Family Ties (Flesh & Blood Trilogy Book 2) (18 page)

“So you think Brian is the real I-75 Strangler?” I asked.

“I know he is. It explains why Alma Jean Glover described me to the sketch artist and then identified me in the lineup after I was arrested. Brian probably looks just like me, or at least enough so that someone with very poor vision, like her, could easily mistake us. Plus, he was apparently picking up prostitutes at truck stops I frequented. Surely he found out from Annie that I’m a truck driver and that I minister to prostitutes I encounter along the way.”

Everything he said made sense. Except for one thing. “Why?” I asked.

“Why do I think that?”

“No. Why would he kill all those innocent women, knowing you would likely be arrested and possibly sent to prison for what he’d done?”

“Easy,” Randy said, splaying his hands before him. “Revenge.”

“Revenge?”

“Yes. Good old fashioned revenge. Think about it. The version of the story he probably got from his mother about his conception and my reaction to the news would have been completely biased. It was obvious when I saw Annie that day in 1990 that she still held onto some misguided hope that we would be together, despite the fact that in her mind, I turned my back on her and our child. When I dispelled her of that fantasy, she was very, very angry. She told me I would regret it. She probably told Brian what a horrible, heartless monster I was and he probably flew into some kind of rage when he found out, as Annie had probably put it, that I’d abandoned him. That combined with years of preexisting abandonment issues, thanks to me, made for one hell of a cocktail.”

“There’s something I didn’t tell you,” I told him. “I forgot to mention that I think he’s killed again. A bartender I spoke with recently. Also, he’s a paranoid schizophrenic who’s spent the past twenty plus years in and out of jail, as well as mental institutions.”

Randy bowed his head. “Of course he is.”

“Even if you could convince me that any of this was your fault, his mental illness is definitely something you couldn’t have controlled, even if you’d been in his life this whole time.”

“My uncle was schizophrenic. Of course, in those days, they didn’t call it that, but that’s what he was. Maybe it’s genetic,” he said with a glazed look on his face.

“Maybe. I don’t know. I’m not a doctor. But what I do know is that if you’re right about all of this, none of it is your fault. You did a noble thing. You tried to protect your son out of some misguided desire for redemption and forgiveness.”

Then I did something I hadn’t done in over twenty years. I reached my hand out and laid it gently on top of his. His skin was tougher than I remembered, but it was warm. The instant I touched him, memories of my childhood came flooding back, bringing tears to my eyes. I tried my hardest to blink them back, but a couple escaped regardless of my efforts. Randy patted my hand with his free one.

“Oh, Libs. Do you have any idea how long I’ve dreamed of this moment?”

I pulled my hand back, but not so quickly as to offend him. “I know,” I said.

“So,” he said before clearing his throat, clearly trying to move past the semi-awkward moment. “Do you believe me?”

I thought long and hard before I answered him. Long enough he probably felt a bit anxious and maybe even a bit disappointed. But I had to think through my response carefully. I’d been so rapt by his story, I hadn’t stopped to think if I believed it or not. On one hand, it made every kind of sense. It explained a lot and answered a lot of questions. But on the other hand, it was almost too far-fetched to believe. Ultimately, it came down to this—stranger things
had
happened. Look at what happened to me just a few months prior. I had woken up to find my husband’s head nearly blown off, been arrested for his murder, chased down several suspects, been stalked by a man Randy had sent to protect me, then killed my stalker. If you had asked me this time last year if any of that was possible, I’d have called you a fucking liar. But it
had
happened. So why couldn’t Randy’s theory be possible?

“I believe you,” I said finally.

“Oh, Libs.” He hung his head and his shoulders began to move up and down rapidly. It only took a second to realize he was crying. I had never, in all my life, seen my father cry. Not even when he was arrested. Especially not then. He regained his composure after a couple of minutes then dried his eyes with the palm of his hand. “What do we do now?”

“Well,” I said. “Now you just leave it up to me. I’ll see what evidence I can find to prove this theory of yours. We probably need to bring the police into this, though.”

“No police,” he said. “I don’t trust them.

I didn’t blame him, after everything we had both been through, but I had only been a private investigator for less than a year and Randy’s was the biggest case I’d taken on. Too big, if you ask me. I explained to him that I didn’t have the resources I needed to prove his innocence, once and for all. After thinking it through briefly, he nodded his head and agreed.

“Okay,” he said. “But see if you can keep this local. I don’t want the FBI coming in here and taking over. It could take years if they get involved.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “I know just the right detective. I’ll give him a call, but I’m not sure it’ll be in his jurisdiction. He may be willing to help me on his down time. But Randy, there’s one thing we haven’t discussed.”

“What’s that?” He looked genuinely perplexed.

“You do realize that in order to prove your innocence, I’ll have to prove that Brian killed all those women. If I prove it, that means he will likely go to prison for the rest of his life. He won’t get the death penalty, due to his mental illness, and he may get to spend his sentence in a mental hospital, but I can’t save both of you.”

“I know,” he said, looking very sad. “I’ve done all I can for Brian. I thought I could do this. I thought I could spend my life in prison to protect him. But if he’s really that dangerous, if he is still killing people, he needs to be stopped. Plus, I’d really love to get out of here so we can make up for all these lost years.”

“I’d like that,” I found myself saying.

“Oh, and Libs?”

“Yes, Randy?”

“Do you think now you could think about calling me Dad instead of Randy? It would mean the world to me.”

“I’ll try my best,” I promised.

Chapter 18

As soon as I was back in my car, I called Web. Although I was pretty sure he was on shift, he answered on the second ring.

“Detective Webster,” he said in his friendly baritone.

“Hi, it’s Libby. Do you have a few minutes?”

“For you? I’ve got all the time in the world.”

I found myself blushing, but quickly reminded myself this was no time to flirt. I told him everything Randy and I had discussed during my visit. When I was done, he remained silent for a beat.

“Wow,” was all he said finally.

“Yeah,” I said. “Tell me about it. And he wants to try to keep the investigation local and not involve the FBI. Do you think that would be possible?”

“I’m sure we can give it a try,” Web said. “But if it gets to be something beyond my capabilities, I’ll have no choice but to call them in.”

“Understood.”

“So you now think that your brother is the real I-75 Strangler?”

“I do,” I said. “And it makes sense, if you think about it. The killings started when Brian would have been around twenty-five years old. The so-called witness, Alma Jean Glover, believes she saw my father arguing with Shiloh Blackwater on the night she was killed. But what if it was Brian? They resemble each other remarkably. Brian looks just like a younger Randy. Not to mention the fact that she’s blind as a bat.”

“Okay,” Web said. “I can see that. But what about motive? Why would Brian kill all those women?”

“I’m not sure exactly,” I admitted. “But what if he was trying to frame Randy? What if he’s held a grudge against him all these years, because he believes that Randy abandoned him—an idea obviously promoted by his mysterious, vengeful mother? Whether he set out with this motive from the beginning, or whether he at some point realized that he could pin his acts on Randy, I’m not sure.”

“Makes sense,” Web said in a pondering tone.

“So what do we do now? What’s our next move?”

“I think I should go back and talk to Brian again. See if I can get anything out of him that might tell us what really happened.”

“Great,” I said. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Web said, but in a playful tone. “I said I would go and talk to him. I never said you could come. You might unsettle him and he may clam up.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Web. With all due respect, of course. But you saw the way he reacted to you last time we showed up at his door. It wasn’t until you went outside to your cruiser that he opened up to me. He knows I’m his sister, and for whatever strange reason, he seems to like me. You cannot do this without me.”

“All right,” he sighed. “Hurry up. I’ll be waiting in my cruiser out front. Just jump in when you get here.”

I hung up and turned my car in the direction of the Richmond Police Department. Just as I’d told Web, it took only thirty minutes to get from where I was on the interstate to where Web sat waiting for me in his cruiser. In late October, the weather was growing colder, and when I pulled my car into the parking lot, I saw smoke rising from the back of Web’s cruiser, where he was sitting with his hands held out in front of the vents to warm his hands.

I parked right next to him and climbed into the passenger seat.

“Good God, it’s getting cold out there!”

“Now you see why I’m sitting in my car waiting for you. Need me to crank it up another notch?”

“Nah, I’ll be fine. Let’s just get going.”

We talked about the ever-changing Kentucky weather and the old local adage which said:
If you don’t like the weather in Kentucky, wait five minutes
. We arrived at Brian’s house in less than ten minutes.

“The red truck’s not here,” I said immediately.

“Yeah, I saw that too.”

“What are we going to do now?”

“Wait here,” he said as he opened the driver’s side door and pushed himself out onto the driveway.

Waiting there was the last thing I wanted to do, but I didn’t want to argue with Web, so I sat back in my seat, crossed my arms across my chest, and pouted. I watched as Web slowly walked up the driveway and made it to the front porch. He opened the screen door and knocked on the main door. No one answered. Then he walked around and looked into the front windows. He turned toward me and shook his head.

The idea came to me rather quickly, but I wasn’t sure how Web would feel about it. I got out, pulled my jacket tighter around myself, and walked up to where he was standing in the mulch beneath the front windows.

“He’s definitely not here,” Web said when I approached.

“I know. I have an idea.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“I’m not sure it will work, but it’s worth a shot.” I walked over to the porch and picked up one of the two potted plants which were sitting on both edges. Nothing there. I put it back down and leaned over to the next pot and picked it up. Sure enough, there was a key.

“How did you know that would be there?” he asked, looking at me in disbelief.

“I’ve rented more times than I can count. A lot of times, my landlords had me keep a spare key under the doormat, or a potted plant, or a stone in the mulch, so they could get in any time they needed to.”

“But I can’t just open the door and waltz right in there. Not without a search warrant.”

“Maybe you can’t, but I can. I’m family. My brother left a key out for me to be able to get in the house in case of emergencies. And I’d say that him being missing qualifies as an emergency, wouldn’t you?”

He looked at me with bewilderment. “I don’t know…”

“Oh, quit being so by-the-books,” I said jokingly as I walked to the front door and inserted the key into the lock. When it gave way and the door parted slightly, I smiled at him. “See? Easy peasy.”

“Okay,” he said after appearing to contemplate his options briefly. “But we don’t touch anything. Agreed?”

“Agreed. I just want to see if we can get some idea as to where he is. My guess is, he’s not just at the grocery. I’ll bet you ten to one he got spooked when he saw you here earlier and now he’s taken off.”

“You’re probably right.” He gestured for me to go in ahead of him. “Ladies first.”

“Thank you, kind sir,” I said as I gave him a mock curtsy.

The lights were all turned off and it was getting dark outside. Web pulled his flashlight from his utility belt, turned it on, and shined it ahead of us. The living room was just as it had been earlier in the day.

Suddenly, we heard a sound coming from the kitchen. Web stepped in front of me and motioned for me to stay behind him. He pulled his service weapon out and held it and the flashlight out ahead of him as he walked toward the kitchen, crouching low. I mimicked his stance as I followed behind him. My heart was racing all of a sudden. What if he was here, after all, and we had just broken into his home without permission? If Brian really was the I-75 Strangler, he would probably have no qualms about killing either one of us, even if I was technically family.

Web quickly turned the corner, pointing his gun into the room and waving it from side to side to cover all the angles. Just then, a black-and-white cat jumped down from the countertop and meowed as it ran off into the living room.

“Damn, I hate cats,” he said with relief clearly reflecting in his face.

I felt relieved too. And a little silly for being so paranoid.

On the kitchen table was a half-eaten sandwich and a nearly empty glass of milk. Web touched the glass.

“It’s warm. He’s been gone for a while now.”

Both of us relaxed a little and stepped further into the kitchen. I walked over to the refrigerator and looked at the lone photograph tacked to the freezer door with a banana-shaped magnet. I motioned for Web to join me. When he arrived at my side, I told him to shine his flashlight on the photograph. In it, Brian stood on a beach near the edge of the ocean, with his arms wrapped around an older woman. He appeared to be not much older than fifteen or sixteen, but it was definitely him. The woman had to be his mother, Annie Larson. I’d never seen a photograph of Annie as an adult, not even in the Larson home. But I could tell by the way they held each other it couldn’t be anyone else.

“It’s his mother,” I said as I pointed to woman in the picture. “It’s Annie Larson.”

The woman was slender and had bushy brown hair flying in her face. One of her hands was trying to tame the hair and keep it out of her eyes while the other was resting on Brian’s shoulder. Brian’s arms were around Annie’s thin waist. Her face was gaunt and she wasn’t smiling at all, even though Brian was beaming from ear to ear. Something about the picture gave me the heebie-jeebies. It was something about her eyes…

“Come on,” Web said, tugging at the hem of my shirt. “Let’s check out the rest of the house and get the hell out of here.”

When Web turned his back to me, I grabbed the photograph and slid it into my back pocket. I followed him down the hallway with bare walls on either side. The whole house was sparsely decorated, so I don’t know why it surprised me that there were no photographs hanging along the hallway walls, but I thought of Mom’s house, where the walls were covered with pictures of me from the time I was a baby to my wedding picture. The house felt cold and desolate and totally creepy.

To the right was a bathroom, but one glance in there told us there was nothing of interest. Just a toothbrush and some toothpaste resting on the sink’s countertop. So we kept moving.

There was a bedroom on the left, across from the bathroom, but it was completely empty. Finally, we came to the very last room, which was at the end of the hallway on the right. The sun had now completely set and the flashlight wasn’t helping much, so I flipped the switch on the wall.

“What are you doing?” Web asked when he spun around and faced me.

“What? Does it really matter? The window is on the back of the house. No one’s going to see it from the road. And, as you pointed out, Brian is long gone by now. I can’t see a damn thing.”

Web seemed to ponder my logic briefly, then shrugged his shoulders and said, “Can you believe this?”

I looked around the room. All that was occupying the seemingly massive empty space was an air mattress which was set up in the back corner of the room, a red plastic milk crate, which was serving as a nightstand with a small lamp on top, and several other boxes lined up along the wall.

“Creepy,” I said as I started walking slowly across the room to Brian’s makeshift bed. On it was a white crumpled-up sheet, a blue plaid thermal blanket which was plugged into an outlet, and a thin pillow. I looked over my shoulder at Web, who was now opening the lids of the boxes with the tip of his pen, one by one and surveying their contents. I turned back toward the bed and focused my attention on the nightstand. On it was an ashtray overflowing with the brown filters of cigarette butts.

“Libby,” Web said very slowly, as if he’d just discovered a bomb about to explode. “Come here.”

I took a few steps over to where he was crouched down in front of one of the boxes.

“I fucking can’t believe it,” he said as I peered down into the box.

There, at the bottom, was a tangled mess of jewelry of varying colors. There were necklaces, bracelets, earrings and rings. Some were gold, some were silver, and others had different colored gems on them. Although it was strange that a forty-year-old man would have a box full of jewelry in his bedroom, I failed to understand what had Web so taken aback.

“I don’t get it,” I said, looking over at him. “It’s just a bunch of women’s jewelry.”

“Trophies,” was all Web said in response.

It hit me like a clawed hammer. I had heard of trophies before in the true crime shows and novels I used to love so much. That had been before my husband was brutally murdered. I had since lost all interest in such things. But I certainly knew what trophies were, and what they meant. Serial killers often kept trinkets, usually jewelry, from their victims after they murdered them. This would allow them to go back and relive the killing any time they wanted to, just by looking at, or holding, the thing they had stolen from their victim’s corpse. I had heard of cases where police had found stockpiles of trophies in the homes or other secret hiding places of serial killers, but I’d never seen anything like it before in my life.

Without thinking, I went to grab one of the pieces of jewelry—a gold necklace with a red ruby pendant—but Web shot his hand out and pulled my arm back away from the box. “Don’t touch anything,” he said sternly.

Of course. All of it was potential evidence and if my fingerprints were on any of it, we’d have a hell of a time explaining that. We had entered Brian’s house under false pretenses and without a warrant. We couldn’t take anything with us.

“But we can’t just leave these things here,” I said. “This all but proves that Brian is the real serial killer.”

“As soon as we leave, call it in as an anonymous tip. I can’t be involved in this in any way, shape, or form. I’m sure you don’t want to be questioned about how you knew these things even existed, either.”