The nightmarish vision of Jean Lawrence on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, reaching out for mercy, flashed across my mind. I blew out a breath. So many lives destroyed.
“Did she see her father kill himself?”
“No. On that she was also consistent. According to what we were able to piece together, after seeing her father murder her mother, Linda ran to her little brother’s room and blocked the door with a chest of drawers. Clever kid. So while they heard the shot, they were spared the sight of their father turning the gun on himself. Linda and her brother went out the bedroom window onto the roof, then managed to shimmy down the tree at the side of the house.”
“Resourceful kids.”
He tugged at his mustache. “I doubt it was the first time Linda had left the house that way—she was a bit of a handful.”
“I thought you said there were no problems with the kids?” Annette asked.
“Didn’t mean it that way,” he said with a smile. “Hell, I snuck out my bedroom window once or twice when I was a kid; didn’t you? I’m saying Linda wasn’t the kind of kid to sit around and wait for her father to kill her. That’s all.”
We sat in silence for a long moment, nursing the dregs of our warm, flat beers. I couldn’t stop thinking about how Sidney’s actions were still claiming lives. Whatever violence had bubbled up that night had swallowed Linda, too; it had just taken a while.
“One of the older neighbors said something about a feud Sidney might have had with the neighbors across the street. She said the son was selling drugs?”
“Yeah, we checked that as well. Duct-Tape Dave, I guess you’re thinking of.”
I choked on my PBR. “Duct-Tape Dave?”
“That’s what he called himself—he made these homemade silencers out of duct tape. Kind of clever, actually. The kid was a big talker, not a real player on the street. Sold some weed, but strictly penny-ante stuff. He had the nickname, but he never shot anybody ’til years later. Doing time now in San Quentin.”
“So you don’t think he could have been the shooter?”
“Nah. We grilled him good, but truth was he started blubbering like a baby. His girlfriend gave him an alibi, for what it was worth. Mostly I just didn’t like him as the shooter. Just didn’t fit. He was no stone-cold killer, and this was a brutal crime.”
“Do you think Sidney Lawrence had something to do with the neighbor’s house burning down?”
“Again, there were allegations. Most likely, that house burned down because they were cooking drugs or even dinner in there while they were high as kites. Or just as likely, they burned it themselves to get the insurance money. We never found any evidence that they had harassed the Lawrence family after moving, though, only beforehand. They were still living in the city, so I suppose it was possible, but as Inspector Crawford here would tell you, an experienced cop goes by his gut. I really don’t think the kid did it. Like to think I’m not easily fooled.”
“What about Dave’s father?”
“He was a goner by then, sick as a dog. I just couldn’t see it.”
“Did you think Sidney Lawrence really did it?”
He held my eyes for a long moment, then glanced over at Annette. Finally he leaned back in his chair, let out a long breath, and shook his head.
“Nope.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him about ghosts. I was trying to figure out how to phrase it when Annette spoke.
“I know this is out of left field, but you ever feel anything weird in that house?” asked Annette in her typical direct fashion.
“Weird how?”
“I’m talking ghosts here.”
He smiled. “I suppose a place like that would be lousy with ghosts, wouldn’t it?”
“And did you . . . feel anything?” I asked again, half expecting him to burst into laughter. Instead, he was quiet for a while.
“You know what I like about animals?” the retired detective asked. “They don’t question what they see. They accept it. If something scares them, they hightail it out of there, no ifs, ands, or buts.”
“So . . . you did feel something,” I said.
“Not sure what I felt. The aftermath of a crime like that, it can throw you for a loop. Tell you this, though: I sure as hell don’t think ghosts killed those folks that night.”
“Then who do you think did kill the family?” Annette asked. “Any theories?”
“I was always under the impression it was a home invasion of some sort. A robbery gone wrong.”
“Was anything taken?”
“That was one of the frustrating things—we never knew for sure. All we had was a pair of traumatized kids who didn’t know what might have been valuable. A home safe was empty, but who knew if there was anything in there in the first place? There were no signs of forced entry, no forensic evidence to suggest there was anyone in the house who shouldn’t have been.” He shook his head and smoothed his mustache. I was starting to think the purpose of the hair was to give him something to do with his hands when he pondered. “Nope, the boss said it must have been the dad, because of the girl’s testimony. So when I couldn’t come up with forensic evidence, much less a suspect for a home invasion, the case was closed.”