Dead Giveaway

by Leann Sweeney

''It's about the dried blood on your neck, ma'am. Looks like it came from a—''

  ''Ouch!'' I cried as he fingered the spot where I'd been hit with the gun grip.

  ''You might need a few stitches. What happened?''

  ''Yeah, what happened?'' came Jeff's voice over the line.

  ''Just a little smack on the head. Didn't even know I was bleeding until now.''

  ''You sure you're okay?'' Jeff asked.

  ''It's nothing,'' I answered.

  ''I'll decide for myself. We just pulled in.''

  When Jeff strode into the office, he tried to use that damn little cut to make me leave and get stitched up. But if Rankin was talking and making any sense at all, I wanted to hear what he had to say and I told Jeff as much.

  ''Okay, where's the suspect?'' Jeff asked one of the patrol officers who'd responded to the 9-1-1 call.

  ''Library. Thought you'd want to transport him. Ms. Rose says this is your case. Couple uniforms on him, but he just keeps crying. You might consider a suicide watch when you get to the jail.''

  ''Thanks,'' Jeff said. ''DeShay, Abby. Let's do it.''

  With only starlight coming in through the stainedglass ceiling, the library seemed far less welcoming. Not that anything about this church was all that welcoming anymore.

  The pastor was seated in the study area, hands cuffed behind him. He was motionless for the first time all night, staring into space, his cheeks wet with tears—which I liked a whole lot better than what I'd seen on his face after he gunned down his wife.

  The two officers flanking him nodded at Jeff and DeShay.

  Jeff read the pastor his Miranda rights, then said, ''Are you willing to tell us everything, Pastor?''

  ''Yes.''

  ''Do you want a lawyer with you?''

  He shook his head no.

  ''Then we'll take you downtown so we can record our conversation. Again, do you understand your rights, sir?''

  Rankin stared at Jeff with red-rimmed eyes. ''I understand God's will, that this is His plan for me. But I want her there.'' He nodded at me.

  I blinked in surprise.

  ''You got your wish,'' Jeff said.

  The interview room at HPD was bigger than the one in Huntsville Prison, but still pretty bare-bones. Taping and videoing had been set up, the pastor waived his Miranda rights again and Jeff, the pastor and I sat around a table that I wished had been bigger. Though I wanted to be here, I didn't want to be too close to this guy.

  Jeff stated for the record the date, time and who was present, then said, ''Pastor, do you wish to give a statement at this time?''

  ''Can I begin with when I first met B.J.?'' he asked. ''That's what started everything.''

  ''Begin wherever you want. But can we have full names, please?'' Jeff leaned back, arms folded, a wad of gum already going.

  The pastor looked at me. ''B.J. is Byron James Thompson. He came to me in need many years ago, not knowing I had great trouble in my own heart that night. I believed his arrival at such a dark moment was a sign that God had sent him.''

  ''The night he murdered Amanda Mason?'' I said, unsure whether I was supposed to ask questions. Jeff said nothing, didn't shake his head or anything, so I assumed I was okay.

  ''That's right. Remember how you brought the light with you when you came to question us last week?'' He smiled. ''I knew then you would find out. You see, I was wrong about B.J. But you? You were on a mission. God is with you, Abby Rose.''

  I shifted uneasily. ''Okay. Back to the night B.J. showed up after he shot Amanda Mason and asked for your guidance.''

  ''He came in off the street,'' Rankin said, beginning to rock.

  Uh-oh. I hoped he could hold it together, stay halfway coherent.

  ''You didn't know him?'' Jeff asked.

  ''He was a complete stranger. So upset, so angry with himself and seeking God's forgiveness. I was very troubled about Sara, and it seemed we had much to offer each other in the way of comfort.''

  ''Troubled because you knew she loved Lawrence?'' I asked.

  ''You see why I wanted you here, Abby Rose? There are things you don't understand. She thought she loved the black boy.'' His cuffs had been removed and he placed his palms on his balding head. ''Noreen was so upset. Sara had called her right before B.J. wandered in off the street and told her mother that she and Lawrence were planning a life together with their baby. Said she had the black boy's car and was leaving town. Can you fathom what that phone call did to us?''

  She'd told them the truth. What a huge mistake. I said, ''You must have been devastated . . . desperate,'' pretending to sympathize to keep him talking.

  ''Yes. And it is in our desperation that Satan finds a way inside us. B.J.'s arrival was the answer to a prayer—or so we thought. We were wrong. I know that now. Abby Rose, you came and showed me the way.''

  This guy was slap-assed crazy. I might be persistent about my cases and adamant that justice be served, but I wasn't God's messenger. If you asked me, Rankin just needed an excuse to end the major guilt trip he'd been on for a couple of decades.

  Jeff said, ''You gave B.J. Lawrence's address, maybe told him to return to the dead girl, grab some evidence and plant it at Lawrence's house. That about right?''

  ''I left those details to Noreen. She is so much better at those things.''

  ''Was so much better,'' said Jeff. ''You shot her, remember?''

  Rankin straightened, squared his shoulders. ''At God's urging. I prayed for guidance while Noreen and B.J. spoke of death and murder in my office tonight, and His voice came to me, told me to rid my life of Satan. Cleanse my soul.''

  ''Did God tell you to rid the world of Verna Mae Olsen? Was she part of Satan's brigade, too?'' Jeff's voice was hard, his eyes cold.

  ''I knew nothing of that until after she was gone. Mrs. Olsen was my sister's best friend, and I would have had serious questions about their methods.''

  ''Whose methods?'' Jeff asked.

  ''Noreen and B.J.'s decision,'' said Rankin. ''It was only later I learned how Mrs. Olsen had come to Noreen, said she had met our daughter's child. That foolish Olsen woman thought she needed to tell this tarnished young man the truth—tell a bastard born of sin the truth. Stupid woman. B.J. was supposed to convince Mrs. Olsen she was wrong. From what I understand, he was unable to do so, and she had to die.''

  Jeff leaned forward. ''From what you understand? Do you have any idea what he did to that woman?''

  Rankin shrank back in his chair. ''Noreen kept the details from me. I didn't want to know, anyway. The images of death and sin might have tarnished my next sermon.''

  ''Yeah, you wouldn't want that, would you?'' Jeff leaned back again, chewing hard on his gum.

  ''Tell me about Sara,'' I said. ''How did you find her after she ran away?''

  ''We hired detectives. We were certain that once she knew Lawrence had killed someone she would accept our plan. We could place her in a home for . . . for girls in her condition and then she would return to us afterward.''

  ''Where and when did you find Sara?'' I asked.

  ''If I recall, Noreen found her right after the black boy had been sent to jail.''

  Right after Lawrence, the first evil, had been purged, I thought.

  He went on, ''She was in a shelter in Dallas, living like a street person with other harlots.''

  ''You picked her up?'' asked Jeff. He kept his tone even, but a muscle in his jaw was tight with tension.

  ''Noreen and Olive went.''

  ''Your sister's name is Olive Rankin?'' I asked.

  ''Yes. Have you met her?'' He smiled the smarmy smile he seemed to have reserved for me. He simply had no clue how serious this all was and probably thought God had another plan to get him out of this mess.

  ''Remember? I was introduced in the library,'' I said.

  ''That's right. Olive is an absolute saint. Helped Noreen take Sara to a . . . place of confinement.''

  ''A home for unwed mothers?'' I asked.

  ''No. Sara wouldn't agre
e to that. She wasn't right in the head after being touched by so much evil. She kept saying she was going to marry the black boy, and we kept telling her he was in jail, that God had protected her by sending him away. She wouldn't believe it.''

  ''You said she wasn't right in her head. Did they take her to a psychiatric hospital?''

  ''No, no, no. They keep records. We chose a wilderness camp, one I'd heard about from a parishioner. With their counseling, we thought she'd have time to reflect on her mistakes.''

  ''You sent a pregnant sixteen-year-old to wilderness camp? Did her counseling include prenatal care?'' I asked.

  Rankin looked down at the table. ''Olive had to go get her in September. That's when we learned she was sick, might be lost to us forever. Her sins had caught up to her.''

  ''What was wrong?'' Jeff asked.

  ''A blood pressure problem. After the bastard child was born, Noreen and I were certain we'd done the right thing, put the black boy father in the right place. It was his fault Sara became ill. And God made sure that through us, he was punished. You must understand, that after our arrangement with B.J., the help we'd given him to elude the police, we couldn't tell the truth about exactly how we lost Sara, couldn't tell anyone.''

  ''But . . . she's alive,'' I said. ''I saw her.''

  Jeff looked at me, confused. ''You did?''

  ''At the cabin. You didn't?''

  ''There was the nurse's aide and a lady with a walker—looked like she had a stroke. Couldn't seem to talk. That's her?''

  ''That's Sara.'' I looked Rankin in the eye. ''Not totally lost, huh, Pastor?''

  He hung his head.

  Instead of saying, ''You make me sick,'' like I wanted to, I opted for, ''I need some aspirin.''

  As I left I heard Jeff move on to questions about Noreen's death. I didn't need to relive those events right now, so I was glad to be gone.

  DeShay, who'd been watching through the two-way mirror, had water and aspirin waiting when I came out. ''I thought you might need this. You took a good crack to the head tonight, I hear.''

  ''Thanks, DeShay.'' I gulped down the pills and water. ''Now can someone take me home?''

  26

  Once I was sitting on my couch with Diva in my lap, I ate my way through a pint of Cherry Garcia ice cream while reflecting on all that had happened in so short a time. The truth Will and I sought when he and his family came to me for answers turned out to be far messier than we could have ever imagined. Although I wanted to say mission accomplished, I decided the word ''mission'' might be forever banned from my vocabulary. Besides, two innocent people were still imprisoned. Sara Rankin was in jail just like Lawrence, a prison without bars, but no less horrible.

  I checked my watch. Past midnight. Will wasn't due back from camp until the day after tomorrow, and I didn't want to wake his parents. But Burl? He was a cop, used to late calls. He'd want to know what had gone down tonight, and I was too wired to sleep. I spent the first fifteen minutes of the call summarizing tonight's drama.

  ''Verna Mae did this to herself,'' Burl said when I was done. '' 'Course if she went and got another kid like she tried to do, we'd never know they got the wrong guy up in Huntsville.''

  ''I didn't know she tried to get another baby,'' I said.

  ''Neither did I until today. I've been asking questions around town since the day you and I met, trying to figure out what I missed back then. Found a woman who once worked with Jasper, and she told me he got pissed off royal because they paid some huge private adoption fee a year after the kid was left on their doorstep and Verna Mae backed out of the deal at the last minute.''

  ''Maybe she originally took money from the Rankins so she could get another baby. Then, when she got cold feet, she fixated on Will.''

  ''Makes sense. I sure hope Lawrence Washington will be freed.''

  ''What do you mean? We know what happened that night. He's innocent.''

  ''You got the preacher's confession, but you better hope Byron Thompson pulls through and tells the truth.''

  ''We have his gun, Burl. We know the same weapon was used to kill both Amanda Mason and Verna Mae.''

  ''Pray the gun B.J. used tonight was the right gun. Then your friend Jeff will have something to take to a judge. Tough to get out of jail in Texas, Abby. Even if you're as innocent as a fresh-laid egg.''

  ''They have to let him out,'' I said. But I knew he was right. I could recall more than one case where the courts dragged their feet for nearly a year, even after DNA proved the men weren't rapists.

  ''That's why hard evidence, carefully collected and preserved, is so important,'' he said.

  ''You've taught me a lot about evidence on this case. Frustrated the hell out of me a few times, though. I can tell you this, when Lawrence walks out of jail, I want to give him that blanket. Think you could hand it over then?''

  He laughed. ''Sure.''

  We chatted a few more minutes about Lucinda and his boys before I hung up. I was almost tired, until I saw what I looked like after I faced the bathroom mirror. What a wake-up call. I had streaks of dried blood down my neck that had stained my collar, and my lip was still swollen from the storage unit fire. I looked like I'd been in a bar fight.

  I began to carefully separate strands of hair looking for the cut, but the blood had clumped and hardened, and I was afraid to probe more for fear of making my head bleed again. This was a job for Kate. In the morning.

  Jeff called me early, seven a.m. to be exact, and gave me an update. Olive had been taken into custody for questioning, and after an evaluation by a Health and Human Services caseworker, Sara had been sent to the hospital. If Olive cooperated, she might not be charged as an accessory to murder. Ironically, all three hospitalized people—Thaddeus, Sara and B.J.—were in the same place, though Jeff told me B.J. would be moved to the jail infirmary when his condition improved. If he'd confessed to anything, Jeff hadn't heard. He advised me to call Mark Whitley, a defense lawyer, as soon as Whitley's office opened. Lawrence would need counsel to help get him out of prison.

  Even before Kate arrived, I'd decided I needed her assistance with more than just my head wound. I wanted her to go with me to visit Sara Rankin. When Kate arrived with salves and ointments in a little makeup bag, I put in my request. She made some calls and rearranged her schedule to make time this morning.

  While my sister carefully washed blood out of my hair, I provided a more detailed, but still modified, version of what happened last night. She didn't need to know how close I'd come to getting myself killed. By the time I was finished with my summary, I discovered I liked the version I told her, the one where I was in complete control from the minute I was taken from that log cabin—playing B.J. for the fool he was.

  If Kate didn't believe me, she never let on. She carefully treated the cut once she was done with shampooing and said I'd have a scar, but she didn't think I needed stitches. No problem. One more scar for my collection.

  I dressed in lightweight jeans and a yellow camp shirt, not as attractive as Kate's pale blue linen shirt and matching slacks, but comfortable. I was a little sore after the head butting and tackling I'd done last night, but surprisingly not tired.

  We left for the hospital with Kate at the wheel. She had to drive, since my car was in police impound. Kate's office is in the Medical Center, and she was the better choice to find the ever-elusive parking place anyway.

  We got lucky and found a space on the third floor of the hospital garage, then made our way through throngs of visitors and medical personnel and took the elevator to the neurology floor, where Sara Rankin had been admitted for evaluation. When we arrived at her doorway, a slew of white coats surrounded her bed—doctors' rounds going on, I assumed. We couldn't even see Sara, there were so many of them.

  An older black woman with mottled gray hair looked down at a clipboard and said, ''This patient is unusual, suffered a toxemia of pregnancy neurological event, most certainly a stroke, nearly twenty years ago. What's rare is that she may have never had
an evaluation or follow-up care. From what her longtime caretaker reported to the police, the patient was in a coma for several months postdelivery, has been aphasic and was never rehabbed. We'll be transferring her to a rehabilitation facility after our evaluation is complete. Moving on, ladies and gentlemen . . .''

  The woman looked up from her clipboard as the interns and residents began to file past us. ''You family?'' she asked.

  ''Um, no. But I was hired by family to find this woman.'' My eyes were on Sara. She wore one of those awful, hang-off-your-shoulders gowns, and though she was now thirty-five years old, she looked like a terrified child. Her walker was in a corner, far from her reach.