"Bet she paid someone to steal Will's file and trash the place as a coverup," he said.
"If you can get a hold of the case file, maybe they collected fingerprints or had a lead. Could be names in the file we could check out."
Burl sighed. "Abby, they won't even have a case file."
"But you said—"
"Ever hear of the statute of limitations? I called over there hoping they'd help me track down whoever worked that case, see if the guy is still around. If you expect fingerprints, you're dreaming."
I stood, feeling a little stupid. I should have realized there'd be no file—unless they were very, very behind at the county sheriff's office and hadn't thrown out anything in two decades. "I'm tired and discouraged," I said. "Maybe on the drive home I can sort things out."
Burl got up, put an arm around my shoulder and squeezed me close. "Turn on the radio and give it a rest."
"Yeah. I might do that." Funny, but I welcomed his fatherly embrace and marveled at how murder and secrets had joined two strangers in friendship so quickly.
I took Burl's advice and sang along with Dave Matthews and Norah Jones in the car. Definitely relaxing. Once I was home and climbed into bed, I was fast asleep in twenty minutes, Diva purring next to me as happy as a lizard on a rock.
Thursday morning I spent a long time in the shower, organizing my thoughts on the case. I dressed in shorts and a T-shirt—it was supposed to get into the mideighties today—and went to my office to call Jeff for the names and numbers of the officers who'd arrested Lawrence Washington. He told me one officer was dead, the other a retired detective named Randall Dugan. Jeff had never met either of them. He said he'd phone Dugan and tell him to expect a call from me.
Every newspaper article I'd read about Washington's case said they had a mound of evidence, but details might provide me with something useful. Who better to give me the inside scoop than the officer who'd worked the case? Thirty minutes after speaking to Jeff, I called the retired policeman, and he answered with "Dugan here," in a raspy, abrupt greeting.
I gave him my name, reaffirmed my police connection to the ongoing murder investigation and said, "Do you remember the Lawrence Washington case?"
Silence followed and went on so long I finally said, "Mr. Dugan? Are you still there?"
"Yeah, I'm here. Kline said you needed my help with a fresh case."
"Did Sergeant Kline mention the fresh case may be connected to your old case?"
"Oh. That's right."
Memory problems? I wondered. "Lawrence Washington," I prompted.
"I remember him. Shouldn't be sitting in Goree, where they practically wipe those inmates' asses for them, I'll tell you. What do you want to know?"
"I recently interviewed Lawrence Washington. Apparently you have no doubts about his guilt?"
"Are you nuts? He did that girl for a lousy fifty bucks. Shot her brains out. We found her ID and the money in Washington's bedroom two hours later."
"I read that much in the old newspapers. What about the weapon?"
"No weapon."
"Did you find out Washington was the shooter through a tip?" I asked.
"Officer's best friend." I could picture Dugan smiling.
"You had Crime Stoppers back then?" I said.
"They've been around for thirty years, lady. How old are you, anyway?"
Apparently not old enough to know better than to ask dumb questions. I was glad he couldn't see me blush. Before I could cover my embarrassment with some smart-aleck remark, Dugan said, "The tip on Washington wasn't for Crime Stopper money. Came in straight to the precinct, and we followed the lead. Once we collared the kid, he never denied he did it."
"What did he say?" I asked.
"A whole lot of nothing. Wouldn't even talk to his own lawyer from what I heard."
"Did you ever find out who gave you that tip?"
"No. But not for lack of trying. That was Frank's deal. Finding out who called."
"You mean your partner, Frank Simpson?"
"Yeah." A quiet "yeah" followed by, "God rest his soul."
"I assume Frank was as convinced as you were about Washington's guilt?"
"Man, I miss that guy. Visit his grave with Joelle on our retirement anniversary. We retired on the same day, you know. But he only lived three months and then, wham!"
I heard a slapping sound so loud I pulled the phone away from my ear for a second. Dugan's words had begun to run together, and I guessed his emotion had been boosted by a few Miller Lites.
"Joelle is your wife?"
"No. Frank's wife. Frank was too good to live, you know what I'm saying? Some guys are just too good to live."
"Frank thought Washington was guilty? He agreed with you?" I repeated.
"He never agreed with me," Dugan said with a laugh. "That's what I liked about the guy. He could keep me in line. I couldn't agree with him on Washington, though. We had the evidence, an uncooperative kid who had dumped his wheels that night. I figured he thought the car had been spotted near the scene and got rid of it in some junkyard. Anyway, we had everything, toots."
Toots? My turn to wonder how old someone was. "Did Frank ever come around to your way of thinking?"
"Nope. I testified in court, which let him off the hook. He still had his doubts about Washington. He and I had a few cases like that, but not many. Frank always held onto his doubts to the bitter end. I swear that's what killed him. The fucking doubts." I heard the clink of a bottle or glass, and then Dugan swallowed.
"What exactly were those doubts about Washington?" I asked.
"He said the case was too pat. Too easy. He worried about the easy ones. Joelle said Frank was still talking about that one 'til the day he died."
"Joelle? Does she live around here?" I asked.
" 'Course she lives around here. Why?"
Why? I thought. Because I need to talk to her. But aloud I said, "Just wondered. I think it's great you two keep up with each other."
"We always keep up with each other's families. That's who we are. You still haven't told me how the fresh murder connects with this. I want to know."
I explained about Verna Mae's death, the scrapbooks, the blanket and the will leaving everything to my client.
"Okay, Washington knocked up some girl before he did our vic. So what?" "So what" had become one word.
"There's a lot of money involved, money my client knew nothing about. But others may have. I don't have to tell a retired police officer what the prospect of a few hundred grand does to some people."
"This still isn't fitting together for me," he said.
"Washington picked up the blanket at an upscale store and it ended up at Verna Mae's house."
"How in hell does that prove he didn't kill my vic?" he asked, sounding angry. "You're wasting my—hey. Wait a minute. How much did you say that blanket cost?"
"A lot, but—"
"Maybe Washington didn't want money for his sick mother. Maybe he killed Mason to buy his girlfriend some fancy-ass blanket for their kid." I could tell Dugan was liking this idea.
"The woman who sold the blanket doesn't think he bought it. He was picking it up for someone else."
"She doesn't think he bought it? She's not sure?"
Obviously cops never really retire. "You're right. I don't have any proof Washington didn't murder Amanda Mason." I waited for Dugan's I told you so. The words remained unspoken, but I could hear even more attitude in his tone as I segued into a good-bye. I wasn't about to convince him that he might have arrested the wrong guy. Not in a million years. Frank's wife was the one I needed to talk to.
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.