Snapshot

by Lis Wiehl

  “Thanks.”

  James saw a bench at the next bend in the near empty path. Several birds took turns singing from different trees. A squirrel raced across a patch of ground, paused to look at James, then scurried away.

  In the background James heard the prison sounds: the shrill buzzing before doors opened and slammed shut, the echo reverberating down cold hallways, and finally boots and shuffling footsteps on the tile floor. He sat on the bench as Dubois picked up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Leonard, this is James Waldren.”

  “Yeah? What is it?” Dubois spoke as if James had interrupted his day.

  “They moved you to a safer place.”

  “They did.”

  Waldren hesitated. “I called because … do you mind answering a few questions?”

  “Sure, why not.”

  James stood. The sound of a police siren cut through the serene setting, reminding him where he was. He didn’t like cities, especially this one that was surrounded by water. In Texas, the cities were like sporadic outcroppings popping up from the hundreds of miles of open country where the sky came down to meet the edges.

  Again James thought about the man on the phone. The smallness of Dubois’s world made his chest tighten.

  “In 1962 you were questioned by the county sheriff, then released. What was that about?”

  Dubois didn’t answer for a long few seconds. “Why?”

  James wondered how much to tell the man. How much hope should they toss his way when they were missing too many pieces to offer the promise that he’d still be alive in another month? Peter’s file had given him leads, enough to ask Dubois some questions, but not enough to free him.

  “Where are you going with this, Waldren?”

  “It’s related to why you were targeted by the Fort Worth PD. Why they let you take the blame for the Gray shooting.”

  In the background James heard someone, probably a correctional officer, ask, “You all right?”

  “Fine, yes, I’m fine,” Dubois said away from the phone.

  “Leonard? What happened? This might help.”

  “There was a shooting. A kid died.”

  “Go on.”

  Dubois took a deep breath. “I never told anybody this.”

  “Maybe it’s time you came clean about everything.” James realized those words might be for himself as well.

  “Maybe.”

  The voice in the background said, “You got five minutes.”

  “Leonard,” James said. “What happened?”

  “I was with my cousin Vic. We were target practicing at this abandoned farm … shooting out the windows of the farmhouse and bottles off a fence. Then this kid comes walking out of nowheres with a big smile on his face. My cousin was shooting up a storm like some movie star as the kid comes through the field. He didn’t see the kid, and I didn’t have time to stop it.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “We ran over. The boy was on the ground, shot through the neck. He was there, spitting up blood, reaching for us.”

  “He was white?” James said.

  “Yeah. We didn’t know what to do. If we got help, they’d give us the chair whether the kid died or not. That’s what we thought. Vic was nineteen, and I was just eighteen years old. While we were figuring out a plan, the kid died.”

  “So you ran?” James pinched the skin between his eyes, seeing the scene in his mind. He leaned over the back of the bench.

  Leonard’s voice lowered to just above a whisper.

  “Yeah, we ran. Left that boy in the field. Later heard the kid was some cop’s nephew, so we hid out for a long time. Weeks went by, and it seemed to settle down. ’Bout that time, my uncle took us to those meetings that turned into Black Panthers. All the stories of beatings and killing of black folk … Heard about a woman raped and shamed in front of her new husband, a college student tortured and lynched. Came to be we didn’t care that we accidentally killed one white kid. We kind of figured it was something like justice.”

  “But the police brought you in and let you go?”

  “Out of the blue, a bunch of us got hauled in and questioned. They didn’t have no evidence. My cousin was into a lot of bad stuff. So maybe it was the police or maybe someone else, but a few months later Vic was beat to death. Day before Christmas.”

  “But no one harmed you?”

  “Police roughed me up a bit at the questioning.”

  James expected as much. Dubois was lucky he hadn’t ended up like Vic. If they’d known for certain what had happened to the white boy, Dubois would’ve died all those years ago.

  “And they kept watching you?”

  “I didn’t know it then, but yeah, I suppose so.” Dubois paused. “Thing is, that kid died. I didn’t shoot him, but he maybe could have lived if we weren’t standing around too scared to do anything.”

  “It was an accident,” James said.

  “We should’ve got him help right off.”

  “Yes. But it was an accident during a very bad time. You would not have lived to see the courtroom.”

  James wondered what to do now.

  “Hey, Waldren?” Dubois said.

  “Yes?”

  “For a long time, I didn’t care about being in here. Once I got death, kind of thought it was God’s justice for that little kid, you know? But the truth is, I don’t want to die.”

  A caravan of mothers with strollers appeared along the path, speed walking and chatting amicably. James caught a discussion on baby sleep schedules.

  He was silent, waiting for them to pass. He’d gotten off track in his investigation. There were numerous angles to get lost in. The key, Peter, Benjamin Gray … but James couldn’t lose focus on the goal. Save Dubois’s life and get him free for the final years of his life.

  “I promise you, we’re doing everything we can.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  My father talked to Leonard Dubois, and he confessed to a crime before the Gray shooting,” Lisa said as Molly followed her into Dad’s house.

  When Molly had called that morning, Lisa was studying files and reports in her father’s dreary workshop. She usually worked best alone, but she accepted Molly’s offer to sift through the papers and case files with her.

  Lisa updated the other woman as they moved through the house and out to the workshop. They opened the door to the mixed smell of sawdust and musty barn.

  “Put me to work. I brought my antiquated laptop,” Molly said, lifting up the computer bag on her shoulder.

  Lisa cleared off an area along the wooden counter near an outlet and moved a tall bar stool over for Molly. The woman’s presence helped clear away the gloominess of the room, and Lisa felt grateful that Molly had volunteered a few hours to help before a church event that evening.

  She had enlisted the help of Sweeney and Gertz to get background information on a Caucasian male child found shot in a field on the outskirts of Fort Worth in 1964. From the basement archives Gertz faxed her pieces of an old case file. She wasn’t sure why he was helping—complete boredom, she guessed—but she was happy to have him on board. When Lisa updated Sweeney, he laughed about Gertz’s assistance.

  “He’s catching the fever that I got down in that archive basement. Plus, helping a pretty fed prosecutor will liven up his day.”

  Sweeney went to his journals and found old notes on the case. Between these and Gertz, Lisa put the story together.

  Nine-year-old Aaron Snow was found dead in a field on the edge of Fort Worth. His parents were at a neighboring house when the boy disappeared from playing in the yard. They found his body late in the evening. He’d been shot through the neck, just as Leonard told Dad. He was the only child of Charlotte and David Snow, and his uncle was Sergeant Ross of the Fort Worth PD, the same station Lisa had visited. The case was never solved.

  Sweeney’s notes implied that justice was served outside of the courtroom. Sweeney didn’t know the facts, but he’d heard rumors. Swe
eney was surprised by Lisa’s findings that the boy was Sergeant Ross’s nephew. No investigating was done or new leads pursued after late 1964. Leonard’s cousin was beaten to death on Christmas Eve 1964.

  “If Sergeant Ross believed that Dubois guy was involved in his nephew’s killing, then no wonder he helped put the man away,” Molly said.

  “And that would explain why he’d never cooperate with my father,” Lisa said.

  In the Aaron Snow case file, Lisa found a list of names. Leonard Dubois was on that list.

  Dad’s theory appeared correct. With Leonard in police crosshairs after his suspected involvement in the shooting of a young boy, he became the perfect fall guy for the Gray shooting. The boy’s death helped eliminate the moral dilemma that hadn’t set well with Lisa. Only rarely did cops do something dirty without a reason. But when a child was killed, especially one of their own, ethical lines became easier to cross.

  “But no hard facts?” Molly asked.

  “I’m afraid we’re nearing a dead end. We just don’t have enough to move a judge on Leonard’s behalf.”

  Lisa scanned the walls, stopping on the image of Gray.

  “I’m putting you on Benjamin Gray. I’ve done quite a bit of research, but I want you to look at the people closest to him. Many times I get more leads by just putting things out there.” Lisa dropped down a stack of papers she’d compiled during her restless nights in Dallas and then printed out at the hotel business center.

  “I can do that,” Molly said.

  “Also, he was dating a woman named Madeline Fitzgerald. Some reports say they were engaged. We’ve heard rumors that he had a Caucasian girlfriend, but I haven’t found more about her. See what you can find about both. And look at Gray’s family and background, his friendships as well.”

  “This sounds intriguing,” Molly said, opening her laptop.

  Lisa stood in the middle of the workshop and reviewed key points of the case.

  The killing of Benjamin Gray.

  Leonard Dubois.

  The key.

  Peter Hughes.

  Dad had reminded her—the goal was Leonard Dubois.

  Lisa reviewed possibilities, writing down thoughts and scratching them out one by one.

  Texas executed the most inmates of any state in the United States. While a governor could pardon a convict, it was an election year, which could help or hinder them. If their discoveries were given to the press along with knowledge of the attempt on Dubois’s life, it might create enough controversy to get his execution date extended as the courts reviewed the case. No governor wanted to kill a man who might be innocent. But a Texas politician wouldn’t want to appear weak either, so the execution could go through despite the questions.

  Lisa sighed. It looked as if the only way to save Dubois was not only to discover the real killer but to get a confession or solid proof.

  Her father would be home that evening. And so far Lisa hadn’t come up with anything from the information he’d gathered in New York.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Molly had turned in her chair and was studying Lisa.

  “What’s to talk about? I need to get back to my life and job, and we’re not getting far enough here.”

  “I’m not talking about all of this,” Molly said, motioning to the room.

  “Then what?”

  “Ever since I arrived you’ve seemed as if something’s bothering you.”

  Lisa frowned. “Do you do this to your parishioners?”

  “Some of them, yes. I’m a licensed counselor as well as a minister.”

  “Are you saying I need counseling?”

  Molly laughed. “Don’t take it personally. Everybody needs a friend or a psychologist or both.”

  Usually Lisa wouldn’t have liked such prying or teasing, but Molly had a way about her that wasn’t off-putting.

  “Something keeps nagging at me, and I keep backing off of it.”

  “What is it?”

  “My father was tenacious about his cases. Isn’t this a good example?” Lisa said, motioning toward the walls of the workshop.

  “I might use another word besides tenacious.”

  “Yes, and this is extreme. But not completely out of character. He was hardly home most of my life because of his career. But what’s the real reason he suddenly stopped pursuing the truth in Dubois’s case? He’s let Leonard rot away in prison all of these years.”

  “Wasn’t he told to back off by his boss? Didn’t they demote him or something?”

  “Yes, which makes it worse in a way. Dad isn’t the type to willingly look away because of his career.”

  “He may have had other reasons. Have you asked him?”

  Lisa leaned back, stretching. She sighed. “My father and I don’t talk well, especially when it gets personal.”

  Molly considered that for a moment. “Asking might give him the chance to explain. He’s not ever going to share anything easily. There’s a lot locked up. But trying to figure it out without asking, you’ll never get the answers you want.”

  Lisa nodded in thought. She still hadn’t asked Dad why he’d brought her to the rally as a child. Obviously he still felt guilt over it. But how could she ask about his seemingly cowardly retreat that kept a man in prison for nearly five decades without it sounding like an accusation?

  As Molly returned to her research, Lisa went inside the house to make tea. As she set the kettle on the stove, the past seemed to rise around her. With Dad’s long hours, this hadn’t been her father’s home as much as hers and her mother’s. Lisa could almost see her mom in her flowery apron, baking chocolate chip cookies in this small kitchen. Suddenly Lisa missed her mother and wanted to call her in Florida.

  Instead, she stepped into the hallway, staring down toward her childhood bedroom. She felt like an intruder, snooping around, but she walked to the room anyway. Since her arrival in Dallas, she hadn’t once looked through her old house.

  She pushed open the door to what appeared to be a typical spare bedroom with a dresser, full-size bed, nightstand, and lamp. There were a few paintings on the wall that she didn’t recognize, but as Lisa stepped into the room she saw remainders of her childhood. A large mirror on the wall had remnants of Scotch tape where Lisa had taped pictures of friends and movie stars.

  On bookshelves above a faded collection of Encyclopaedia Britannica, many of her old books remained: Anne of Green Gables, the Betsy-Tacy series, the entire collection of Nancy Drew books, A Wrinkle in Time, the Chronicles of Narnia. There were also some classics mixed with a few romance novels and true crime.

  Seeing the books was like discovering old friends she’d nearly forgotten. Many of them she’d bought at a little bookshop that Uncle Peter would take her to for story time. Lisa had consumed books until high school, when she became involved in school activities, soccer, debate team, and her social life.

  Lisa felt an ache in her heart that she had worked hard over the years to stuff away, starting with Uncle Peter and continuing through her husband’s death.

  Most of her childhood mementos had gone with Mom to Florida when she and Dad divorced. At her condo, her mother still displayed Lisa’s awards and achievements on what her husband called the Lisa shrine. These books were all Dad had left of her besides his photographs.

  Lisa was overwhelmed with just how alone Dad had been, and for the first time she was glad he had Rosalyn. He’d become an old man, retired from the work he loved. He’d lost his family because of his inability to maintain relationships. And like her, he didn’t even have a dog.

  She heard the back door open and Molly call her name. The teakettle whistled from the stove.

  Lisa closed the door to her bedroom and hurried to the kitchen.

  “I think I found something,” Molly said. She was holding her laptop and set it on the counter.

  “Look at this. Madeline Lorraine Fitzgerald. She was born in Alexandria, Louisiana. She’s of Creole descent. Her father was French and American, and her m
other was black. They moved to New Orleans when she was small, but there is still family in Alexandria.”

  “Benjamin Gray was from Alexandria,” Lisa said.

  “Yes, but the other time we’ve heard of that city was with that Blackstone Corporation. So I looked that up. There’s a plantation outside of Alexandria that’s been owned by the Blackstone family for generations. Google Maps helped me see that Madeline’s family lives in close proximity to the plantation as well.”

  “So Madeline likely knew the Blackstone family. The photograph of Benjamin Gray’s corpse was released from someone at Blackstone Corp. And when I talked to my father, he said that his old partner, Peter, had a file on the Blackstones. I’ll run a complete background on the family and the company. I wonder if Madeline Fitzgerald is still alive.”

  “I think I found her. There’s a Madeline Lorraine Fitzgerald in New Orleans. She’s seventy-four years old and still runs a little dinner house in the French Quarter. There are photos, Lisa. She’s beautiful and seems to have a mixed-race ethnicity. She might even pass for white.”

  Lisa felt a quickening of excitement course through her.

  “So Gray’s white girlfriend and this woman might be the same person.” Lisa’s mind raced with scenarios.

  Molly glanced at the clock on the wall. “I hate to leave, but I have a ministry dinner in a few hours and a short message to polish. But I wish I could stay. We’re onto something here.”

  “This is great, but don’t worry. Dad won’t be home until late anyway. Send me everything you have, and I’ll try to reach Madeline Fitzgerald.”

  After Molly left, Lisa returned to the workshop to pack up. Her phone rang as she shut the door and punched in a code to the new alarm system Rosalyn had installed.

  “Hey, Mom,” John said. The background was unusually quiet; he was probably in his dorm, Lisa guessed. Sometimes Lisa hated knowing her son was so far away and on his own without her.

  “Let me guess, you have to cancel our video chat tonight?” she said in a teasing tone. She balanced a box of files and her bag and headed toward the house to lock up.

  “I forgot that my study group meets today. What about tomorrow?”