The Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted: A Psychological Thriller Read online

  She stopped too and turned back toward me, her lips tight around her words. “There are security cameras all over this parking lot. I risked my job giving you those records. Do you want me to get fired? I can’t be seen with you. Now go…away!”

  She skirted me and headed back toward the parking lot. I followed, raising my voice over the pouring rain. “Then you shouldn’t have given them to me in the first place!”

  “Don’t make me sorry I did.” She closed the umbrella, got into her car.

  “But you did. So I’m not going anywhere, until you—”

  Slam.

  Right in my face.

  She started the ignition.

  She wasn’t getting away—not if I could help it. I began pounding on the window. “Aurora! Open up! Tell me why you’re so sure Jean was murdered. Aurora!”

  She looked past me, and panic washed across her face. I swung around and spotted a security guard moving in my direction with angry eyes on me. I turned back to the window just in time to find Penfield reaching for the lever, preparing to shift into reverse. In an act of desperation, I pulled the newspaper photo of Nathan Kingsley and the St. Christopher medal from my pocket, held them against the glass.

  Her eyes opened wide in astonishment, then slowly, she moved her gaze up and met mine.

  With rain dripping down my face and desperation in my heart, I mouthed the word: Please.

  Penfield slammed the car into park, hit the unlock button, then closed her eyes and leaned her head back. I rushed around to the passenger door and got inside.

  Chapter Nineteen

  She pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main road traveling north. Neither of us spoke. After a few miles, she drove into a rest area and parked.

  With hands gripping the wheel, elbows locked, she turned to me and said, “This isn’t just about a magazine story.”

  I shook my head.

  “Want to tell me what you’re doing with his necklace?”

  “I can’t.”

  She stared at me. I went on, “But please trust me when I say I’m one of the good guys, and I need you to tell me what happened to Jean Kingsley that night.”

  She gazed at me for a moment as if measuring my words, then looked straight ahead, bit her bottom lip. “She was murdered.”

  “Give me something to back it up.”

  She looked back at me quickly. “You read the records, right?”

  “I did. But there’s nothing that points to a murder.”

  “But it points to a suspect.”

  “You mean Michael Samuels,” I said, “Sam I Am.”

  She raised her eyebrows, nodded.

  “Who was he?”

  “Claimed to be her nephew.”

  I looked out my window at nothing, scratched my head. “You know, being afraid of someone is one thing. Getting killed by them is completely another. If that’s all you’ve got—”

  “There’s more.” She dug into her purse and pulled out a cigarette, lit it, took a greedy drag, then opened the window a crack as she exhaled. “Her nightgown.”

  “What about it?”

  “Supposedly, she hung herself from the door with it.”

  “Okay…”

  “That wasn’t the gown she went to bed in that night.

  “How do you know?”

  “She was agitated that evening. Spilled food all over herself. I should have changed her into a clean one, but I was dog-tired, so I just sponged it. That’s why I remember, because I was breaking a rule. And it left a stain.”

  “But why would someone switch her gown?”

  “Because hers got torn. Kind of hard to make it look like she hung herself with it that way.”

  I waited.

  Another drag, a quick exhale, then she tossed the half-smoked cigarette through the crack in her window. “When I went outside for my break, I saw Samuels in the shadows of the parking lot. He stuffed something into a trashcan and walked away really fast. So I went over and looked, found a nightgown all bunched up and torn. With the stain.”

  “Okay. So this Samuels guy. Did you see where he went after that?”

  “No. The alarm went off, and everything went to hell real fast. I had to rush inside. That’s when they found Mrs. Kingsley hanging in her room.”

  “And that’s when you put two and two together.”

  “Yeah. Exactly.”

  “Did you tell anyone?”

  A scornful smile. “I tried to. Told the sheriff and Faraday about it. I even took them outside to show them the gown, but when we got there, it was gone.”

  “What do you think happened to it?”

  She threw her hands up and shook her head. “He came back to get it? I don’t know. But I saw it, and then it was gone.”

  “So nobody believed you.”

  “Nope. With no gown, there wasn’t any physical evidence, just my word. I didn’t even have a clear description except that he was wearing a cowboy hat, and that’s every guy in Texas.”

  “And the guest log for that night was missing from the files you gave me. So no proof he was even there.”

  “You got it. Sheriff ruled it a suicide. And I looked like an idiot.”

  “Do you remember anything else about Samuels?”

  She looked out through the front windshield, shook her head. “Just like every other yahoo you see around here.”

  “Can you get a little more specific for me?”

  “Faded blue jeans, flannel shirt. The hat was pulled down low, I never saw his face very well.”

  “Age?”

  “If I had to guess, maybe in his twenties.”

  “Anything else?”

  She thought for a moment. “I smelled cigarette smoke when I walked up to the trash can.”

  I paused, contemplated. “You said you were risking your job by giving me the records. So why did you?”

  She looked down at her purse, began running her fingers along the outer edges as she spoke. “Faraday didn’t want trouble on his watch. He didn’t believe me, and he was not happy with me at all for making a fuss.”

  “So you felt uncomfortable.”

  “To put it mildly. And it only got worse from there. A few days later, he comes over to me, starts talking about how a psychiatric nurse seeing things that aren’t really there is the kind of thing that could get someone fired, and maybe that particular person would be best-served not to stir the pot.”

  “Subtle.”

  “As a brick.”

  “So you shut up.”

  “I was a single mom with a leukemic child and medical bills piling up. You bet your ass I did.”

  I thought about the photo on her desk.

  “Guess it didn’t matter anyway.” She looked down at her hands, started rubbing them together. “I lost him in eighty-three.”

  “I’m so sorry…”

  “But I would have died for that kid. I would have. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to lose my job and my chance to fight like hell for his life. That’s what mothers do.”

  I said nothing.

  She looked back up at me, tears in her eyes. “You don’t know how many times I prayed for God to take me instead. I was angry as hell that He didn’t.” She brought both hands up to wipe her cheeks, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”

  “Don’t be.” I waited while she found a tissue in her purse, blew her nose. Then I said, “But why now? Why me?”

  “It’s complicated…most of the people who work at Glenview don’t let themselves have feelings for the patients. They can’t, and pretty much, neither do I. But Mrs. Kingsley was different.”

  “Different how?”

  “I felt horrible for her. She lost her son, and I had one fighting for his life. I felt a connection. You know?”

  I nodded.

  “Then, what do I go and do? In order to keep mine alive, I kept a secret, one that that did her a horrible injustice.” Her eyes began welling with tears again. “I did her wrong. I was wrong
.”

  “You did what you had to. What any mother would do.”

  She closed her eyes. “It’s been eating at me for years, this whole thing…the guilt. Then you come along, and you’re right, you are one of the good guys, you know? Sometimes you can just tell. I knew it when I overheard you talking to Faraday.” She shrugged. “I don’t know…maybe something changed in me. Maybe I’ve come to realize that some risks are worth taking, that this was my only chance to make things right.”

  I gave her a sad smile.

  She laughed a little. “Pretty stupid of me to think I could just give you the records and walk away. But I was scared, you know?”

  “You did the right thing. I’ll make sure everything stays confidential between us. I promise.”

  “But can you get to the bottom of this? Do you think you can find out what happened? I want you to—I really do.”

  “I’m sure going to try,” I said. “I promise you that.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The skies were closing in as I drove away from Glenview, the rain picking up momentum once more, churning into a storm that was growing angrier by the minute.

  Along with a story that was growing more tragic.

  I struggled to readjust my perspective. Jean Kingsley, a murder victim. What she and her family endured; what Dennis must have endured.

  Dennis. I needed to talk to him. I dialed his number.

  “Did Mrs. Kingsley have a nephew?”

  A brief pause. “No. She had a niece... Why?”

  I tried to minimize the concern. “Just researching your family’s history. I thought I’d heard someone say she had a nephew, is all. Thanks for clearing it up.”

  I hung up, dialed Sully’s number.

  “You’re taking too long,” I said as soon he answered.

  “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.

&nbs
p; “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?”