Sarah Armstrong - 01 - Singularity (13 page)

“Okay,” he agreed.

“Let’s go back over the ViCAP list and reconsider any unsolved murder reported in Texas in the last three years where the murder weapon’s a hunting-style knife.”

“That’s a lot of cases, Sarah,” said David.

“Give me another suggestion.”

David shrugged. “It’s someplace to start.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said the captain. “I’ll talk to Sheila about the bulletin and leave you two to get started.”

We began organizing our files to take to the computer, but the captain seemed reluctant to leave.

“I’ve got a couple other things you should both probably know,” he finally said. “Neither one is particularly good news.”

When he had our full attention, he went on.

“We received a copy of a letter to Galveston P.D. from the governor this morning, praising Detective Nelson and Agent Scroggins for their speedy action on this case, so there are a lot of important people invested in their belief that Priscilla Lucas is guilty. There’s also a newspaper reporter nosing around for interviews, a guy named Evan Matthews. He’s been calling here asking for you two all morning. Watch out for him.”

“He’s the Galveston reporter who had the front-page story the day after the murders, the one that included all the inside information,” I said. “But that didn’t come from us. You know, we don’t talk to anyone about an ongoing investigation. What’s your concern?”

“This case is sensational,” he said. “Word is that Matthews plans to write a series of exposés on the lives of Texas’s ultrarich, including high-dollar divorces and high-society murders. He’s anchoring it around a major article on the Priscilla Lucas case. He’ll be looking for every bit of information, every innuendo he can find. Be advised, I’ll back your investigation one-hundred percent. My gut tells me you two are right and we’re dealing with a serial killer, not a hit man.”

I was waiting for the “but” and it came quickly.

“Until you have something solid, we need to keep a lid on your investigation. Only those working the Lucas case are to know what you two are working on or that you believe Priscilla Lucas is innocent,” he continued. “Even though you might like to share your opinions with others, you can’t. If anyone finds out you believe Mrs. Lucas has been wrongly accused, you may find yourselves in the difficult position of being witnesses for the defense during her trial, an uncomfortable situation not only for the two of you but for the rangers and the Bureau.”

“We’re aware of that,” said David.

“Don’t forget it,” cautioned the captain. “Go ahead and try to
prove your case the way you see it. But if you fail and Nelson and Scroggins turn out to be right, you don’t want to end up on the stand testifying against the prosecution.”

As David had suspected, the expanded list of potentially connected murders proved lengthy, more than a hundred. All had been committed in Texas within the past thirty-six months, all by unknown assailants who used what were believed to be long thin-bladed knives. By telephone, we slowly worked our way through the list. By three that afternoon, we’d found only one probable lead, a woman murdered nearly eighteen months earlier, in the small town of Redbluff, by car seven hours southwest of Houston and just across from the Mexican border in the Rio Grande valley.

“This would have been three months before the Fontenot murder. It’s, at best, a long shot. If it’s our killer, he was still refining his technique,” David said, when he hung up the telephone with the investigating deputy. The woman’s naked body had been found propped up in a chair behind her house. Her throat had been cut and her chest was slashed and bleeding. In the autopsy the county coroner had noted no signs of torture.

“It may be long, but it’s a shot,” I answered. “And at the moment, it’s the only one we have.”

“Well, I’d like to talk to this officer in person, see the autopsy photos and the crime-scene pictures,” David said. “Shall we?”

“Let’s go,” I answered.

David was on the telephone booking a flight to McAllen and a rental car, when the telephone rang next door in my office.

“Lieutenant Armstrong, we don’t know each other, but I’m Bobby Barker,” an unfamiliar voice informed me. “Priscilla Lucas is my daughter.”

“Yes, Mr. Barker, what can I do for you?”

“Priscilla and I would like to talk with you, if possible this afternoon. We believe it may be beneficial for both of us.”

“What’s this about, Mr. Barker?”

“We’ll discuss that in person,” he said.

“All right. I’ll be bringing FBI Agent David Garrity with me,” I said. “We’re working this case together.”

“No,” he said. “This invitation is extended only to you. My daughter tells me that you seemed more reasonable than the other officer when you came out to the house the day of my son-in-law’s murder. She has the impression that, given the right circumstances, you could be trusted.”

T
he trip to the valley on hold, I returned to the River Oaks mansion of Priscilla Lucas. This time I had no need to wait for the maid to answer the door. Priscilla’s attorney, Stan Claville, the tall, spindly man with a painfully gaunt face and deep-set brown eyes I’d watched on television that morning, waited outside to greet me. From the cut of his gray pinstripe, I knew the family had spared no expense when considering his hourly retainer. I followed him to the library, where Priscilla Lucas waited in a hunter-green leather chair, drinking an iced tea and watching the smoke from her long, slender cigarette dissipate over her head. Unlike the woman I’d met just four days earlier, she seemed unsure of herself, although she sat with rigid posture and, at what I sensed was great personal expense, looked me straight in the eye.

“May I offer you a glass of tea?” she asked, with a forced smile.

“No thanks,” I said, not particularly wanting to make sociable. As I left headquarters, the last thing David did was remind me to be careful, or the captain’s concerns could become reality. I could
find myself in the untenable position of being used as a courtroom pawn.

“Please, sit down,” Priscilla suggested, her impeccable manners still intact, as she motioned toward the sofa.

“I’d prefer to stand,” I said. “Why am I here?”

Nervously tapping a top hat of ashes from her cigarette, Priscilla glanced toward the opposite corner of the room at two men who stood together, leaning against a shelf filled with gold-embossed books. One was the man from the morning news broadcast, in his early seventies, a man age hadn’t yet diminished, his hands still muscular enough to wrestle a steer or, if need be, an oil well. He had a cap of thick white hair and bushy eyebrows that curled into his hairline, giving him an unsettled look.

The other man appeared his antithesis, in his forties, a fringe of light brown hair falling over his eyes. More than six feet tall, he had fine patrician features and a broad smile, the kind some people are born with and others practice in front of mirrors. He wore a brown cashmere sweater that bagged perfectly over olive-green pants, the collar on his white shirt just peeking above the neckline. The French professor, I assumed. Priscilla’s new man.

“This is Scott Warner,” the elder of the two said, gesturing to indicate the man beside him. “A friend of Priscilla’s.”

“It’s good to meet you,” said Warner, leaning forward to shake my hand, and then quickly retreating to his former stance in the corner.

“And I’m Bobby Barker, Priscilla’s father. We talked on the phone. Glad you agreed to come,” he said, extending his own hand. “You know my late wife went to school with your mother.”

“Yes,” I said. “Mom mentioned that.”

Barker smiled warmly. “Well, we’ve been hearing a lot about you.

“Is that right?” I said.

“We’ve been told by sources within the Galveston Police Department and the county courthouse that you showed some sense about this case. We hear you argued against issuing the warrant for my daughter’s arrest,” he said, assessing me through rheumy green-gray eyes, the color of a stagnant pond. Again taking the lead, he asked, “Is that true?”

“I just wasn’t sure now was the time to make an arrest,” I hedged. “Obviously, others disagreed.”

“So you’re saying it was just a matter of timing then?”

“I think that’s probably the best way to characterize it.”

“Priscilla was hoping… we were all hoping …” began Warner.

“I’ll handle this,” Barker cautioned. It appeared that the old man had the younger one on a short tether. Warner frowned but quickly nodded.

“Lieutenant Armstrong, it’s obvious that my daughter is in a rather uncomfortable situation here and, considering what we’ve been told about your sentiments, we thought you might be able to help by talking some sense into your fellow officers. I’m referring, of course, to Agent Scroggins and Detective Nelson, who seem intent on crucifying her for murders she not only didn’t commit but had no involvement in.”

“They’re just doing their jobs,” I said, unhappy at being put in a position in which I felt compelled to defend them.

Exasperated, he audibly groaned.

“You’re a businessman, aren’t you, Mr. Barker?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said, turning his head skeptically, as if to see me better through the corners of his muddy eyes. “I run Barker Oil. My father founded it.”

“Well, as a businessman, you know what counts is the bottom line, don’t you?”

“You could say that.”

“I suggest the most prudent course then is to look at the bottom line in this situation,” I said.

“And what is the bottom line here?” he asked peevishly.

“All Mrs. Lucas needs to do is truthfully answer all the questions, and if she’s innocent, she can put this matter to rest,” I said, slowly turning to focus my attention on Priscilla. Dodging my gaze, she concentrated on stubbing out her cigarette in a crystal ashtray.

“What did you and Annmarie Knowles argue about the night before the murder?” I asked. Priscilla shifted in her chair and shot her father a worried glance, then searched Scott Warner’s face as if hoping to find her answer there. The attorney, Claville, who’d been silent up until now, cleared his throat, a tactic I had no doubt he employed often in courtrooms to ensure that he had a jury’s attention.

“Lieutenant,” he said. “While we understand what you’re saying, under the circumstances, since Mrs. Lucas is the prime, perhaps the only identified suspect in these murders, I’ve advised her not to answer any questions.”

“Then I can’t help her,” I said, looking straight at Priscilla.

“If that’s your final word,” he said. “I thought as much. From the beginning this exercise was nothing more than a waste of time.”

“If that’s the case, I’ll be on my way,” I said.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Priscilla’s shoulders heave with disappointment. She shook her head as if my departure were inconceivable, and then glanced about the room at the three men. Claville, apparently unaware of his client’s reaction to my imminent departure, blustered on about his opposition to calling me, unconcerned. It was Warner who interrupted him.

“Priscilla, you have to do what you think is right,” he advised her. “I’m here with you. We’re all here for you.”

She stared down at her hands, and I noticed she’d removed the emerald-cut diamond solitaire that had dominated her left hand at our first meeting. She glanced up again at Warner and then smiled.

“Sarah, may I call you Sarah?” she asked, turning back to me.

“Sure.”

“I would like to tell you what we argued about,” she began.

“Mrs. Lucas, I advise you not to go any further,” interrupted Claville, his voice stern as if addressing a child.

“Stan, quiet,” Barker chastised. “We know Pris didn’t do this. She couldn’t. Let her talk if she’s ready.”

“Maybe if Lieutenant Armstrong understands more about what happened, she can put a stop to this nightmare,” Warner said. “What more could happen than already has?”

“Priscilla could be denying these words in front of a jury,” Claville sputtered. “That’s what could happen. If I’m going to defend her—”

“Let her talk to this woman,” Barker ordered, again.

Visibly unhappy, Claville backed down, as Barker turned to his daughter.

“Priscilla, I know you couldn’t have done this thing. If you’re ready to explain yourself, maybe it’s time.”

She smiled at her father, and their eyes met. She looked again to Warner who nodded encouragingly. Then she turned to address me.

“Sarah,” she said. “I went to see Annmarie to talk sense into her.”

“About what?”

“About the children,” she said matter-of-factly. “You probably already know that Edward and I were fighting over the children. He wanted them for control of their trust funds. I wanted them with me because I’m their mother, and there are things only a mother can give a child. I want to be there to give those special gifts to my children. I want to be with them, to guide them as they grow. The money means nothing to me. It never has.”

“So, why not let him control the trust funds while you raise the children?”

“I offered that. I would willingly have signed over all control of their trust funds, just to have them with me. But Edward was not an
easy man to bargain with, and when he wanted something, he wanted it all,” she said, nervously pulling another cigarette from an etched silver box on the Chippendale end table beside her. Barker bent toward her to light it, and her hands trembled as she held it to her mouth. She drew in, long and hard, and then exhaled a thin cloud of gray smoke.

“Edward’s pride was hurt,” she continued. “I was the one who wanted the divorce, and he couldn’t forgive that. As much as anything, he wanted to punish me.”

“He wanted to punish us,” said Warner. “Both of us.”

Priscilla smiled fondly at him and agreed. “Yes, Edward wanted to punish both of us.”

“If that’s the case, what good could it do to talk with Annmarie?” I asked.

“Edward had bragged for days that he planned to marry the girl, just to spite me. He said she’d be the one raising our children, my children,” she said, pointing at her chest, her voice restrained but shrill. “He claimed he had enough on me to prove that I was unfit, and that I’d only be given supervised visitation. I knew he couldn’t have much to use against me, but there were those times, when we’d fought and I, angry and upset, drank too much in public. You have to understand that much of our life was played out in the public eye, at the country club, one social function or another, after a while they all ran together. It always happened during one of his affairs. At times, you see, it was difficult just to look the other way.”