"Why am I here?" Washington's soft voice hardly carried through the mesh and glass.
I couldn't answer right away. All doubts had disappeared now that I was being confronted with a resemblance almost as honest as a mirror. Will's father was a murderer. That wasn't quite what he or his family had hoped to discover.
Washington stared straight into my eyes, awaiting my response, and when I didn't answer, he repeated the question.
"I'm sorry," I said, focusing on this familiar face. "It's just that you look like someone I know."
"Get to the point. I have work to do in the laundry." Even tone. Not insolent or sarcastic.
His gaze and demeanor spoke of intelligence and self-control. Not what I expected from a man sentenced to life in prison. Guess I thought he'd be as egotistical as my ex. I took him in more fully and thought I also saw sadness in his eyes. A profound sadness so tangible it made my heart heavy. This was an awful place, and every bit of pain he'd been subjected to rested in his eyes. I didn't want to feel sorry for him, but I did. I just did.
DeShay cleared his throat to encourage me to speak, and I managed to find my voice. "My name is Abby Rose and this is Sergeant Peters. I'm working in conjunction with HPD on the murder of a woman named Verna Mae Olsen. I'm hoping you can help me."
"Then you'll put in a good word with the parole board?" Washington asked, eyebrows raised.
I looked at DeShay for this answer.
"Depends on what you got to say, bro," he said.
"I am not your brother." Washington's eyes glinted with anger.
"I think we'll move on," I said quickly. "Maybe you'll find a reason to help after I've explained why I'm here. I'm working for a young man named Will Knight. Basketball player at UT. Ever heard of him?"
"Who hasn't?"
"He's my client and he's—" I stopped, remembering the guard on the far side of the room. Would he leak the connection between Will and Verna Mae to the press? Was this how information got out? But... Jeff wouldn't have helped me get here if he hadn't been willing to risk that possibility.
"You know a superstar," Washington said. "I'm impressed. What does that have to do with anything?" Sarcasm had surfaced now, but I could tell he was interested.
"Will Knight was adopted as an infant," I said. "He hired me to find his biological family. That search led me to Verna Mae Olsen. Did you know her?"
He looked down at his hands folded on the divider's ledge. "Never heard of her."
"She was murdered after my client and I paid her a visit. See, she found Will on her doorstep in 1987. We discovered a baby blanket at her house after she died. A very special blanket. A blanket I've learned that you picked up from a British import store about nineteen years ago."
Washington's head snapped up. He glared at me, the muscles of his forearms bulging with tension. I began to wonder about the strength of Plexiglas about then.
The angry silence that followed seemed to slash through the mesh. I'd never felt so intimidated and yet so exhilarated at the same time. That blanket meant something to Lawrence Washington.
"I never bought any blanket." He enunciated slowly, every word cold and bitter.
Semantics, I thought. You may not have bought it, but you sure as hell picked it up. Arguing with him wouldn't get me anywhere, though, so I said, "I believe Verna Mae's connection to Will might have something to do with her murder. I need more proof. Please tell me about the blanket."
"I don't know anything about any blanket or any baby or any woman who got killed. That's all I have to say." He held my gaze.
I swallowed. Jeez, this was unnerving. But though Washington's presence was intense, I could tell by his eyes, the shifting back and forth, he was thinking hard. Had I surprised him? Had he been unaware until now that Will Knight was most certainly his son? Had he never noticed the resemblance when he watched Will play basketball on TV? That wouldn't really have surprised me, however. I'd looked at a photo of my birth mother before I knew who she was and never saw the obvious resemblance between us.
I leaned forward, holding his gaze. "What's going on, Lawrence? Why are you so upset?"
He laughed. "Upset? Not me. But you? I think you're as crazy as a shit-house rat."
DeShay half rose and pointed his finger at Washington. "Watch your mouth, inmate."
I put a hand on his forearm. "No problem, DeShay." Looking back at Washington, I had no choice but to press harder. "Tell me who bought that blanket. Was it you? Or did someone send you to pick it up?"
It was then that the thought of this man conceiving a child with Verna Mae flashed through my mind— sort of like a teeth-rattling smack to the face. I couldn't picture her as a seductress of teenage boys. No. That theory was all wrong. Had to be. Maybe Washington picked up the blanket for her that day and now that she'd been murdered, he wasn't about to talk. Why should he risk being even remotely connected to another crime?
Washington straightened, his lips tight, his eyes closed. "I have nothing more to say."
Everyone has their currency, I thought. Problem was, I had no clue what was important to Lawrence Washington. Big mistake. I didn't know enough to be sitting here. Yup, I'd screwed up again.
I had nothing and Washington knew it. He stood and yelled for the guard to take him back to the laundry.
Out of the side of his mouth, DeShay whispered, "Abby. He's splitting."
"That's okay. We'll be back—when I'm better prepared."
DeShay sighed. "You're the boss."
As we were led out, I spoke to the young guard. "Washington have many visitors?"
"Not since I've worked here. He sees the chaplain every day, though."
"Every day? Is the chaplain here?" I asked.
"Sure," the guard said.
"Could we see him, please?"
The chaplain, we soon learned, had an office behind several sets of locked doors deep inside the facility. We had to wait in a hallway outside while he finished a session with an inmate. I moaned to DeShay about my poor preparation for the Washington interview and he cheered me up by saying I'd done pretty damn good for a rookie.
Finally, the inmate left and the chaplain came out to greet us, his wispy red hair and freckled arms telling us a little something about him before he even spoke. The Irish skin never lies. Not that a man of God would lie, but you never know.
"Jim Kelly," he said, reaching for my hand first and then shaking hands with DeShay. He was casually dressed in Dockers and a plain white polo shirt.
After we introduced ourselves, he grabbed a hall chair and dragged it into his office. We followed him into a closet-size room.
A pewter cross hung on one wall and a giant box of tissues sat on an otherwise bare desk. The wastebasket alongside the desk was filled with crumpled Kleenex. Though the sadness that shrouded Lawrence Washington had touched me, that full wastebasket gave me an odd sense of satisfaction. It shouted loud and clear that prison is hell, as it should be. At least some of these men cry, and that had to be a good thing.
Kelly sat behind his small metal desk and gestured for us to be seated as well. "I'm told you want to talk to me about Mr. Washington, but you understand I'm required to keep inmate confidences."
"We know." DeShay sat in the hall chair while I took the padded one I assumed the inmates used. "Just want your take on the guy. We need his help on a case and he's not obliging."
Kelly steepled his hands. "I see. That surprises me."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because I have always found him to be a gentle, cooperative man."
"Really?" DeShay said with a laugh. "You mean gentle for a murderer?"