I looked up.
'That's it?' Kate asked.
'Not exactly. Apparently Simpson wasn't so sure about the relevancy. He follows with a list of her old friends. William Collins, Byron Thompson, Neil Cohen, Jamie Smith, Ross Dayton, Celia French, Lori Edwards... You want more? 'Cause there's plenty.'
'He thought one of her friends might have killed her?' Kate asked.
'I think police do a lot of eliminating, from what Jeff says. But gosh, Frank Simpson did plenty of interviewing if he followed up on all these people.'
'He was thorough,' said Kate.
'We have years of notes, Kate. When does 'thorough' turn to obsession?'
'Maybe we should jump to a later year. Unless you want to follow everything just as he did.'
'I do,' I said, spotting something else. I removed a photocopy of the picture caught by the ATM machine with the date of the murder printed in ink at the bottom. Amanda Mason was withdrawing the fifty dollars that would later be found in Lawrence Washington's room. The girl had short hair and looked more like sixteen than her actual nineteen years.
Kate leaned forward to see, then her fingers flew to her lips and she gasped.
'Kind of creepy looking at a ghost, huh?' I said.
'It's not that, Abby. My God, she looks like you.'
'She does not,' I shot back.
'Look at her. Her eyes, the shape of her face. She could be our sister.'
'Yeah. Our
'Sorry,' she said. 'I didn't mean to upset you.'
'It doesn't bother me, okay?' But we both knew it did. This case had been one disturbing episode after another, and her saying I looked like a murder victim made me realize it wasn't getting any better.
16
The next morning, on the one-week anniversary of Verna Mae's death, I got in my car and set out to visit Lawrence Washington's father. Though I had an address from Simpson's notes, I found no phone number despite searching the white pages, directory assistance and my on-line resources. All I could do was drive to his home and hope he was there.
By the time we'd finished with Simpson's notes last night, Kate and I had ended up cross-eyed and cranky. They did indicate that Washington continued to stonewall about the unaccounted for ninety minutes, the time gap that had helped a jury convict him in a circumstantial case, but other than that, Simpson seemed to have made a mountain of paper out of molehills. Names and dates and what might well be useless pieces of information were swimming in my head even now.
I turned onto Lyons Avenue after traveling the freeways north and east to Houston's Fifth Ward, a section of the city struggling to overcome the street crime that had at one time made it the most dangerous part of town. Renovations were ongoing and included condos and newly painted houses spotting the neighborhoods. The work wasn't finished, however. Poverty decimates culture and recovery is slow no matter what the politicians promise.
After several wrong turns, I finally found Thaddeus Washington's house and discovered he had been one of those who had benefited from neighborhood improvement projects. His one-story was small, probably no more than 1,000 square feet inside, but the siding was a fresh yellow and the porch slats gleamed with bright white paint. The swing I'd seen in the photograph swayed in the warm morning breeze.
The steps to the house had been replaced by a plywood ramp, and when Mr. Washington cracked the door open, I saw why. Even through the six-inch gap I could see he was in a wheelchair.
'Can I help you?' he asked, his voice wary.
'My name is Abby Rose and I want to talk to you about your son, Lawrence. I saw him the other day.' I offered my card but he didn't take it. I already had my ticket inside.
He widened the door and said, 'You saw him?'
'Yes, sir,' I replied. He had nappy gray hair, but the face that I'd seen in Simpson's photo had changed little over the years.
He backed up the wheelchair and told me to come in.
That's when I saw the .357 Magnum lying across his blanketed stumps. I guess a gun helps if you can't run. I wondered when he'd lost his legs—probably from the diabetes—since in the picture both had still been attached. But that's the type of personal question preschoolers ask strangers.
He noted I was staring and said, 'Don't pay this gun no mind. Probably don't need it, but word gets around for folks to leave you be when you stay protected. People don't mess with Thaddeus Washington. And I know what you're thinking—that I'm a foolish old man.' He laughed then, a hearty laugh.
'I don't think you're foolish and I hope I'm not intruding,' I said.
'Intruding? What the hell are you talking about? Not every day a pretty girl visits. A girl who knows Lawrence.' He grinned, revealing dentures a little too big for his gums. 'Come on in and have a seat on the divan. I'll get you some coffee and then you better tell me all about my son.' He turned and started toward the adjoining kitchen visible beyond the passthrough bar.
'I stopped at Starbucks on the drive here,' I lied. 'I'm already wired on caffeine.' I was still avoiding coffee like I might one of Kate's veggie 'meat' loaves, but didn't want to sound impolite.
Mr. Washington wheeled to face me. 'Starbucks. I own some of their stock. They keep sending me these little cards for three-dollar coffees around dividend time. Guess I can give them to you.'
My turn to laugh. 'You own stock in Starbucks?'
He grinned. 'You probably think it takes me an hour and a half to watch
'I certainly do not,' I replied, still smiling.
He gestured for me to sit on a red chenille sofa with fringe on the bottom. Had to be fifty years old, but it was in pristine condition thanks to the plastic cover. He steered his wheelchair around so we were facing each other. 'You a lawyer?'
'No. Why would you think... oh. Because I visited your son?'
'You're not police. I can tell them. So who are you? And don't hand me that card again, 'cause I couldn't read it anyway. My glasses are in the other room.'
I explained who I was, how I'd talked with Mrs. Simpson and read Frank Simpson's file on his son's case.
'Frank thought Lawrence was innocent. Do you?' he asked.
'Something tells me he is,' I answered quietly. Even if I wasn't totally sure, this was what Thaddeus Washington needed to hear, what I needed to hear myself say.
'I'm afraid he'll never get out of that place. All the lawyers been used up long ago. He won't let me come see him anymore. How did he look?'
'Healthy,' I answered, leaving out the sadness that seemed to overpower everything about Lawrence. 'You say he won't let you visit?'
Mr. Washington gestured at his lap. ' 'Cause of this.'
'You should know better than to try to take a gun into a prison,' I said with a grin.
Washington smiled. 'Good one. I think I like you. Wish Lawrence had your attitude. He says the prison is so old it's too hard to get the chair in there, but I think he don't want to see me like this—or for me to see him with a screen between us. So we talk. And write. It's okay, I guess.'
I could tell it
