“Call over to Alltech tomorrow morning. They’re probably closed by now. See if you can set up a meeting with Joe Chambers sometime tomorrow afternoon.”
“On it,” Harper said as she took the piece of paper. “But what should I tell him if he wants to know why you want to meet him?”
“Tell him the truth,” I said with a flip of my hand. “Tell him I’m Randall McLanahan’s daughter and that I just have some questions about the case.” I thought for a moment, then turned back around to face her. “But don’t mention that I’m a private investigator.”
“Okey dokey,” she said with a smile.
I went downstairs and looked into the fridge for something to make for dinner. I hadn’t been to the grocery in over a week, so there was nothing I could throw together for a decent meal. I hollered up the stairs at Harper.
“Want Wah Mei for dinner?”
“You know it,” she shouted down at me. “Beef and broccoli. Steamed rice. Extra sauce.”
I called Wah Mei, the only Chinese restaurant in town that delivered, and placed an order for Harper’s beef and broccoli and my General Tso, also extra sauce.
We ate on the sofa with our feet propped up on the coffee table as we watched Dancing with the Stars, marveling at Valentin Chmerkovsky’s physique.
***
Harper had used her magic skills to talk the retired Detective Joe Chambers into meeting with me the next day on his lunch break. I left the house and headed toward Pine Street. Alltech was one of the largest corporations in Lexington, and one of the many companies they held was the Town Branch Distillery, where the former detective was now posted. As soon as I entered the brewery, the smell of fermented yeast and barley went straight to my head and nearly knocked me over. I wondered how anyone could work with such strong smells surrounding them, but reasoned you must get used to it after a while.
I went to the reception desk and gave my name.
“Yes,” said the spindly young girl sitting on a small rolling chair. “Mr. Chambers is waiting for you in his office.”
She guided me down through the brewery, past the large vats of brewing beer and up a flight of stairs to a large door with a sign that said ‘Joe Chambers, Chief of Security’. She knocked on the door with her knobby knuckles and announced my presence.
“Come in,” said a gruff voice behind the door.
Skinny Girl opened the door to reveal a portly man, who sat behind a metal desk covered in paperwork and dozens of golf-related trinkets, and then turned to leave. He wheeled around in his chair and pushed himself up out of the chair with some effort and a groan.
“These old knees,” he grumbled as he half-limped around the desk and extended his meaty hand toward me. “Name’s Chambers, Joe Chambers. You must be Mrs…”
“Carter,” I answered for him. “But you can just call me Libby.”
The retired detective ambled back around to his chair and plopped down heavily, like a sack of potatoes. “Your assistant told me you wanted to speak with me about your father’s case. Randall Terrance McLanahan. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I have to admit, Libby. It’s not very often I am contacted by the relative of a man I put behind bars. At least not twenty years after the fact. What is it I can do for you?”
“I just, well…” How was I going to explain my interest in Randy’s case without telling him my real purpose for interviewing him? “Well, I only recently went to see him for the first time this summer. I have intentionally avoided hearing or thinking about his case for twenty years. Now, I guess I’m just curious.” I didn’t want to tell Chambers that Randy was proclaiming his innocence.
“I get it. Really, I do. So what can I help you with?” He leaned back in his big leather chair and crossed his hands behind his head.
“For starters, what made him your first and only suspect?”
This seemed to catch him off guard. The look on his face changed from one of helpfulness to indignation. “What makes you think he was our only suspect?”
I couldn’t tell him I’d already read the investigative file. There had been no mention of any other suspects from beginning to end. Instead, I had to wing it.
“Oh, I’m just assuming, since he was arrested so quickly after the last murder. That’s all.”
His face changed again. He appeared satisfied with my answer. “We had other suspects, of course…” Lie. “But in the end, your father was seen arguing with the last victim, Shiloh Blackwater, at a truck stop near Dry Ridge. We did some background digging on him and realized he had no alibi for the times the women disappeared. Plus, he fit the profile.”
“Profile?” I put on my best dumb-blonde performance. “What does that mean?”
Chambers leaned forward on his desk with a smile. I could see the pleasure he was taking in reliving his old cop days. “The FBI put together a profile for us of the I-75 Strangler. White. Married with kids. Traveling job that kept him away from home. Religious. Highly intelligent. Once we dug into your father’s history and interviewed him, well, he fit the bill.”
“And so you thought he was guilty, just because he fit a profile? Aren’t there thousands of men who could fit the same description?”
If he was offended by my question, it didn’t show.
“Sure, that’s true. But those thousands of other men didn’t live smack dab in the middle of the kill zone and—”
“Kill zone?”
“Yeah, we had this big map, you see, with red push pins where each woman had been abducted and a black one for where they were dumped. It made a big circle and your father lived and worked right in the middle of that circle. Make sense?”
“Sure.”
“Anyway, not only was he in the kill zone, but as I said earlier, he was seen with Shiloh Blackwater at the truck stop from which she vanished. The witness picked him out of a lineup. With no alibi for any of the abductions, it was obvious he was our guy.”
I had seen the witness statement in the file, but had not had time to read it. I made a mental note to do so when I got home, and to have Harper track down the witness for me to speak with.
“I see. I guess that makes sense. What about physical evidence?”
He leaned back again. “You sure have a lot of questions, darlin’. You sure you’re not working some angle here?”
“No angle. I just have to know for my own peace of mind. I need closure.”
“Well, I guess that makes sense. If my father was a serial killer, I’d want closure too. As for physical evidence, well, we had the coroner’s report on all the bodies. He determined they were all strangled by some sort of soft clothing or blanket, and we found a scarf in the cabin of your father’s truck. Coroner felt confident it was the likely murder weapon.”
I hadn’t seen any mention of the scarf in the file I’d read, but then again, I hadn’t been through it with a fine-tooth comb yet. “What about fibers from the scarf? Were there any on any of the victims?”
“No. No fibers, unfortunately. It was a red silk scarf. But what man keeps a silky woman’s scarf in their work truck in the middle of summer?”
Good point.
“Will that be all, Mrs…Libby?” He stood and started walking toward me with his arm extended. “Lunch break’s about over and I’ve got some work to catch up on.”
I let him guide me out of his office gently, but turned to face him again, once we were on the landing of the staircase. “Actually, I have one more question.”
“I’m all ears.”
“What about his confession?”
He looked genuinely perplexed. “What about it?”
“Didn’t you find it odd?”
“Odd in what sense?”
“Well, it was awfully convenient, don’t you think?”
His face clearly reflected defensiveness, whether he meant for it to or not. He shook his head. “I certainly don’t know what you mean by convenient, Mrs. Carter.”
Uh-oh. Back to my formal name.
He was no longer in a sharing mood, I could sense. But I wasn’t about to drop the issue. Not when I was speaking to one of the people responsible for my father’s predicament, if he was, in fact, innocent.
“What I mean is, there was no physical evidence, only one witness, and all you really had against him was that he fit a certain profile. Without his confession, you would have been facing an uphill battle at trial.”
“I see.” He ran his hand through what remained of his white hair and let out a deep breath. “Okay, Mrs. Carter, look. I’m sorry for what your father’s actions have put you through. You must have had a tough life. But I can assure you, your father is as guilty as they come. His confession was just icing on the cake. If you’re looking for some cause to champion, choose another one. Your father is a lost cause. He’s in prison where he belongs. Now, if you don’t mind…”
Realizing I would get nothing more out of the retired detective, I nodded my head politely and excused myself from the building.
On the way home, I called Harper and asked her to find the witness statement, see if she could track him or her down, and reach out to them to see if they were willing to speak to me. Something was starting to feel all wrong. In my cursory review of the attorney’s file and my all-too-brief conversation with the investigating detective, one thing was becoming alarmingly clear. My father’s spontaneous confession was likely the only reason he was behind bars.
Chapter 7
Harper tracked down the witness, one Alma Jean Glover, and talked her into speaking with me. Harper texted me the address for a restaurant in Dry Ridge, about fifty miles south of Lexington off I-75. It took me all of an hour to get to Beans Café & Bakery on Broadway Street, thanks to construction in the southbound lanes. I had never been to Dry Ridge, let alone Beans, but I was glad Harper had picked this place to meet Ms. Glover. As soon as I entered, the delicious smell of freshly-baked pastries and donuts enveloped me. Almost as good as a Yankee Candle store.
I sat down at a table near the entrance, told the hostess I was waiting for someone, and asked her to bring me a coffee with creamer and sugar. She returned after just a few minutes with a white ceramic cup filled with piping hot coffee, just as I’d ordered it.
I didn’t have to wait long. I had no idea what Mrs. Glover looked like, but somehow, I knew her the instant she walked in. She was a squat, round woman with thick-rimmed glasses, which rested on pudgy cheeks. She waddled through the door, huffing and puffing as if every step was a journey. I knew it was her by the way she looked around the small restaurant. When her squinty eyes landed on me, she smiled and waved tentatively. I wiggled my fingers at her and then motioned for her to join me.
She ambled over to the table. “You must be Libby.”
I stood and extended my hand. “Yes, ma’am. And you must be Mrs. Glover.”
She swatted my words out of the air with a pudgy hand. “Pffft. Call me Alma. No need for formalities.”
I gestured toward the empty chair across from me. “Please, have a seat.”
She slung her large black purse over the back of the chair and then plopped down in the seat.
“Would you care for some coffee?” I asked politely.
“I’d love some, thank you.”
I waved at the waitress, who hurried over to our table and asked if she could get us something else.
“Coffee,” said Alma. “Black, please.”
The waitress nodded and left us alone at the table.
“So, your assistant said you wanted to speak with me about Randall Terrance McLanahan.”
“Yes,” I said. “He’s my father.”
Alma’s eyes went wide as pancakes. “Oh, I see. Well, what can I possibly do for you, Libby?”
“Well, you see, I’m just curious about what you saw that night at the truck stop. Do you mind talking to me about that?”
“No, but I hardly see how this is going to help you, Libby. I’m sorry to say this, but your father is a monster. Now, that’s no reflection on you and I don’t hold the sins of the father against the child. Who would? But what exactly do you want from me?”
“I’m just trying to make sense of it all,” I said, hanging my head a little lower.
“It’s been twenty years,” Alma said matter-of-factly. “Why now?”
I had to think fast. I couldn’t tell this woman my father had hired me to prove his innocence. She would likely not help me then. “I just need closure.”
“Ah,” she said, leaning back in her chair and resting her hands on top of her big belly. “That I understand. So how can I help you?”
“I just want to know what you saw. I’ve read your witness statement, but I’d like to hear it from you.”
Just then the waitress arrived with Alma’s coffee and two menus. I laid mine down, not feeling a bit hungry, but Alma picked hers up and stared at it. I couldn’t help but notice how closely she held the menu to her face. Even with her glasses on, she was nearly blind, it appeared.
“I think I’ll have the blueberry scone,” she told the waitress with a smile.
“Um,” said the waitress bashfully. “We don’t have blueberry scones. Perhaps you meant the blackberry scone?”
“Yes, yes. I’m sorry,” Alma said with a self-conscious chuckle. “I must have misspoken. The blackberry scone will do just fine. Libby, do you want anything?”
“No, thank you. I just ate.” I hadn’t, but I just wasn’t hungry at the time.
After the waitress scuttled away, Alma looked at me plainly. “Now, where were we?”
“Your witness statement?”
“Oh, yes, that. Well, as I told the police…mind you, this was twenty-odd years ago…but as I told the police, I was on my way to Pigeon Forge—that’s in Tennessee—and anyway, I stopped at the big truck stop there on the exit ramp off I-75 to get some snacks. I always go to the truck stops, if I can. They have more to choose from. Anyway, I parked near the entrance…safety first…but when I got out of my car, I heard two people shouting, a man and a woman. It was coming from the back of the parking lot, so I turned and looked and that’s when I saw the man and woman yelling at each other. They were standing in front of one of those big eighteen-wheeler trucks. I thought it was strange, but what could I do? So I went on inside and grabbed my snacks and checked out. When I got back outside, I looked out of curiosity to see if the couple was still there, but the truck was gone. So were the man and woman. I shrugged it off as some domestic dispute and thought nothing of it, until one day I was watching the news and I saw that girl’s picture on the TV screen. The news said she’d been found dead in a ditch along the interstate. I knew it was the same girl I’d seen arguing with that man. Poor girl.” Alma clutched the silver cross on her bosom and bowed her head, as if saying a silent prayer for the girl, whom I knew to be Shiloh Blackwater, the killer’s last victim.
“What happened next?”
“Well, I called the police, of course. Told them how I’d seen that poor girl arguing with a man at the truck stop. I gave a description of the man to a sketch artist. And that was that. Well, that is, until that detective called me a few weeks later.”
“Detective Chambers?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“Why did Detective Chambers call you?”
“Well, he wanted me to identify the…your father…in a lineup.”
“And did you?”
“Yes. I drove down to Lexington one day in…September, I think…and they put me in this tiny room with a large window. Then they turned on the lights and brought in five or six guys and he asked me to point out the man I’d seen with that girl at the truck stop.”
The waitress returned with Alma’s scone on a small white plate and laid it in front of her. Alma thanked her politely.
“And you identified my father in the line-up?”
Alma shoved the scone into her mouth and chewed for a few seconds before she answered me. “Yes. I’m sorry. This is quite uncomfortable. But yes, your father was defini
tely the one I saw at the truck stop with that girl.”
“Shiloh Blackwater?”
“Yes!” she said, pointing a meaty finger at me. “That’s the one. Poor, poor girl. She didn’t deserve what that monster did to her. Oh…” She looked at me with what I perceived as genuine regret. “I’m so sorry, darlin’. I know this must be hard on you. But I know what I saw.”
“I understand. It’s okay. Can I ask you one more question?”
“Of course.”
I had to tread lightly. I didn’t want to offend Alma, but I had a job to do. “Alma, have you always worn glasses?”
“Yes, but I don’t understand…” Alma’s face changed from one of confusion to one of sudden awareness. “Oh, I see where you’re going with this. Yes, I’ve always worn glasses, but no, I did not make a mistake.” The tone of her voice had changed too. Gone was the syrupy sweet tea voice; in its place, something harsher and colder. “I can’t imagine how hard it must be for you, being the daughter of a serial killer, but I assure you, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I saw your father yelling at that girl the same night she was murdered. Sure as I’m seeing you right now. The police knew I was telling the truth. Your father got what he deserved. Better, actually. He should have gotten the electric chair for what he did to those poor, innocent girls.”
I couldn’t help myself. “The electric chair hasn’t been used in thirty years.”
She looked at me with squinty, piercing eyes. “I think we’re done here. Waitress!”
“I didn’t mean to offend you, Alma. I’m simply trying to find the truth.”
“The truth is that your father is a serial killer. It’s been twenty years. Let sleeping dogs lie. Accept the truth and get on with your life.”
“Here,” I said, laying a ten-dollar bill down on the table between us. “It’s on me.”
“I don’t want your money. Just don’t ever contact me again.”
“I’m sorry, Alma. I really am.” And with that, I left Alma sitting there at the table and walked out of the restaurant toward my car.
I slid behind the wheel and turned on the heat and warmed my hands in front of the vents. I sat there in the parking lot of Beans, thinking over what I’d just learned. I watched as Alma exited the restaurant and fumbled with the keys to her minivan. She finally found the right key and screeched out of the parking lot, leaving a plume of gravel and dust in her wake.
Family Ties (Flesh & Blood Trilogy Book 2) Page 6