Dead Man Talking

by Casey Daniels

  Good thing I wasn’t a student. By the time I got to a clearing surrounded by tall oaks and hemmed in on all sides by lilacs as overgrown as the ones in Monroe Street, most of the class was already heading back the other way. There were still a couple stragglers—or brown nosers—around, and I watched as they chatted with a middle-aged woman who was gathering an armful of books.

  There was nothing all that unusual about Darcy Coleman. She was average height, with an abundance of dark, thick hair streaked with gray. It hung around her shoulders. The style wasn’t particularly flattering to a thin face scored with wrinkles. Had we passed in a more conventional setting, I probably wouldn’t have noticed Darcy at all.

  Well, except for the fact that she was wearing a long velvet robe. Purple. It brushed her bare feet.

  “Professor Coleman?” I moved in as soon as those last remaining students were gone. “I wonder if I could talk to you.”

  She glanced at a watch that graced her arm along with a dozen or more bangle bracelets. “I’ve got another group coming in just a couple minutes. Do I know you? Are you one of my students? If so, I’m guessing you’re in a pack of trouble, because I haven’t seen you in any of my classes, and part of what I grade on is attendance.”

  “I’m not a student.” I was glad, too, especially when the professor set aside her books, reached into a large duffle bag, and brought out a dozen or more tall purple candles. She handed them to me.

  “Talk,” she said, “while you help me get ready.”

  I wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity. While Darcy walked a wide circle around the center of the clearing, I followed along. And when she stopped and signaled, I handed her a candle. At each spot, she used a stick to poke a hole in the ground, placed a candle, and moved on.

  I waited until we’d set up two candles before I broached the subject. “I’m here about Jefferson Lamar,” I said.

  This wasn’t something she expected. Her eyebrows arched, she looked over her shoulder at me. “You know he’s dead.”

  “Yes, of course. But his widow—”

  “Helen.”

  “Helen thinks he was innocent.”

  Darcy stopped in her tracks, and believe me, I’m not overly sensitive or anything, but when she looked me up and down, I couldn’t help but feel a little defensive. “And she sent you to try and find out more?”

  I didn’t like her tone. Then again, I wasn’t crazy about her fashion choices, either, so I guessed there wasn’t much the professor and I had in common. I reminded myself to hold on to my temper. “I’m doing some research about Lamar. I thought if I talked to someone who knew him well . . .”

  “All these years, and Helen still won’t let it go. She wants you to prove Jeff was innocent, right?”

  “Can you help me do that?”

  She shook herself out of the initial shock that had rooted her to the spot and continued on. We didn’t stop

  “I never thought Warden Lamar was guilty,” she said.

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “I knew he was innocent. That’s all. Or I thought I knew. He wasn’t that kind of man.”

  “But there was plenty of evidence against him.”

  “The gun, you mean.”

  “And his blood at the scene.”

  “On Vera’s blouse. Yeah, I remember that.” She moved on to the next spot. “It made him look really bad. I remember how disappointed I was. I didn’t want it to be true.”

  “But you think it was.”

  “I think the jury had to make a decision based on the facts, and the facts were pretty clear.”

  “But what if he wasn’t guilty? What if someone framed him?”

  I thought maybe I’d get the kind of reaction I had from Lenny Fitzpatrick, but Darcy was more matter-of-fact than angry. “Of course, I thought of that,” she said. “I was living in California by that time, and I was pregnant and pretty sick. I couldn’t travel back for the trial, but I gave a deposition. I told the court everything I knew, and everything I knew said that Jeff was a good and honor-able man.”

  “Did you tell them you thought he’d been framed?”

  “There was no proof.”

  “But it was possible?”

  Another shrug.

  “If somebody framed him, do you have any idea who it could have been?” Her expression was sour, and I knew if I didn’t justify myself, she’d tell me to get lost. “You must have known more about what went on in that

  She grunted a laugh. “Every prisoner in there had a beef with the warden. Comes with the territory.”

  “But maybe some of them were more pissed than others?”

  This gave her pause, and we stopped in the shade of the biggest of the oaks. “I was Jeff’s secretary for six years, and I’ll tell you what: in that time, I saw my share of trouble-making prisoners. There were a couple who were worse than the others, though. Yeah.” Thinking, she narrowed her eyes. “There were a couple who were lots of trouble.”

  “Would any of them have been capable of framing Lamar?”

  This time when she laughed, there was not one bit of humor in it. “You don’t know prisoners, do you? Oh yeah, there were a few who would have loved to see Lamar get jammed up. I told the police that when they called and talked to me about the case. If they followed up on my information or not, I can’t say. I only know that if they did, they must not have found anything, because Jeff was the one who was arrested, and he was the one who was convicted.”

  “It’s possible things might look different now. I mean, a lot of time has passed. If you could give me some names . . .”

  I don’t know if she was going to agree or not because at that very moment, five other women entered the clearing. They were all middle-aged and all dressed pretty much as Darcy was, in long robes. I’d held my curiosity in check long enough.

  “What in the world—”

  Darcy’s smile sparkled. “We’re doing a croning ceremony,”

  “Will it get me the names of the prisoners you think might have framed Jefferson Lamar?”

  Darcy didn’t answer. In fact, all she did was smile.

  Right before she and all the other women there stripped off their robes.

  Every single one of them was stark naked underneath.

  8

  Do I even need to say how fast I got out of there? Of course I don’t. Just like I don’t need to mention that not even a bunch of middle-aged naked babes were enough to scare me into giving up—not when Darcy Coleman had already mentioned prisoners who were more trouble than most, ones who might have hated him enough to frame Jefferson Lamar.

  Making sure I was nowhere near where I could catch so much as a glimpse of those women in all their crone-like glory, I hung around the sports complex until I saw a couple of them (back in their robes, thank goodness) heading for their cars. Before Darcy was in the parking lot, I was already closing in on her.

  “Did we make you uncomfortable?” She unlocked the trunk of her sea green Prius and deposited the candles and her books inside. “That wasn’t our intention, you know. We’re simply celebrating our femininity. You take it for granted when you’re young.” She shot me a

  “Which is why I want to find out more about those prisoners you said might have had it in for Jefferson Lamar. Once I have their names, I’ll be smarter, right? And wisdom—”

  Darcy laughed. “Thank goodness you’re not one of my students. You’d be trouble in class.”

  “I always was.” I left out the part about how it wasn’t because I’d ever challenged my professors to see things in a different light. “You said you’d give me names.”

  “I never did.” She unlocked her car and opened the driver’s door so it would cool off inside before she climbed in. “But . . . well . . . maybe I can help you.”

  It was exactly what I was hoping she’d say, and I was ready for her. I already had a notebook in my hands and I clicked open a pen.

  “The first one that comes to mind is Mack Raphael, of
course,” she said. “But that’s just because I see him on TV all the time.” I guess my next question was evident in my huh expression because she went right on. “You know, Bad Dog Raphael, he owns a used car lot in Cleveland somewhere. He’s in his own commercials. You must have seen them. Seems like every time I turn on the TV, they’re running one.”

  Now that she mentioned it, that did sound familiar. “This Bad Dog guy, he used to be a prisoner?”

  “One of the worst. I don’t remember details, but I think he was at Central State because of aggravated assault or something like that. Something violent. It wasn’t his first offense, either. It’s funny, really. Every time I see one of those commercials, I find myself thinking about Warden Lamar. He was a big believer in rehabilitation,

  “Anyway,” Darcy continued, “at the time I had to deal with Mack Raphael, he was one nasty guy with attitude to spare. He came to the office once for a disciplinary hearing and asked me if I wanted to duck into the men’s room for a quickie. Can you believe the nerve?” She shivered at the memory.

  “Raphael had gang connections, in and out of the prison, and even though Warden Lamar could never prove anything for certain, he suspected Bad Dog was running drugs from the inside. You know, sending orders out to his gang through visitors, making calls to arrange drug buys, even smuggling the stuff in and distributing it in the prison. Bad Dog was smart, but Warden Lamar was smarter. Once he clamped down on Raphael and started monitoring visits and phone calls, it must have hurt business, because Bad Dog freaked. Warden Lamar didn’t need more proof than that. He knew he’d closed Mack Raphael down.”

  “Which must have pissed this Bad Dog guy off.”

  “Big time.”

  “Then you think he was the one who—”

  “Oh, he wasn’t the only one. Not by a long shot. I was thinking about it. You know, while I was picking up the candles and putting everything in order back at the clearing. There were other prisoners who were mad at the world and wanted to take out their anger on the warden. Take Teddy Johnson, for example, though I don’t think it’s possible he could have framed Warden Lamar.”

  I wrote down the name right under Mack Raphael’s. “Tell me about him, anyway,” I said, and when Darcy looked at me, I sparkled. “Wisdom. It will help me gain wisdom.”

  I had a feeling she was sorry that she ever mentioned it. She sighed. “Teddy had a temper. He was in the warden’s office regularly, and once, he actually went across the desk at Warden Lamar. Needed four guards to haul him off.”

  “Then you think Teddy might have—”

  She shook her head. “No, like I said, he couldn’t have done it. Teddy ended up getting shanked in the cafeteria line. He died right there on the floor. But that was long before Warden Lamar was accused of killing Vera. Had to be, because I was still at the prison then. So, no. Teddy was already dead by the time Warden Lamar was arrested. He couldn’t have been the one who framed him.” She was so sure, I crossed Teddy off the list.

  “I thought of Rodney Beers, too, but . . .” Again, she shook her head and again, I felt my hopes rise, then fall flat. “No way it could have been Rodney. At least not the way I see it. He was in Central State at the time of the warden’s arrest, and I hear he was one of the guys who cheered the loudest when he heard the news. But one of the guards I kept in touch with told me that Rodney found religion a few years later. As part of his repentance, he confessed to every crime he ever committed, including a couple murders.”

  “But he never said a word about framing Jefferson Lamar.”

  “You’re quick.” She smiled. “Maybe you’re already on your way to finding wisdom.”

  I wished.

  I tapped my pen against the notepad. “So if we eliminate

  “And Reno Bob Oates!” Her eyes lit. “I’d forgotten all about him. Good old, Reno! He once held up a bank and said he had a bomb. The cops never did find one, but Bob, he had them convinced. Held everyone in the bank hostage for a couple days. Bob was a colorful guy with a larger-than-life personality and a record as long as my arm. He had a beef with the system. Bob always had a beef with somebody or something. Anyway, the whole bank robbery turned into a media circus, and Bob became something of a celebrity with the prison groupies. A lot of people thought he was charming. I can’t say I agree. Bob had a vicious side. Rumor had it he slit a guy’s throat over a card game out in Nevada. That’s how he got his nickname.”

  Thinking back, she tipped her head. “Bob really enjoying being in the spotlight, and believe it or not, a number of reporters from magazines and newspapers came to interview him at Central State. Three cheers for Warden Lamar: he saw that the more publicity Bob got, the more glamorous the whole life-of-crime thing looked to kids. He put a stop to it. No more interviews. No more phone calls from fans. Bob promised he’d get even. I was there when he said it. He swore Warden Lamar would regret what he’d done to him to his dying day. I can’t say if the warden did or not. I do know that I heard just recently that Bob is out of prison, living up in Cleveland somewhere.”

  “Then you think Reno Bob could have—”

  “I can’t say. Not really.” Darcy got her car keys out of the pocket of her purple robe. “This is all just me thinking out loud. And it all happened so long ago, I might not even be getting the details right. None of it proves a thing.”

  “No. Of course not. But at least it gives me a place to start.”

  “Start? You’re not going to—” She wasn’t wearing shoes, and Darcy was shorter than me to begin with. She backed up and gave me a long, deliberate look. “You don’t know these people,” she said. “And don’t tell me once you do, you’ll gain wisdom. That’s not the kind of wisdom anyone with a brain is looking for. Yes, like Warden Lamar, I do believe criminals can be rehabilitated. I hope every single one I’ve ever met is living a fulfilling, productive life. But I’m not stupid, and just from talking to you, I don’t think you are, either. If you start poking your nose where it doesn’t belong and asking questions about these guys and their lives and their crimes, it’s likely you’re going to annoy somebody. And these people can be dangerous.”

  “Which is exactly why I’m not going anywhere near any of them. I promise.” I smiled when I said this, the better to fool her into believing me and myself into ignoring the shiver of fear that snaked up my spine when she talked about bombs and drug running and guys with prison records that made my dad’s pale by comparison. “I’m just looking for the truth,” I assured her.

  “The truth?” Darcy grunted a laugh. “The only truth you’ll ever find is in here,” she said, pressing one hand to her heart. “And once you find that . . . well, you won’t need to search for wisdom anymore. You’ll have all you’ll ever need.”

  Whatever that meant.

  Just for the record, Quinn is a mighty good kisser. Not that I’m into comparisons or anything, but I’ve been kissed by a lot of guys in my time, and I know what’s

  Quinn rates right up there with the best, and at that very moment, I could pretty much prove it because his arms were around me, his mouth was on mine, and my toes were tingling.

  The rest of me was all set to go along for the ride when something over his shoulder caught my eye.

  “Bad Dog . . .” Sounding all rough and tough, the voice thundered through the room. “Good cars!” It finished the slogan on a gentler, happier note.

  I shot up in bed. “It’s the Bad Dog used-car commercial!”

  Quinn had been snuggled up nice and close, his bare chest against mine, and when I sat up, he was forced to roll to one side. He looked over his shoulder at the TV we’d flicked on when we came into my bedroom so he could catch the score of the Indians game. “You’re watching a used-car commercial? We’ve been in bed for—”

  “Shhh!” I put out one hand to keep him from talking and waited for Mack Raphael to appear. He was a good-looking, middle-aged guy with thick, dark hair and a scar over his left eye that made him look interesting and dangerous all at the s
ame time. He wore an expensive suit with a dark T-shirt underneath.

  “Need a car? Credit bad? You don’t think Bad Dog Raphael is going to let that stop him, do you? I won’t let anything stand between you and reliable transportation. Come on in to Bad Dog’s Big Car Nation.”

  The shot switched to Raphael outside on his lot, waving in perfect unison with a mechanical dog that sat in a car on top of a twenty-foot pole. It was a big, ugly, laughing bulldog with a serious overbite. “We’ll get you the car you need at a price you can afford. After all, I

  The scene switched to the baseball game, and yeah, I should have gone back to doing what I’d been doing before the commercial started. But honest, I couldn’t help myself. I had my very own expert on criminals right there in bed with me, and it was too good of an opportunity to let pass.

  I flopped back against my pillow. “Do you suppose people know he’s an ex-con?” I asked.

  Right before he dropped onto the pillow next to mine, a muscle twitched at the base of Quinn’s jaw. “Sorry you’re so bored.”

  I wasn’t, and it wasn’t fair for him to make that kind of snap judgment. I sat up again, just long enough to fluff my pillow. “You’re the one who wanted to see the score of the game.”

  “And I saw it, and the Indians are winning for a change, so as far as I’m concerned, we could really turn the TV—”

  “There.” The remote was closest to me so I grabbed it and turned off the TV. “Happy?”

  “Apparently happier than you.”

  I flipped to my left side so that I could glare at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Good.” I didn’t like his sourpuss expression, so if he was any other guy, I would have told him to get dressed and get out of there. But this was Quinn, and remember what I said about what a good kisser he was? He did a whole lot of things really well, and I wasn’t about to waste the opportunity to have him demonstrate. I scooted closer and skimmed a finger over his collar bone. “Now that we’re both happy, can we get back to doing what we were doing?”