I made it to my desk. I frantically began searching through the stacks and stacks of documents and files, until I found the one I was looking for. It was the computer printout which showed Brian’s criminal history and periods of confinement.
My hand began to tremble, the autopsy report in my hand was shaking. My mouth was gaping and my eyes must have looked like they were about to pop out of my head. Harper must have noticed me staring wide-eyed at the documents, because she stood up straight and said, “Libby, what’s wrong?”
I slowly turned and held the documents out in front of me for her to see.
“Libby, what is it? You’re making me nervous.”
I opened my mouth but it took a second for the words to tumble out. “Brian was in an institution when Bambi Williams was murdered.”
“Okay…” Harper said, looking at me quizzically. “And that means…?”
“It means, Harper, that Brian couldn’t have killed her. It means Brian is innocent, too.”
THE END
BEFORE YOU GO…
DON’T MISS OUT!
Family Ties (Flesh & Blood Trilogy Book 2) Page 19
