by Mary Deal
He accepted the water. “That Yates guy identified her from a photo.”
“Wait a minute. Wasn't he blinded? Didn't that brick fracture his skull?”
Something did crack his head. He sustained two blows. Supposedly, the brick that was hurled through the window stunned him. The medics guessed he fell and banged his head a second time on a piece of furniture. The doctor said that's the blow that affected his sight. “He had partial sight right afterwards, enough to identify the face from a picture before going blind within the following week.”
How could they allow that as a positive ID, considering his limited capabilities? “That was all?” Having so little sight left meant that anything Yates might look at surely had to be placed against the tip of his nose.
“They couldn't do a line up. To this day, he claims he's sure. He was such a braggart, had 'em all believing he knew what he saw.”
That was a lot of information she had never heard. “He could have been making himself out a hero to avenge his family.”
Joe explained that at one time, Yates also mentioned he might have seen a small shiny earring on the person outside the window, but the police didn't do anything with that. They wrote it off—night lights, stars in the distance, whatever—because Yates had been drinking heavily before going to bed.
Abi realized the police might brush aside an inconsequential clue. She had been meticulous about information in all cases. She gestured toward the portfolio. “Did Megan Winnaker wear earrings?”
Joe took another slow sip and his pensive gaze through the air said he was remembering the details. “Not that I ever saw.”
“And Yates identified her right away?”
“As soon as he regained consciousness in the hospital, he told police he had seen that SS ring someplace else, maybe in a picture somewhere.”
“Was that all? A bragging blind man identifies someone from a photo he can barely see, and she gets the death penalty?” Abi swallowed hard. She felt pangs of guilt. Getting on with her life and enjoying it seemed like cheating when she did not know the price that fate had exacted upon her daughter.
“Investigators had found a gas can and incendiary materials in her mini-storage. Her prints were on everything. They tested her hands, her clothes. She had the stuff all over her.” He began to pace again. “When the police arrived with a search warrant, they found her sorting through her belongings. She told them she was cleaning up because someone ransacked her cubicle and left the gas can and other materials strewn about. It all smelled of gasoline.” Joe's expression said the situation must have seemed hopeless.
Abi stared out the windows, speckled with droplets of rain and twinkling like glitter in the early morning sunlight. When the case began, she thought she had heard all she needed to know. Megan Winnaker seemed to be just another firebug, but Joe's version of the facts caused her to have uneasy feelings. “Even though she may have told the truth, there was no way to verify her story.”
“That's right. She had no witness, no alibi.”
“Where did she claim to be when the fire started?”
Joe sat his water cup down and glanced at her sideways. “Out painting.”
The idea of Winnaker being an artist of any kind, again, rattled her nervous system. “Painting… painting?”
“She had one fresh oil canvas and several unfinished pastel drawings in her storage. All of night scenes.”
The idea of someone oil painting en plein air in the dark didn't sound right. “She painted outdoors during nighttime?”
“At dusk. She's always painted a lot of dawn and dusk pictures, liked the play of light and shadows.”
“So she had no one to vouch for her whereabouts while she painted alone?” Anxiety raced through Abi's nervous system. Old scenes of her five-year-old daughter's artwork floated through her mind; pictures painted long ago which had become as precious as any of those of the Old Masters.
“She told the officers she found her lock broken several days before the fire. She didn't own anything important except the boxes of her dad's memorabilia and those didn't look disturbed so she never took inventory.”
“Why would anyone do that?”
“The only thing missing was her dad's Nazi infantry tunic. She used to sleep in it to stay warm. When she returned to her storage late the night of the fire, she found the new lock clipped and her unit ransacked and—”
“Wait.” Abi turned to face him more fully. She tapped the back of his hand at the edge of the counter. “Ransacked? How bad?”
“Up-side-down.”
“And the fresh oil painting?”
“What are you getting at?”
“If she was out painting during the time of the fire and when her unit was ransacked, then the wet oil painting would not have been damaged, right?”
He looked surprised. His eyes sparkled. “Yeah, you're right. Belongings were strewn about the floor. The wet oil painting hung on nails at the back of the cubicle.”
“Who's got it now?”
“The police, if they hold onto anything like that.” Details in the artwork could show where she was when she painted it. Something as simple as the position of the moon could tell when and where the painting was made. “It was all scrutinized. It proved nothing.” He walked to the back, got another cupful of water and returned. “Don't pick this apart, Abi. It was all addressed during the trial.”
Abi stared at the water she hadn't drunk and ignored his warning. “What about that infantry tunic?”
“Found in her cubicle along with other rags spattered with gasoline and ash and smelling of the burn. Winnaker felt she might have scared off someone who planned to burn her out. She slept among her strewn belongings, including the tunic, and handled the gas can and other stuff when she began cleaning up that morning.”
“Who would do that to her?” Abi felt herself being drawn into something best left alone. But, then, with her curiosity, next she needed to know why.
“That's what the police asked. Winnaker said she hadn't been in town long enough to make enemies.”
The excuse did sound flimsy. “She couldn't name anyone?”
“Not a soul. Only knew a few of those skinheads from selling her Nazi stuff. She spent a lot of time at my shop doing her art.”
“You ever meet any of her buyers?” If Joe would keep talking, she would keep asking. In the past, while helping in other searches, Abi discovered remote possibilities and questioned anyone. Now here was Joe, a person close to the inmate, and she might get more out of him than the police received from anyone else.
“Never brought 'em around, thank goodness. Never talked about them.”
“What about fingerprints?”
“Only hers, on a gas can she claimed had been left by someone else. And….” He pointed a finger in the air. “Forensics found a lot of stray human and animal hairs on that jacket, but lots of people had tried it on to possibly buy it.”
In her mind, Abi had already begun the process of sorting through clues, the process of elimination that, hopefully, would lead to answers. “The ring, what about the ring?”
“Sold it, days before the fire, to an eerie-looking weirdo named Dara Hines.”
“Then Dara might be the one.”
“She had an air-tight alibi, according to half a dozen others. Her father's a highly regarded businessman in Creighton, has an impeccable reputation.”
“So it was Dara's word against Winnaker's testimony?” Despite questionable evidence, the jury possibly leaned in favor of Dara's testimony even though there was no proof.
“Maybe.”
Abi knew from the Chamber of Commerce records about a widower named Hines in Creighton who owned four service station-mini marts and several small restaurants. He had donated more than an acre for a park when one of his businesses, a dilapidated warehouse, burned down. He didn't want the expense of rebuilding that huge shed so he deeded the lot to the city for a park. He did a lot of charity work.
Joe
dashed his empty paper cup into the waste basket, evidently still feeling hurried. “Dara has a reputation of involvement with the Dregs, but when they're linked to anything dirty, she's never found to be a part of it.”
“Dara might have had the ring at the time of—”
“She said Winnaker gave it to her early the morning after the fire.” He shrugged doubtfully.
“Gave it to her?” Winnaker was selling her father's belongings in order to live, but she just gave away that valuable piece?
“Dara said she and her boyfriend passed by before dawn, evidently before the police arrived. They found Winnaker tidying up. She claims that's when Winnaker gave her the ring. Winnaker insists she sold it to Dara days earlier.”
Dara's story would prove Winnaker would want to get rid of it. “The police bought that idea?”
“The jury did too.”
“Was the ring tested for evidence of incendiary matter, whatever they look for?” Abi assumed the police did their jobs, but it didn't hurt to ask.
“Probably not.” He shook his head in dismay. “By the time police got around to locating Dara and this guy Sling, they found them rebuilding Dara's motorcycle engine at one of her father's empty lots.” Joe gestured to the underside of his ring finger. “By then the wad of dirty tape around the shank that Winnaker added to make it fit her finger had been removed. Sling was wearing the ring. They were burning trash, too, cardboard boxes, rags and stuff to keep warm. They both had gas and oil all over their hands and clothing—biker clothing that probably hadn't seen the inside of a washing machine in months.”
Abi sensed the pieces not quite fitting. “How unfortunate.” If innocent of the crime, Megan Winnaker didn't have a chance. “What if she's not the one?”
“She went before a jury. Yates described the swastika ring.”
Yates must have clearly seen the ring if his flashlight beam had shown directly on it. How else could he have known? “A ring and a photo. How did they come up with her picture?”
Joe hesitated again and swallowed hard. “You remember my photographic exposé?”
“Yes, but only from what you told me. What's that got to do with—”
“The photograph… was mine.”
Chapter 6
A car waiting at the street light out front honked two short beeps. They glanced out the windows. The blue-white head of hair said it was Edith, coming to pick up the donated children's clothing.
Joe glanced at his watch. “I'm really late now.” He pointed at the portfolio. “Look at this and we can talk when I get back, okay?” He was already headed toward the back door. Abi followed. Too many questions remained unanswered and now she would have to wait.
She watched him leave then called after him. “Joe, your expo was years ago. How can we find that magazine?” Her heart fluttered again. She felt on the verge of new discoveries and the man who held the key had just walked out the door.
He turned outside the doorway. “It's mentioned in the court documents. We'll have to backtrack to the publisher and hope they stored it electronically.”
Joe stepped inside again as they greeted Edith with hugs. She playfully rubbed a hand across the stubble on his cheek and then passed through Abi's office and went directly into the store.
“Wait a minute.” An enlarged photo of Becky hung beside smaller ones of her and Joe. Abi handed him Becky's photo, frame and all. “This is another view that might help.”
He accepted the picture. “Nope, definitely no mole like this.”
Abi already knew what she had to do next. “Who do you know that can get us in to see Megan?”
Surely, he knew she would ask sooner or later and shrugged. “Britto. My buddy, Britto. I'll call him, but he may not be at liberty to say anything.”
“Your playboy cop friend? He worked the case?”
“We used to be real tight. Friendship kinda' drifted when he got involved in the Winnaker case.” He kept staring at the framed photograph. “Probably because I knew both Winnaker and Britto and Britto had to keep his nose clean.”
“Yeah, you've mentioned him occasionally.”
“He's a detective now.” He squeezed her shoulders, turned and walked out and climbed into the Range Rover.
Abi closed the door and then clasped hands prayerfully and rolled her eyes back. “Ple-ease.” She was becoming enmeshed in the possibilities, letting even a far-fetched idea once again expand the inner compunction to find her daughter.
Rain began to pour. Back inside the store front, wind rattled the front door of the remodeled building and reminded Abi of the urgency to get her patio doors tightened at home.
“Sounded like another bad one.” Edith nodded in the direction the fire trucks went. Edith Armstrong was a small impeccably groomed woman who could make wondrous meals out of supermarket castaway food. She was well known for her charity by both the wealthy and the destitute. She could have simply retired from teaching school and lived a comfortable life on a family trust. When her Fire Chief husband passed away, she had time on her hands and began to investigate the needs of the community. Without regard for social standing gained over the years, or her age, she set out to do her part.
Abi gestured to the portfolio. “You know about this?”
“Can't say I do. What is it?”
Abi carefully unzipped the ragged case, allowing half of it to lean against the cash register. She held up a sketch after thumbing through some of the yellowed pages. “Some art Megan Winnaker did before she went to prison.”
“No!” Edith stepped closer. “Joe was involved in her case. You know that, right? Didn't the police confiscate all her belongings?”
Abi explained as much as she gleaned from some of Joe's remarks. He had offered it to the police. They said it didn't tell them anything since the art was made before the date of the fire. “They suggested he store it for her.”
Edith knew as much or more from having followed the biggest case in the city's history. When she and Abi met, as she always did, Abi held nothing back about Becky Ann. Edith had easily become her confidant and they discussed everything. Now Abi brought her up to date. “I'm shocked about these similarities to your daughter.”
“Keep this mum, Edith. I don't want this leaking out. If the media gets hold—“
She threw up both hands. “I never heard a word… but let's have a look at this art.”
Abi held up another drawing. “It's breathtaking.” Yet, she didn't recognize any of the landscapes.
Quietly together, they turned picture after picture, trying not to linger too long on each stunning piece. The very last drawings were peculiar. Abi stared at one old yellowed drawing. Her hands began to shake. She examined every inch of a juvenile-looking sketch with both curling and straight lines sweeping in one direction. The pages looked more like doodling. “Becky drew line art.” The thought that both Becky and Winnaker drew line art seemed too coincidental, but over time, coincidences in many cases were frequent.
“Your daughter knew line art too?”
“She knew so much.”
“At what age did the inmate draw these?”
“She did these in Joe's shop before all that… that crap happened to her.” Abi lifted a couple more from the pile. “Joe said she was trying to remember something from childhood. These old ones, they must represent what she was trying to remember.”
Abi brought out a few different pieces. Larger landscapes drawn in pastel and numerous smaller pieces in watercolor seemed completed by a juvenile.
“Her work is astounding.” Edith carefully picked up a couple pages. “She teaches painting in prison, line art too. Did you know that?”
“She should be teaching, but there's nothing here that's truly reminiscent of Becky's art.” Abi's voice cracked. She sighed, frustrated. Same old emotions flooded back. None of the scenes Winnaker tried to capture from memory resembled anything Abi remembered Becky as having drawn. The fact that she found no similarities meant she was not going to find h
er daughter this time. Not that she would know how to deal with the truth if it turned out that Winnaker was her daughter and facing the needle. Abi's emotions tipped and turned like a dare devil ride about to jump the tracks.
“What are you looking for?”
“I thought I'd recognize something in the older drawings.” Strangely, Abi now felt closer to the inmate, who was a gifted artist, something her daughter might have been.
Edith began to fold and box the used clothing. As Abi readied the cash register for opening the store, she caught Edith glancing at her from time to time.
“Edith, Joe thought he had seen an old friend in—“ Her cell phone rang.
“It's me.” Joe's voice fluctuated through the phone. “I just dropped off Becky's photos with Velma. Did you see anything familiar in Winnaker's art?”
“Those last three, with the squiggly lines, what are those?”
“Last three? I remember seeing a dozen or so of those. Winnaker—”
She couldn't get the inmate out her thoughts. “Wait, Joe, please.”
“Do you see something?”
“No. I just want to say something, okay?”
“Go ahead. I just hit the freeway.”
“We keep referring to this woman in prison as Winnaker. It has such a hard ring to it.” With the cell phone remote securely attached to her ear, she helped Edith pack the clothes. “Joe, can we just call her Megan? With what she has to endure, she deserves a little respect.”
Freeway sounds and static came through his cell phone. “I hear you. I guess I've been seeing her as a criminal I want to distance myself from.”
“Ha! You kept all her art.” Abi closed the folio and pulled the zipper. “You're closer to her than anyone else.”
“I guess I've always worried about her. I was positive she had a softer, gentler side.”
“The art proves that.” She also knew that it did not prove that Winnaker didn't commit the crime.
“Yeah, a lot of people in prison are great artists.”
“For the first time ever…” Abi sighed into the phone. “I hope I haven't found my daughter.”