On my drive back to Nicholasville, I contemplated everything Alma had said. It was one of two things. Either Alma was right and she had correctly identified my father, in which case, Randy was arguing loudly with the last victim the same night she was murdered. Or, Alma had incorrectly identified Randy, due to her horrible eyesight, and she had hammered the final nail in a possibly innocent man’s coffin. But if it wasn’t Randy she had seen that night, who was it?
Just as all these thoughts were beginning to overwhelm me, my cell phone rang. It was a collect call from the prison, which meant it was Randy.
“Hello,” I said after the prerecorded message ended.
“Libs?” I still hated when he called me that, but I was tired of correcting him. “You there?”
“Yes, Randy. I’m here. What do you want?”
“I just wanted to see how you were doing…with the investigation, that is. Found out anything useful?”
I told him how I’d retrieved his file from Mr. Hayes, spoken with the detective on his case, and interviewed the sole witness to his alleged confrontation with the final victim.
He drew in a deep breath and let it out. “That wasn’t me,” he said.
While it was true Alma Jean Glover was blind as a bat, she had still identified him in the police lineup. I said as much.
“That proves it!” he nearly shouted into the phone.
“What proves what?”
“If she can’t see very well, that explains how she mistakenly identified me. That’s great, Libs. You can use that, can’t you?”
“Maybe. But she was very unhappy with me when I suggested as much to her. She’ll stand by her story and swear it was you, so it’s a double-edged sword. I don’t know what else to do, Randy.”
“You’ll come up with something. I believe in you. Plus, I’m innocent. Please don’t give up on me yet.”
“I’m not giving up, Randy. It’s just…do you promise me you’re innocent?”
“As God is my witness. I’m innocent. I wouldn’t put you in this position if I weren’t. I wouldn’t send you on a wild goose chase. Why would I do that? Why would I mess with you like that? No, Libs. I wouldn’t waste your time or mine.”
“Randy, can I ask you something else?”
“Shoot, kiddo.”
“What about the scarf?”
“Oh, that.”
“Yeah, that. The police report says they found a red silk scarf in your truck. That’s a lady’s scarf. Why would you have that in your truck? Especially since it was summer?”
“I honestly don’t know how that got there. I promise you. I had never seen that scarf before in my life. Not until they laid it out in front of me at the police station during an interview. I don’t know where it came from. You have to believe me.”
“All right,” I said, although I truly didn’t know what to believe at that point.
The prerecorded voice came on with its standard thirty-second warning.
“I’ve got to go, Randy.”
“Libs, just promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Promise me you won’t give up on me. Promise me you will do everything in your power to clear my name. I’m innocent. I thought I could do it, but—”
The line went dead.
What did he mean by I thought I could do it? He must have been referring to the fact he had confessed to several horrific crimes he allegedly didn’t commit. But that still begged the question…why on earth would he confess to something so terrible? He had told me previously that he didn’t want to face the death penalty, but everything I had learned so far told me the police didn’t really have that strong of a case against him. All they had was some inconclusive forensic evidence, a scarf, the FBI profile, and the word of a woman who I now knew was almost completely blind. Not nearly enough to convict a man, a former preacher with no criminal history whatsoever, of nine murders.
I pondered this the whole drive from Dry Ridge toward Nicholasville. The more I thought about everything, the more confused I became. My head was swimming with contradictory thoughts. Either my father was really guilty or he had been railroaded by the police. Either way, he had confessed. How was I ever going to overcome his own words? True, people recanted their confessions all the time. Some even eventually won their freedom through DNA evidence. But there was no DNA evidence in his case. All I had so far was a tiny bit of doubt. Not even reasonable doubt, as is the court system’s standard for proving innocence. So what would it take for me to clear his name? No judge was going to throw out his conviction and set him free based on a few flimsy points of doubt. The only thing I could come up with was that I would have to find the real killer. But how was I supposed to do that all by myself when the police with all their resources had failed?
I had to clear my mind and start from scratch. The only way I could think of to do that was to find a quiet place to think. And maybe have a few drinks. I pulled off the Richmond exit. Richmond was where my mother still lived. But I wasn’t in the mood to talk to Mom. I was in the mood to drink my worries away. So I pulled into the parking lot of Willie’s, a little dive of a bar where I had drunk away my fears earlier in the summer while trying to find Ryan’s real killer. Perhaps here I could find some peace and quiet. And maybe some answers at the bottom of a beer bottle.
Chapter 8
After calling Harper to let her know I’d be in late and then Dani to bring her up to speed, I entered Willie’s and was relieved to see the place nearly empty. The décor was simple and eclectic. Mismatched stools, faded carpet, and neon beer signs. I chose a stool at the end of a bar. The bartender was a burly woman with brown hair. The spikes of her short do were bleached blonde. Both her ears were pierced all the way from the lobe to the cartilage and she wore a too-tight black tank top, which rolled up at the bottom, revealing an overly tanned muffin top.
“What’ll you have?” she asked with a husky voice, thick with years of hard drinking and smoking.
“I’ll have a Blue Moon with orange.”
“Sorry, we only got Bud and Miller on tap. But I can pour it in a glass for you.”
“That’s fine.”
She turned her back, grabbed a bottle, and poured the rich golden liquid into a tall glass. She garnished it with a slice of orange and slid it across the bar.
“Thanks,” I said quietly as I gulped down the cold bitter substance.
My sour mood must have been evident on my face. The bartender, either out of genuine concern, sheer boredom, or morbid curiosity, asked me if I was okay.
“Long day,” I said curtly in hopes she would give up and leave me alone. I wasn’t in the mood for company.
But she did not take the hint. “Wanna talk about it?” She laid her dirty towel down on the bar and leaned with both hands in my direction.
No, I thought, I don’t. But I’ve never been good at being mean or hurting other people’s feelings. Plus, I did sort of need to work through my thought process. What the hell, I reasoned.
I blew a stray hair out of my face. “I’m a private investigator.” Saying it out loud did not make it feel any more real. I’d only had my license a few months—my Kentucky license having come through just in time for me to start taking on clients—and I still felt insecure about my new job.
“How cool,” said the bartender. She reached out her hand. “Name’s Jo. What’s yours?”
“Libby.”
“Pretty name. So what’s got you so blue, Libby?”
When I just shrugged my shoulders and didn’t answer right away, Jo persisted
“Listening is part of my job description. I like to consider myself an amateur beer therapist.”
That made me smile and warm to this strange lady. I figured there was no harm in sharing the vague details of Randy’s case. Perhaps an unbiased ear was exactly what I needed.
“All right,” I sat up straighter on my stool. “I have this case…” I failed to mention it was really my only case at the time, or t
hat my client was my serial-killer father. “This man was convicted of murder many years ago. But he’s hired me to prove his innocence. I’m trying. The only problem is, I have nothing to go on. Nothing substantial, anyway.”
“Wowza,” she exclaimed. “That’s not something I’ve ever heard before. So how do you plan on proving his innocence?”
“That’s just the thing,” I continued. “I have no earthly idea. I’ve interviewed everyone I can think of, including the lead detective on the case and a witness—who, by the way, turns out to be blind as a bat.”
“Well, that’s good for your case, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but it’s not enough. To overturn a conviction, you have to prove their innocence beyond all reasonable doubt. Problem is, he confessed.”
“Oh, now that is a real problem.”
“Yeah, and there’s no DNA evidence to test to prove his innocence. The only conceivable thing I can do is to find the real killer.”
“Holy shit, that’s heavy.” Jo’s attention was diverted when a new customer walked in and sat down at the other end of the bar. “One sec,” she said, holding up a meaty forefinger covered in silver rings.
She tended to the newest patron and then returned to where I was sitting. “So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t. Here’s the kicker. Not only do I have to prove he’s innocent, I have to prove he’s innocent of nine murders.”
Jo’s face went nearly white. “Nine?” She seemed to ponder something and then it appeared a lightbulb had gone off in her spiky head. “Wait a minute. Are you talking about the I-75 Strangler?”
“The one and only.” I took another big gulp of my beer.
“No fucking way! Not only do I know about that case, I went to high school with that guy…the killer. His name is Randall McLanahan, right? But we called him Randy. I’m from Irvine, same hometown as that guy.”
Now this was an interesting development. I had never talked to anyone who knew Randy. His parents—my grandparents—had died when I was ten and he had no siblings. My mother had been my sole source of information on the subject of my father, and that wasn’t saying much. Mom could be quite secretive when she wanted to be. Then, my very own little lightbulb went off.
“Really? Well, maybe you can help me, then.”
“How could I help you? I mean, no offense, but your client is guilty as sin. And besides, I barely knew him in high school. He was a year ahead of me. I only knew him because everyone knew him. He was sort of a big thing. Football star…very popular. That is, well, that was before…”
“Before what?”
“There was this one incident in his senior year. No one ever really figured out what happened, but there was this girl. She was maybe a freshman, I think. Anyway, she was sort of obsessed with Randy. Hung all over him like stink on shit.”
“So he had a girlfriend?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that. It was obvious to everyone it was one-sided. Rumors started to spread that she finally cornered him at a party after a big football game. Word had it he had had a few beers too many and I guess he gave in to temptation. Of course, after that, the girl thought they were an item. But you know how that sort of thing goes.”
“No, tell me.”
“This girl started walking around school telling everyone she was dating the hottest senior. It was really kind of sad, because we all knew he wanted nothing to do with her. A few weeks went by and the girl became the laughingstock of the school. There was even this one incident in the cafeteria…”
“What happened?” I found I was literally sitting on the edge of my seat.
“Well, Randy was already sitting down at the table with a couple of his football buddies. The girl came up to the table with her tray, looking all sad but hopeful with these big doe eyes. ‘Can I sit with you?’ she asked. Then, right in front of the whole cafeteria, Randy looked at his buddies, who were all laughing hysterically, then he looked at the girl and said, ‘Go away, you pathetic loser.’ The whole cafeteria heard it and everyone started laughing. The girl dropped her tray and ran off in tears. No one ever saw her again after that.”
“Wait…what do you mean, no one ever saw her again after that?”
“I mean she never returned to school. She had no real friends, so no one paid much attention or tried to find out what happened to her.”
I could tell Jo was thinking something she wasn’t saying out loud.
“What else, Jo? What are you not saying?”
Jo leaned across the bar to where we were almost nose-to-nose. It was a little uncomfortable, but I didn’t want to back away and offend her.
“It’s just weird, don’t you think? I mean, this girl made Randy look stupid in front of the whole school with her clingy, needy talk about being his girlfriend. Then she just vanishes? Into thin air? No one hears anything about her ever again. It’s like she never existed. Don’t you think, considering what we know now about Randy, it’s possible he…you know…did something to her?”
It took me a few seconds to register what she was suggesting. But once I processed it, it was very clear. She was suggesting Randy had been the reason this poor girl disappeared…that he had possibly killed her. But that was ludicrous, wasn’t it?
“Surely there’s some rational explanation,” I countered. “Maybe she just moved away or changed schools since she was humiliated.”
“That’s the thing, though. There’s only one high school in Irvine. She couldn’t have changed schools.”
“Well, was there an investigation? Like, by the police?”
“Not that I know of. But everyone in school started to whisper that maybe Randy had done something to the girl. He never talked about her again, and then he graduated and no one ever heard from him again, either. To this day, people whisper about the poor girl who disappeared. Especially after he was arrested for killing nine women. At our last reunion, it was basically all anyone talked about.”
I knew then and there what I had to do. If she was still alive, I’d have to find her. It may have no connection to my father’s current case, but it sure might answer a lot of unanswered questions. “Do you remember her name?”
“Amy something. I think. I don’t have a clue about her last name. She was a freshman, I think.”
There was a brief moment of silence. There must be a way to track down this girl. Then a thought hit me. “Wait, I bet she’s in my mom’s yearbooks…if she still has them, that is. She went to Estill County High School too.”
“Really? What’s her name?”
“It used to be Kaye Barrett.” I still wasn’t ready to tell Jo that Randy was my father.
“No, I don’t remember her, sorry. But I’ve got my old yearbooks too. Here’s my number. Call me if you can’t find your mom’s. I’ll bring mine here to the bar tomorrow and we can look through them together.”
I could tell she was excited at the prospect of helping solve a mystery—probably the most exciting thing to happen in her boring life so far. But she had provided me with a lot of information about Randy I hadn’t had, so for that, I was grateful and willing to let her help.
I took the napkin with Jo’s scribbly handwritten phone number and stuffed it in my purse. “I’ve got to go. Thanks so much for the helpful information.” I laid a five-dollar bill down to cover the beer and a couple dollars’ tip for Jo.
“Like I said,” she hollered at me as I walked toward the exit of the bar. “Call me if you need those yearbooks.”
Thankfully, I was okay to drive, since I hadn’t even finished my first beer. Also, Mom’s house was only about a mile from Willie’s. It was nearly nine thirty. I knew Mom would be getting ready for bed, but I couldn’t wait. I knocked several times before Mom appeared in her pink silk robe and fuzzy white house slippers.
“Libby,” she said without a smile. “What on earth are you doing here so late?”
I gently pushed past her and stepped into the foyer, then turned to face her. �
��Mom, there’s something we need to talk about. Now.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“No, Mom. It can’t. I need to see Dad’s yearbooks. Do you still have them?”
She thought for a few seconds. “I think I have one. But it’s not your dad’s. It’s mine. Your dad never brought his home. I don’t even know if he bought any of them. He said he wanted to keep the past in the past. I don’t think he enjoyed high school very much. Libby, what’s this all about?”
I debated on how much to tell her. Ultimately, I remembered she had always been on Randy’s side, and if there was anyone I could trust, it would be Mom. So I told her about my progress, or lack thereof, in Randy’s case and then about my conversation with Jo, the bartender at Willie’s.
“Oh, that’s absurd,” Mom said once I’d finished my story. “Your father would never hurt anyone. That’s just old high school gossip.”
“So you’ve heard this before?” I asked incredulously.
“Libby, sit down.” She gestured to the sofa in the living room and I obliged. She sat down next to me and let out a deep breath. “Yes, I’ve heard that nasty rumor before. I went to the same high school. Everyone heard about it.”
“But did you ever ask Randy about it?”
“No, I didn’t want to dignify the gossip. But he did tell me about this girl. I can’t remember her name. He told me she was very clingy. He said he made a huge mistake by…um…leading this young girl on, and then after that, she basically stalked him.”
“What did he say about her vanishing from school?”
“Nothing. Other than just what you already know. He said one day, she just stopped coming to school.”
“And you didn’t ask him what happened to her?”
“Why would I? Your father did nothing wrong. Sure, maybe he led her on by accident, but I know what happened. She was embarrassed when he rejected her and she changed schools. It’s really that simple.”
Family Ties (Flesh & Blood Trilogy Book 2) Page 7