“I don’t want the electric chair.”
Clyde froze. “Why would you get the chair?”
Vern slowly raised his head. “Because I killed those people.”
“Really?” Clyde crossed his arms. “Can you tell me why?”
“There’s something wrong with me.”
Of that, Clyde had no doubt. “Will your wife back up this story of yours?”
Sweeney nodded. “I told her all about it.”
“Yet she stayed with you.”
“Love is crazy.”
Not as nuts as the man sitting across from him. “I’m going to lock you up now and go question your wife. Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
“No.” Vern sipped the cold drink and grimaced. “That’s the worst coffee I’ve ever had.”
“Sorry, this isn’t the Ritz.” He motioned through the window for someone to escort the suspect to a cell and went to move the wife from her cell to the interrogation room. “We’ve arrested your husband,” Clyde told her, taking the same seat he’d sat in when talking to Vern. “He says he killed some people.”
“He’s The Phantom. Vern told me so. How did you find out?”
“Why didn’t you mention that when I arrested you?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t want to be next. I was close by during one of the murders. You’ll find my footprints near where Leroy Yates was killed.”
Clyde rubbed his hands roughly down his face. She’d watched a man being brutally murdered and done nothing? Didn’t make sense. Plus, any footprints were long gone.
Chief Larson rapped on the door. “Got a minute, Hudson?”
“Excuse me.” He joined the chief in the hall. “Yeah?”
“Sweeney’s prints don’t match any of the ones found at the deaths or the Simpson house. Not even on the flashlight.” He shook his head. “The car registered to them was spotted parked under a bridge the night Yates was killed. They’re nothing more than attention seekers. Book Sweeney on car theft and let the woman go with a warning.” He groaned. “We’re getting all kind of loony confessions. It’s enough to drive me batty.”
This whole case was one big mess from the very start. Clyde stormed into the interrogation room and removed the woman’s handcuffs. “You might want to leave town. Once people find out the game you were playing, they may not be very friendly toward you.” As for himself, Clyde wanted to wring her neck and lock her up with her husband.
~
“Do I know you?” The old Officer Hudson frowned.
“No, sir, I guess you don’t.” He sat and crossed his right ankle over his left knee. Since the man didn’t recognize him, today must be an off day, and he’d get no information out of him. He fingered the fringe on the throw pillow next to him. Now, he wasn’t sure whether he should go through with his original reason for visiting or not.
What if the old man remembers and tells his grandson he visited? He’d worn sunglasses and pulled his hat low, leaving a fake name at the front desk. No one would know his identity easily, but they might remember the last man to visit Officer Hudson before his death.
Without another word, he pushed to his feet and rushed from the building, not stopping until he stood in front of the motel where Pressley Taylor rented a room. He’d called earlier that morning and found out she was on the second floor, room 202. It paid to be a man of some worth in town. People said things they wouldn’t with someone else.
The curtains in that room parted, then fell back into place a few minutes later. He didn’t worry. She might see him standing there, but he was too far away for a positive identification. He wanted her notes and laptop but could wait. He was a patient man when he needed to be. It wouldn’t do any good to have Officer Hudson acting in an official capacity because of a robbery. No, the loss of her things needed to look like an accident or a street mugging.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he whistled as he strolled away.
~
Pressley studied the man across the street. Something about him seemed familiar, but then again, she couldn’t place where she might have seen him. With all the wandering around town and questioning people, she figured she’d seen him in passing. She shrugged, let the curtains fall into place, and returned to the small round table in her room.
Now that it was past nine a.m., it was a respectful time to start making phone calls. The first on the list was to a woman who lived a few blocks away, according to the internet.
Pressley dialed the number. “May I speak with Mrs. Mayes?”
“If this is a telemarketer, I’m going to hang up.”
“No, ma’am. My name is Pressley Taylor, and I’m writing a book on the murders of 1946. I’ve discovered you had a family member return from the war during that time. May I ask you some questions?”
“I’m not sure what I can tell you, but I have a few minutes.”
“Did he seem okay to you when he returned?”
“A bit shell-shocked, but that’s to be expected, right?”
“Did he have any other relatives?”
“Why, sure. We’re first cousins to Frank Beckett. My maiden name is Beckett.” She lowered her voice. My great uncle, Roy, the soldier…well, he disappeared right about the time when those murders stopped.”
Pressley’s heart skipped a beat. “And?”
“Folks around town speculated that his father sent him to the asylum up there in Little Rock. I’d suggest you speak with him, but he’s been dead now over five years. Have you questioned Frank?”
“Yes, ma’am. He’s a bit reluctant to talk with me.”
“Of course, he is. If word got out that The Phantom was a relative of Frank’s, his reputation would be ruined. You know how small towns are.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Mayes. You’ve been helpful.” Pressley hung up and chewed the end of her pen.
Experience had taught her that small towns thrived on gossip and drama. She seriously doubted Frank’s business would suffer. More likely people would flock to the hardware store in search of information.
What should be her next move? Her grandmother’s journal had stopped with the disappearance of The Phantom. In order to complete the task set before her, she’d have to use every investigative trait she might have. Grabbing her purse and locking her room door behind her, she strode to the police station to speak with Jackson. She marched to his desk. “I need a ride to the asylum.”
He glanced up with a grin on his handsome face. “Lost it already?” He tapped his temple. “You made it so easy.”
“Very funny.” She sat in the chair across from him and told him of her phone conversation with Mrs. Mayes. “Can you drive me or direct me to someone who can?”
“I’m off tomorrow. I’ll drive you, but I’m not sure what good it will do. The asylum kept horrible records in 1946. Anyone who knew Roy Beckett will be long gone.”
“The retirement home still holds a few who remember. I can talk to them again, but I still want a ride to Little Rock.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ll pick you up at nine a.m. tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” She stood and turned to leave, then returned her attention back to Jackson. “Someone is watching me. There was a man staring at my window earlier.”
That caught his attention. “Could you tell who it was? What did he look like?”
“Dark sunglasses and a cap pulled low over his eyes. But I might be paranoid—you know, ready for the asylum.” She didn’t think she was paranoid, though. Pressley had learned a long time ago to trust her instincts.
Jackson glanced around the empty room and sighed. “I can’t leave. I’m the only one here. Call me the second you reach your room.” He stared at the clock. “Ten minutes.”
She gave him a salute and hurried to her room, resolved to spend the rest of the day locked away.
Chapter Eight
Jackson knocked on her room door at five minutes before nine. “Did you sleep well?”
“I did.” She smi
led and invited him in. “There’s coffee if you’d like a cup.”
“I have a thermos in the car but thanks.”
Pressley took another sip of hers, grabbed her laptop bag, then followed him from the room, locking the door behind them. “It’s only a couple of hours drive, right?”
“Yep. Did you learn anything else from the journal?” He opened the car door for her, then jogged to the driver’s side.
Pressley shook her head, climbed in, and clicked her seatbelt into place. “It’s done but not complete. Her pages stopped with the deaths. The last thing she wrote about was Sweeney and a lot of false confessions. She gave up, got married, and had babies.”
“Too bad that wasn’t the end of the story.”
She cut him a sideways glance. “As a police officer, I’d assume you’d want to find out what happened to the killer.”
“A lot of time has passed.” He pulled onto the interstate. “I’m sure my grandfather would be more enthusiastic if he weren’t ill.” He smiled her way. “But, you’re pulling me in.”
“Good.” He had been willing to help. She’d be glad for any assistance he gave. “Are people here really willing to risk everything to cover up what a relative might have done?”
He laughed. “Oh, yeah.”
“Then we should pay Frank Beckett another visit.”
“That’s a good idea, despite the fact he won’t tell us anything. You would make a good detective, Pressley.”
“Thank you. I prefer the journalist aspect of crime. I’m not into the whole facing bad guys thing.”
“Keep digging and you might face one. Years ago, some of the asylum’s cooks were charged with the murder of forty-seven inmates. They put poison in their food. You might have a better chance solving that crime than this one.”
“This crime was my grandmother’s dying wish.”
Two hours later, they pulled into the drive of a sprawling red brick building complete with turrets. “Impressive and eerie.”
Inside, they approached a nurse sitting at a desk behind a glass partition. “May I help you?”
“We’d like to speak to someone who might know of a resident here in 1946.” Jackson slid his badge through the opening in the glass.
“We don’t have any employees here from that time, Officer.”
“The director, maybe?” Pressley refused to be turned away so quickly. “We only have a few questions. Anyone with access to records can help us.”
The nurse frowned. “Wait here.” She returned a few minutes later with another nurse. “Nurse Reynolds is in charge of the facilities records.”
“How may I help you?” The middle-aged woman with kind eyes smiled.
Pressley explained they were trying to find information on a Roy Beckett, a World War II veteran. “We’re looking into why he was here.”
“Follow me, please.” She buzzed them through a heavy door and led the way down a long hallway to a room full of file cabinets. A few minutes later, she slid a folder across a table. “This is all we have on the man with that name, but it isn’t much, I’m sorry to say.”
Pressley sat in a hard chair and opened the file. The records stated that Roy Beckett had been brought to the facility by his father for shell shock and violent behavior. Roy died there a few years later. Nothing to confirm her suspicions that the man had been The Phantom. Jackson was right. It was a waste of time.
“You don’t have anything on his behavior and state of mind while a resident here?” She glanced at the nurse.
“As a violent man, he would have been sedated to the point he was no a danger to anyone.” The nurse crossed her arms. “We have one resident who might remember that time period. Let me check with his doctor to see if he’s capable of answering any questions. He’s ninety-four and doesn’t always make sense.” She left them in the room, returning a few minutes later. “He hasn’t had his medication yet, so he’s coherent.” She stepped back while a thin man leaning heavily on a walker entered the room.
“This is Vincent Gray. Mr. Gray, these folks would like to talk to you. I’ll be right here if you need me.” She sat in a chair beside the door.
Mr. Gray cast a wary look at Jackson, then took a seat across from him and Pressley. “What do you want? It’s almost time for lunch.”
Pressley smiled. “Do you remember a man named Roy Beckett?”
His forehead creased. “Yeah. Crazy as a loon.”
“Did the two of you ever talk about the killings that took place before he arrived here?”
“Sure. Roy said he killed those people. That’s why his father sent him here. Why would he lie?”
Pressley glanced quickly at Jackson, then back at Mr. Gray. “Do you think he killed those people?”
“He knew everything about it. How he followed them, what he did to them, even the color of the robe the woman who escaped wore. Of course, he did it.”
“Why weren’t the police told?”
“Roy was already locked up here. What good would it have done to put him in prison?”
“Did Roy read the newspaper?”
“Religiously.” Mr. Gray laughed. “Roy was a bit of a celebrity after his confession.”
Pressley sighed. All the information Roy had spoken about could easily have come from the paper. Just because Roy had confessed didn’t mean he was The Phantom. Plenty of others had confessed to the same crimes, only to find out they’d lied.
~
Nosy woman. Frank sat in his car a few spots over from where Taylor and Hudson had parked. He’d suspected more nosiness when they’d left town that morning. What he hadn’t expected was to follow them here. How had they found out about Roy? Only Hattie would know about him.
This was not good. Not good at all. His grandfather had to be rolling in his grave. The family name would be dragged through the mud. All of his childhood years, the fact they had to keep Roy’s insanity and violence a secret had been drummed into Frank’s head. He wouldn’t let one nosy woman ruin it all.
Frank slumped in his seat as the two returned to their car, then followed them back to the interstate. He needed to formulate a plan to get rid of them. One that would deflect their attention off Roy and onto someone else.
As Frank drove, he came up with the perfect plan and couldn’t wait until nightfall. More than one Beckett could strike fear into the hearts of Texarkana. He’d keep the police too busy to help Pressley stick her nose where it didn’t belong. But first, he had to take care of Hattie.
~
“I’d like to check on my grandfather if you have time.” Jackson glanced at Pressley whose pretty face was creased from thinking about their visit to the asylum.
“All I have is time.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m not convinced Roy is our guy. I mean,” her frown deepened, “it’s a strong possibility, but other than his say-so, we have no definite proof.”
“I’ll try to pull some strings and see if I can’t get DNA or at least fingerprints. We do have The Phantom’s prints on file from a flashlight he left behind.”
Her face brightened. “That’s a great idea.”
It surprised him how good it felt to cheer her up. Get a grip, Jackson. She won’t be staying in town long. Pressley has a life outside of Texarkana.
They signed in at the retirement facility and made their way to his grandfather’s room. “Grandpa?”
Recognition dawned in his eyes. “Jackson, my boy. It’s good to see you so soon. Weren’t you here yesterday?”
“No, sir. Did you have a visitor?”
His brow furrowed. “I think so. He left quite promptly. This morning, I had the feeling I knew him so figured it was you, and I was having a bad day.”
Jackson would check the prior day’s sign-in sheet. His grandfather rarely had visitors other than him, and he’d like to thank the person. “Feel up to a conversation about 1946?”
His grandfather frowned. “Why are you bringing that up again? We’ve already discussed
it.”
“My apologies, sir,” Pressley said, pulling up a chair, “but we just came from the asylum where Roy Beckett allegedly confessed to another inmate that he had committed the murders. What I don’t understand, though, is the last time we talked, you mentioned this, but the dates don’t match up. If Roy had been committed immediately upon returning from the war, he couldn’t have committed the crimes.”
Grandpa shrugged. “Dates on records are messed up all the time. Roy isn’t the first person to confess. I see you’re still stuck on the returning-soldier theory.”
“It makes the most sense to me, sir. Sweeney died in jail, but there was no evidence to support him being the killer. Roy seems likely, but the dates don’t match.” Her shoulders slumped. “Maybe this is a dead end. Maybe the killer simply disappeared in the swamps, never to be seen again.”
Grandpa patted her hand. “That’s a theory that would never be proved. I wish you luck, dear girl. I have a feeling if anyone can get to the bottom of this, it’ll be you and my Jackson. It would be nice to know the truth before I die.”
That did more to make Jackson want to proceed with helping Pressley than anything. It could be the last thing he did for his grandfather…identify The Phantom.
When his grandfather showed signs of tiring, Jackson led Pressley to the front desk and asked to see the register. He flipped to yesterday and noted a David Morris had signed in to see his grandfather. Jackson didn’t know of a David Morris in town.
“Do you remember this man?”
The young woman at the desk nodded. “Your grandfather doesn’t receive visitors other than you.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“He seemed familiar, but he never looked straight at me. Wore his cap pulled low over his face, signed the book, and hurried down the hall. Is there a problem?”
Jackson handed her his business card. “Call me if he shows up again, please. I’d like to thank him for his visit.” A cap pulled low. Could it be the same man who had watched Pressley’s window? He glanced back toward his grandfather’s room. Was he safe, or was someone worried about the facts locked in an old man’s mind?
“What is it?” Pressley put a hand on his arm.
The Lovers' Lane Murders Page 5