Sarah Armstrong - 01 - Singularity (14 page)

She paused, and I sensed a part of her had returned to that day, to her husband threatening to take her children away.

“With Edward’s lawyers, he could have dragged me through the court system until he found a judge willing to give him what he wanted. I couldn’t let him have the children. I love my children. They mean more to me than my own life,” she said, emotion tearing at the raw edges of her voice. “Are you a mother?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Sons? Daughters?”

“A daughter.”

“Then I don’t have to explain to you how I felt,” she said. “I would, any mother would, do anything to keep her children safe and with her. Wouldn’t you?”

“Priscilla, please,” intruded the attorney, the color drained from his face. “Say nothing more. I’m cautioning you that this could be damning in a courtroom.”

“It’s the truth, Stan. I’m not going to lie,” she said, looking to Warner for support. He smiled back at her and she went on. “I went to her apartment to talk to Annmarie, to explain that I didn’t care about Edward or the money, anything she wanted of mine she could have, except my children. She couldn’t have my children.”

“And her reaction?”

“She refused to help me. She said that the entire matter was up to Edward, that they were his children, too, and that she wouldn’t get in the way if he wanted them. Annmarie said that she loved Edward. I couldn’t accept that as her answer. How could they take my children? Edward had never had time for them. He never would. She cared nothing for them, hardly even knew their names.”

“How did you leave it with her?”

“I told her that she needed to find a way to convince Edward or that we’d both squander our lives in courtrooms and our fortunes on lawyers,” she said. “I told her I would never give up my children.”

I said nothing.

“Sarah, as a mother, certainly you can understand,” she pleaded. “I had to…I have to be there for my children. I would not, could never, leave their raising to a stranger.”

“Ms. Knowles’s neighbors say you were at her apartment on at
least one other occasion. I appreciate what you’ve told me, but there’s more going on here. What was your relationship with Annmarie Knowles?” I asked.

For a moment, Priscilla Lucas appeared stunned, surprised at my question. “We had no relationship, beyond that she was my husband’s employee and his mistress,” she insisted. “Yes, I’d been there before, but it was for the same reason, to talk some sense into her. I couldn’t take no for an answer. I kept going back, hoping she’d change her mind.”

“And the money, Mrs. Lucas. The hundred thousand dollars? What did you do with it?”

Priscilla Lucas grew suddenly silent, looking toward her father, then Claville, then Warner. I had the impression the men all waited as expectantly as I, not knowing what she might say.

When she hesitated, Warner interceded.

“Priscilla, I know you. Whatever you did with the money, it can’t be that bad. I’m sure the lieutenant will understand and that it will be all right,” he said. “I want you to tell her what you did with the money. Don’t be afraid.”

She stared at him, as if she replayed his words over and over in her mind, debating what to do. When she still said nothing, her father broke in, eager to rescue his floundering daughter.

“Lieutenant, there’s a misimpression here,” he said. “To most people, of course, one hundred thousand dollars is a great deal of money. It would be unusual to deal in such terms, especially in cash. We understand that. But not in our family. Such withdrawals wouldn’t be unusual.”

“That should make my question easy then. Why should there be a mystery?” I said. “If this isn’t a great deal of money, if she used it to buy jewelry, clothes, cover household expenses, anything, all she needs to do is supply us with receipts or tell us whom to talk with to confirm it, and this can all end.”

Moments passed and Priscilla said nothing, just stared blankly ahead.

“Priscilla, please tell her,” beseeched Warner.

“Mrs. Lucas, I believe you love your children,” I said, calmly, watching her every nuance. “Don’t you want to clear this up, so that you can be with them, especially now when they need you the most? Why not tell me what I need to know so I can do my job and you can do yours, be their mother? So that you and the professor can begin a new life together.”

The room again fell silent and I held my breath, wondering what would happen next.

“I didn’t kill my husband and Annmarie. I hired no one to do it,” she finally said, in a voice so low it resonated from somewhere deep within her. “But I can’t tell you what you want to know.”

“Priscilla,” Warner pleaded. “Please.”

“No,” she answered him. “You don’t know the Lucas family. You don’t know what they’re capable of, what would happen to us if they knew. They’d use it against me, to take my children.”

The room fell silent. I waited, but I sensed her decision was made.

“Then, we have nothing else to say,” I concluded, not really wanting to leave but knowing that nothing more would be accomplished by my staying.

“Sarah, our mothers were friends. Doesn’t that count for something? You have to trust me,” she argued, her hands, palms up, begging for sympathy. “The money had nothing to do with the murders. But telling you could jeopardize all our futures, everyone I love.”

“I can’t just trust you,” I said, my voice harder than I felt toward her. “I’m investigating two brutal murders.”

“I realize that,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. But her eyes betrayed her by filling with a thick, glossy coat.

“Then you understand why I’m not able to just take your word. I
need to know what the money was used for. I need more than your assurances.”

After a few silent moments, she said, “I do understand. But I’d hoped if I told you the rest, you’d understand that I’m not the type of woman who’d do such a thing and that you can believe me.”

“Lieutenant, isn’t it obvious Priscilla is telling the truth, that she’s attempting to cooperate?” Warner pleaded, sitting beside her and protectively wrapping his arm across her shoulders.

“Please understand, summoning you here, this was not an easy decision.” her father interjected, his own voice heavy with emotion. “Are these the actions of a guilty woman, inviting the hunter into her den?”

Perhaps they were right. I believed Priscilla Lucas was innocent, but with the evidence against her mounting, in the end what I believed might not matter.

“Mr. Barker, as your attorney feared, all I’ve heard only gives more reason to suspect your daughter might be involved, not less,” I said, turning to Priscilla. “I need to know what she did with the money. Nothing else has the power to make all this disappear. I’m sorry, Mrs. Lucas. I truly am.”

From somewhere in her dwindling reserves of strength, Priscilla Lucas pulled together a weak smile and nodded.

“Unless there’s something else then,” I said.

“Nothing?” she said, her voice weary and resolved. “There’s nothing you can do to help me, then?”

“Nothing,” I said.

With that, I turned to go. I didn’t realize until I’d nearly reached the door that her father had followed.

“Lieutenant, perhaps you can clear up one point for me,” he said, his face crimson with emotion but his voice soft and pleading.

I turned back.

“What’s that, Mr. Barker?”

“You argued with Judge McLamore against issuing the warrant. I’ve been told it’s because you and Agent Garrity believe that the man who killed Edward and Miss Knowles is actually a serial killer and that their deaths have nothing to do with my daughter.”

He waited, but I said nothing.

“Is that true?”

His eyes appealed for hope, any shred of reassurance I could give.

“I can’t tell you what we’re investigating, Mr. Barker,” I said, quietly. “I can assure you that Agent Garrity and I are following every lead that presents itself in this case. And that we’re doing our very best to find all the answers.”

“You do believe she’s innocent, don’t you?” he said, a hint of hope in his voice. “You are looking for someone else, someone not connected with Priscilla?”

Barker searched my face, and I sensed he found his answer without my uttering a word. Nothing more was said. I quickly turned and left, the mansion’s massive double doors thudding to a close behind me.

W
hat awakened me in the early hours of the morning, just before two? Down the hall, in their own rooms, Maggie and Mom were peacefully lost to their dreams, but I jolted upright, searched the shadows and listened. Through the slats of my shuttered bedroom windows, the back porch light funneled through the darkness, and rain padded softly onto already sodden brown earth, flowing into muddy ribbons that flooded my mother’s favorite azalea bed, where wet boughs bent under the weight of just-opening fuchsia blooms.

I was certain of only these things: that my eyes opened before the telephone rang, that I knew before I picked it up that I would hear David’s voice, and that before he’d uttered the first word, I knew what he would say.

“Another murder. I’ll pick you up in half an hour. The helicopter is waiting.”

Two hours later the sun had just come up, and I stood in the bedroom of a ramshackle white wooden frame bungalow in a San Antonio
neighborhood of small houses, with cars in various stages of disrepair parked under spindly oak trees on burned-out lawns, staring at the nude body of Mary Gonzales, a twenty-eight-year-old waitress and the mother of four young children. Mary had been a beautiful woman, with long, flowing black hair and a complexion the color of tea with honey.

The detective in charge with the San Antonio P.D. had already reconstructed her last hours. Mary worked an early dinner shift at a Riverwalk restaurant, serving margaritas, quesadillas, tortillas, and tacos al carbon to tourists and conventioneers. At seven-thirty she’d punched out. Instead of picking up her children, she’d left them at their babysitter’s house. Coworkers said Mary had been excited about that night’s date with her boyfriend, Santos Maida, a construction worker. They said Mary loved to dance to hot salsa music. Mary and Santos never made it to the club that night, where the music played and the dancing went on for hours after she died, awash in blood, her throat slashed, her fists clenched in rage.

From the evidence he left behind, it appeared the killer found Mary much as we did, sitting on a wooden bedroom chair, looking into the cracked mirror atop her battered dresser. Her work uniform, a white peasant blouse with her name tag still pinned in place over the left breast and a brightly colored serape-style skirt, lay discarded on the floor. Her hairbrush was found on the floor beside her, leading us to believe she may have been brushing her hair into soft waves and pulling it back in the ribbon that still held it at the nape of her neck, when he made his presence known.

What horror she must have felt. A stranger. An intruder in her house, her room.

How long had he been there? Did he tell her how he’d watched her, as he tied her ankles to the chair, bound her body to the chair frame, cinched her hands together in her lap, wedging between them the long, flat handle of a pink plastic mirror, a child’s toy that belonged
to her toddler daughter? How long did he remain? Minutes? Hours? Touching her, torturing her, mocking her? Cutting off her bra and panties and throwing them on the floor.

I imagined Mary’s pain as the blade cut into her hands, into the soles of her feet, caught on tendons and muscle, wrenching them into tight knots. When did she understand? I wondered. When did she know without question that he would kill her?

One thing I knew: Mary Gonzales had waged a valiant fight.

In amongst the precise torture wounds from the knife tip into her hands, a signature that along with a bloody cross on the wall behind her and the two intersecting gashes that mutilated her chest, there was something new. Mary’s cold, still palms bore jagged defensive wounds, indicating that she’d not given in easily and had attempted to shield herself from his blade. One cut nearly severed her right forefinger; another, on the left hand, gaped to the bone and looked as if she’d seized the knife by the blade in a failed attempt to wrench it away from the demon who’d invaded her home and her life.

As he had with the other victims, the killer took his time with her. Before or after her death, he adorned her with dusty crepe paper flowers, the kind sold at Mexican markets, torn from a straw basket beside the bed. He’d posed three white-paper calla lilies between her bare thighs, where they reminded me of a macabre Georgia O’Keeffe painting. The rest, he’d woven into her hair, mimicking a flowered headdress of the type worn by brides. And he’d employed her makeup, casually discarded on her battered dresser, painting her eyelids a frothy green and her mouth a deep red that spilled over her lips until it formed a grotesque clown’s smile.

“Vanity,” David whispered. “This time the sin is vanity.”

The knots on the rope that bound her hands and her legs matched those in the restraints cut from Lucas and Knowles and the specimen Sheriff Broussard kept in an envelope marked
Fontenot Murder
in his evidence room.

“Any possibility this isn’t your killer?” asked Detective Mike Morales of San Antonio P.D.

“This is our guy,” said David.

“No question?”

“No question.”

“What have you got for us?” I asked, trying not to think about the children whose toys lay scattered about the house: an infant’s swing, a teddy bear, a teething ring and rattle, a Barbie convertible, a broken plastic
Star Wars
laser, and a colored wheel with primary-colored tabs. Maggie had one like it as a baby. When she pressed the buttons, a cow, lamb, dog, horse, and goat popped up emitting mechanical cries.

“Not much. We think he gained entry through an open back window. It was still open when we got here. We found a few threads of black fabric caught on a nail protruding from the ledge. We’ve sent them to the lab. No footprints. The place is littered with fingerprints, most of them small, probably from the children. Others may belong to Ms. Gonzales. Of course, we’ll check them all,” he said. “We found one partial fingerprint, on the nightstand, smeared with blood. It could be the killer’s. It’s possible that in the fight she ripped a hole in one of his gloves.”