by David Archer
Sam nodded. “Something in your voice when you were telling me about it made me think you didn’t believe he was guilty,” Sam said. “I’ll promise you this: if it’s true that he was convicted on only circumstantial evidence, I’ll do my best to find out the truth. If he’s innocent, I’ll prove it. Would that help?”
Marcy rose from her chair and pushed it back toward the table she had borrowed it from. “It sure couldn’t hurt,” she said. “That poor family has been through enough, and I know it would do Debbie and her kids a world of good. But let me tell you this,” she said with a menacing glare. “Around these parts, we’re a bunch of hillbillies. You ever had a couple hundred angry hillbillies on your tail?”
Sam’s eyes went wide. “No,” he said, “and I don’t think it’s something I ever want to experience.”
“Then you just make sure you don’t hurt that family any more than they’ve already been hurt. Wouldn’t take me ten minutes to put together a posse to come after you.” She turned without another word and walked back into the kitchen.
Crystal came out a few minutes later with their orders, and Sam realized that she must be as capable in the kitchen as she seemed to be in the dining room. Marcy must’ve said something positive to her, as well, because she had her smile back in place.
The food was good, but Marcy didn’t wait until they were finished eating to make her decision. She came out while they were halfway through and slipped a piece of paper into Sam’s shirt pocket. “Ross is doing his time in Stateville Prison, up by Joliet. Debbie moved up there to be close to him. That’s her address and phone number,” she said. “I also put my own phone number on there so you can get hold of me if you need any more information. My gut tells me you’re a pretty good guy, Sam Prichard, but I don’t always trust my gut. I went back there to the office and googled you. I had already thought your name sounded familiar, but when I saw that you were the guy who almost got killed stopping that wacko at Lake Mead, that’s when I decided you’re probably on the up-and-up. Let me know if I can help, okay?”
Sam nodded, his mouth too full to allow him to speak, and Marcy took that as good enough. She went over to a bulletin board next to the cash register and used a thumbtack to put Sam’s business card up on it, then walked back into the kitchen and didn’t come out again.
“They’ll be pointing at that card and bragging about you having lunch here for years to come,” Kim said. “They probably don’t get a lot of genuine heroes through here.”
Sam scowled. “I’m no hero,” he said. “You don’t become a hero by just doing what you have to do.”
“No,” Indie said. “You become a hero by doing the things you don’t have to do. Sam, no one would have blamed you if you had gotten off that dam that day, and you know it. And yet you stayed there and waited for Jamal, and you almost died even though you saved millions of people. Sam, you might as well give up and accept it. You’re a hero, whether you ever meant to be or not.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Sam growled. He got up and walked to the register where Crystal was waiting, paid their tab, and then told Crystal to tell Marcy goodbye for them. He followed his family out and got behind the wheel of the Ridgeline, then pulled the slip of paper out of his pocket.
Deborah Jenkins
114 South Garden Way
Joliet, Illinois
815-555-2110
Marcy Elimon 618-555-9895
He showed the paper to Indie, and she googled the address. “Looks like it’s about five hours north of here. Straight up Interstate 57 for the most part.”
Sam nodded and headed toward the interstate. It was about eleven miles away, through the town of Benton, and everyone was ready for a potty stop by the time they got there. Sam pulled into a gas station just a short distance short of the on-ramp to gas out, while the ladies all took Kenzie and headed inside.
Sam was leaning against the truck and watching the numbers climb on the gas pump, so he was startled when a voice behind him suddenly said, “Samuel.” He jumped slightly, then spun around to find his mother-in-law standing there.
He corrected himself. He found Beauregard standing there, wearing his mother-in-law’s face.
“Beauregard?” Sam asked.
“Of course,” Kim said. “Samuel, I just wanted to say thank you. Just the fact that you have found my grandchildren has given me great hope.”
Sam nodded. “And it appears you were right,” he said. “Sounds like one of your descendants is definitely in need of help. Any chance you can do your little hocus-pocus thing and tell me whether Ross is really innocent on not?”
Kim shook her head. “I’m afraid it does not work that way. I have no control over the things that I see. However, it occurs to me that if he is in fact not guilty, then there is a killer running loose somewhere. My previous statement that there is no danger to yourself or your family may no longer be true.”
Sam looked into Kim’s eyes, then nodded once. “We’ll be in a better position to judge after we meet Debbie. You’re right, though—if Ross really is innocent, then that means the real killer is getting away with murder. Whoever it was might not be too happy about me poking my nose around in this. I may need to send the rest of you home.”
Kim stood there and looked at him for a moment longer. “Samuel, I have no way to pay you for this…”
“Don’t even bother,” Sam said. “Beauregard, no matter what you are, you saved my life and my family’s lives more than once. I think I can afford to repay those favors this way, and I wouldn’t think much of myself if I wasn’t willing to.”
Kim smiled, and then a moment later her eyes closed and she wobbled on her feet. When she opened her eyes again and saw Sam standing in front of her, she sighed heavily. “I knew he wanted to talk to you again,” she said, “but I wish he’d stop just taking control when he feels like it.”
“I think it was something important, Kim,” Sam said. “I think maybe he felt like he couldn’t wait any longer.”
Kim nodded, then turned and went back into the gas station. Sam finished topping off the gas tank and hung up the nozzle, then started toward the men’s room. A few minutes later, fresh cup of coffee in hand, he climbed back behind the wheel of the Ridgeline.
“Everybody ready?”
“We’re all ready,” Indie said. “I checked, and there is a motel about a mile from Debbie’s place. I went ahead and reserved us a couple of rooms.”
Sam grinned at her. “That’s my smart girl,” he said. He put the truck in gear and made the turn from the parking lot, then immediately made another turn onto the northbound ramp. He set the cruise control as they passed the little airport on the left, then settled back into his long-distance driving mode.
Stateville Prison is a maximum-security facility located on twenty-two hundred acres. While it is often considered one of the Joliet prisons, it is actually situated in the community of Crest Hill, Illinois. Sixty-four of those acres are surrounded by a thirty-three-foot-tall concrete perimeter that is capped with concertina wire and ten wall-mounted guard towers. It routinely contains more than thirty-five hundred inmates. Housing them costs more than thirty-two thousand dollars per year for each inmate, giving the prison an operational budget of more than one hundred and twelve million dollars per year.
Stateville was also the site of many of the executions that had taken place in Illinois and was the home of Illinois’ Death Row from 1977 until 1998. Infamous serial killer John Wayne Gacy was executed there in 1994.
Sam had suggested they get their motel rooms before contacting Debbie, so Indie directed him to the one she had already discovered. It was one of the more common chain hotels, and Sam went inside to get their usual two rooms. It took only a few minutes, and then they carried their bags inside.
“It’s only a quarter to five,” Sam said. “Why don’t we give Debbie a call and invite her and her family to dinner?”
Indie’s eyes went wide. “Don’t you think it might be better to approach her p
rivately, first?”
“Why? I’d say we’ve located the particular descendants Beauregard’s premonition referred to, wouldn’t you? We know that Debbie doesn’t believe her brother is guilty of murdering their mother, so our approach can be that a distant relative has hired me to look into the case.” Sam raised his eyebrows at her. “I think that’s pretty close to the truth, don’t you?”
Indie stuck her tongue out at him. “Okay,” she said, “but I still think taking her out to dinner is the wrong approach. Sam, you should meet with her privately, give her the whole story about the distant relative and all that, but without an audience. From what I’ve been able to find online, she spends most of her time writing letters to congressmen and senators and anybody else she thinks might listen, trying to convince them that Ross was railroaded and deserves a new trial. The problem is that there’s no new evidence; without that, she’s just wasting a lot of postage.”
Sam smiled at her. “All right, if you feel that strongly about it. Should I give her a call this evening, do you think, or just show up at her door tomorrow morning?”
“Just show up there tomorrow,” Indie said. “It’s gonna be hard enough to believe that someone would suddenly appear out of nowhere to help. If you try to convince her of it over the phone, you may scare her off completely.”
Sam nodded. “Okay, tomorrow morning it is. For tonight, however, I’m still hungry. I saw a place called the Route 66 Diner, and a bit of nostalgia might go down well this evening.”
5
The skies were overcast in northern Illinois, and there were hints of thunder and lightning up in the clouds, so they spent the evening watching a movie in Kim and Grace’s room. When it was over, Sam carried Kenzie back to their own room and tucked her into one of the queen-sized beds. He and Indie took turns in the shower, and then they both fell, moderately exhausted, into the other one.
It wasn’t until they had finished the complimentary breakfast at the motel that Sam finally got on the way. The motel was only five minutes from Debbie Jenkins’s house, and he pulled into the driveway of a slightly rundown ranch house. He climbed out of the Ridgeline and leaned on his cane—the weather had his hip screaming loudly—as he walked up to the door.
He rang the doorbell and waited, and a moment later a woman who looked a bit like Kim opened the door and looked out at him. “Yes? Can I help you?”
Sam had his ID ready and held it up for her to see. “Mrs. Jenkins? My name is Sam Prichard, and I’m a private investigator from Denver, Colorado. I’ve been employed by someone who wishes to remain anonymous to look into your brother’s case, to see if I might be able to find any new or overlooked evidence that could conceivably prove his innocence.”
Debbie was staring at the ID the whole time Sam was talking, but she looked up into his eyes as he finished. “Are you serious?”
Sam nodded, keeping a smile on his face. “Yes, ma’am, I am. As I said, I’ve been hired by a distant relative of yours, someone who wishes to remain anonymous, who believes as you do that your brother is not guilty. I’d like to sit down with you and talk about the case, because as it stands right at the moment, all I know is what I can read in the news articles about it.”
Debbie swallowed hard, and a couple of tears began making their way slowly down her cheeks. “Do you have any idea what an answer to prayer you are? Come in, please come in,” she said as she pushed the storm door open wide.
Sam walked into the house and noted instantly that it was in far better condition on the inside than the outside would lead one to believe. He waited until she had closed the door behind him and then followed her into the kitchen.
“Would you like some coffee? I’ve got some made, I just haven’t had a chance to sit down and have a cup yet.”
“Sure,” Sam said, “coffee would be great.” He took a seat at the kitchen table as she poured two cups and brought them over. She set one in front of him and then pushed the sugar and cream set toward him as she sat down at her own chair. Sam added sugar, which suddenly reminded Debbie that he didn’t have a spoon. She jumped up and snatched one out of the dish strainer for him.
“So, somebody actually is paying you to do this?” Debbie asked. “Somebody hired you to prove he didn’t do it?”
Sam held up one finger. “Actually, somebody hired me to find out for sure whether or not he did it. As I said, my employer believes that you are correct and he is innocent, but it’s necessary for me to look at it as simply a case. I have to examine all the evidence I can find, and if it shows that he is not guilty, then we’ll do all we can to get him a new trial. On the other hand, you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that I cannot find the proof you’re hoping for. If that is the case, then there’s probably nothing we can do.”
“But at least someone wants you to try, right? Somebody believes there’s a chance, right?”
Sam smiled at her. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “More than one person, to be honest. In the course of looking into this situation, I went to Thompsonville and spoke with an old friend of yours there. Marcy Elimon? She said the two of you used to be very good friends?”
“Yes, we’re good friends,” Debbie said. “I’ve just been so busy lately, I just haven’t had time to really sit down and write to her, or even pick up the phone and call.”
“Well, she’s another one who believes your brother is innocent. Believe me, I got an earful about it while I was there, and from the way she talks, a lot of other people there believe he’s innocent, as well.”
“Some do,” Debbie said, shrugging. “Others—not so much. It blows my mind how quickly people can turn on you when you’ve been accused of something terrible, even people who’ve known you all your life. Before this happened, no one would ever have believed that Ross could hurt anyone, let alone our mother. But once the deputies arrested him, most of the town decided he was no good and that was that.”
Sam nodded. “I understand,” he said. “I’ve seen it happen to a lot of people. Can you tell me anything about the evidence that was actually used against your brother in court?”
Before she could answer, they were interrupted by the arrival in the kitchen of a much younger woman—it was obviously Debbie’s daughter. Debbie looked up at her and smiled, then indicated Sam. “Mindy,” she said, “this is Mr. Prichard. He’s a private investigator, and somebody has hired him to help prove Uncle Ross was innocent. Mr. Prichard, this is my oldest daughter, Mindy.”
Sam rose stiffly to his feet and shook Mindy’s hand, then sat back down as the girl gave her mother a questioning look. “Somebody hired him?” Mindy asked.
“Yes, somebody who’s related to us but who doesn’t want us to know who they are at the moment.”
Mindy made a sour face. “You know, Mom, you’ve always told me if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is? Don’t you think you ought to check this out a little bit before you invite strange men into the house?”
Sam couldn’t stifle the grin that spread across his face. “You know, she’s actually right. Mindy, could I suggest that you google me? I promise you I really am who I say I am, and you shouldn’t have too much trouble finding proof of that online.”
Mindy looked at him for a moment, then took out a smartphone. She spoke to it softly for a couple of seconds, and then her eyes grew wide. She skimmed through a couple of the links that came up, then looked back at her mother. “Okay, this is the guy who foiled the terror attack plot on Lake Mead a couple years ago. I guess we can give him the benefit of the doubt, right?”
Debbie’s own eyes went wide, and she stared at Sam for a moment. “That was you? Wow, I never would’ve expected to have a real hero in my house.”
Sam grimaced. “Please, I’m not a hero,” he said. “I was just doing my job, just like dozens of federal agents who were on that dam with me. I don’t deserve any more praise or pats on the back than they do.”
“Hey, can I get a selfie with you?” Mindy asked. By the time Sam stop
ped sputtering, it was too late. She had already thrown an arm around his shoulders and held her phone out. Sam heard the shutter-click sound effect half a dozen times before she let go and stepped away. “Okay, anyway, Mom, I gotta run. Carly’s picking me up so we can go job hunting together. I won’t be out late—see you tonight.” She blew her mother a kiss and hurried out the door.
“She’s eighteen, just graduated last year. She started working at the bookstore while she was a junior, but they went out of business a couple weeks ago. She loves her uncle, but I’m afraid she’s become disillusioned and doesn’t believe we’re ever going to get him out.”
Sam was about to ask once more about the case when two more kids came in. Twin boys, about fourteen or fifteen in Sam’s estimation, stepped into the room and started rummaging in the refrigerator.
“Hey,” Debbie called out. “Boys, come meet Mr. Prichard. He’s a private investigator, and he’s going to help us try to find proof that Uncle Ross isn’t guilty.” The two boys turned their eyes toward Sam, and he instantly felt like he was being carefully examined under a microscope. “Mr. Prichard, these are my boys, Andy and Alex. They’re missing school today because we’re going to see Ross. They’ve been a terrific help to me these last few years, especially since my husband passed away.”
Sam’s eyebrows rose. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t know that you were a widow. To be honest, I don’t know anything about your husband at all. Once I tracked you down, I just concentrated on getting here and getting in touch with you.”
“It’s okay,” Debbie said. “Randy died five years ago—car accident. Just seemed like everything that could go wrong was going wrong, for a while there. I mean, Ross’s problems, my sister’s disappearance, my dad dying, and then Mom being murdered and Ross being accused of it, then Randy falling asleep behind the wheel… They used to say my family was cursed, and I’ll confess that for a while there I began to believe it, myself.”