Sarah Armstrong: Singularity Part 7

I like your room, Maggie," I said first thing in the morning, as I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "Beautiful. Just like being out in the woods and looking up at the stars."

"Its because..." Maggie started to say something, and then stopped. In between chomps of Frosted Flakes, she said instead, "Mrs. Hansen wants you to come to school for a parent-teacher conference."

"Is everything all right?" I asked.

Id expected her to be surprised to see me, but Maggie acted as if Id never been gone, not even acknowledging our conversation from the night before.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Mom inspect a homemade coffee cake, its crust cracked into a cinnamon-and-sugar road map. Shed gotten up early and baked it before sunrise, and I realized she must be even more upset about Maggie than Id realized. She cut through it, excising a slice that measured a sixth of the cake. I knew it had to be for me, but I didnt protest. Id learned long ago that with Mom its always less painful to eat cake and skip lunch. Somewhere, far back in our English/Irish family tree, undoubtedly lurks a Jewish or Italian woman whose food genes waited in hiding until they morphed into Mom. How else can anyone explain a woman who considers an unfinished plate of cake or a refused cookie a personal rebuff?

"I failed my math test," Maggie continued, reclaiming my full attention. She sounded no more concerned than if shed just announced shed been tardy to cla.s.s.

"Your math test?" I stammered, truly stunned. "How could you fail a math test? Youre a whiz at math and science. Its impossible."

"She hasnt been studying," Mom said as she plopped the cake plate in front of me accompanied by one of those looks that says, Didnt I warn you about this? As wonderful as Mom is, as much as I love her, shes never been above a good old-fashioned I-told-you-so.

"Did you do your a.s.signments?" I asked.

"She hasnt brought books home all week," Mom answered for her.

"Gram, I did so. Maybe I just didnt understand it," Maggie answered, her lower lip jutting out, the same way it had when she was a toddler and Bill or I scolded her for not picking up her toys. "Just because I failed one test doesnt mean that Im not studying. Lots of kids fail sometimes."

"Not you, Magpie," I said, genuinely puzzled. "Youve never failed anything."

"Gee, Mom. Its no big deal," she said. "I dont know why Mrs. Hansen even wants to talk to you."

"Because shes concerned about you, just like Gram and I. She knows, we all know you can do better," I said, trying to sort through my thoughts. Of course it was my fault; it was always my fault. I wasnt paying enough attention. I was gone too much. I should be a more suitable mother, the room mother who coordinated the school bake sale and led a Girl Scout troop, taking twelve eleven-year-olds on campouts.

"Well, maybe I cant do better," Maggie said. Clanking her spoon into the empty cereal bowl, she pushed back from the counter and plopped flat-footed onto the rough Mexican tile floor. "Maybe Im not as smart as everyone thinks."

I paused, considering what to say next, when the telephone rang. Mom answered it.

"Maggie, weve had a rough year," I ventured, deciding to confront it head-on, a pain inching its way up the back of my neck into my skull. "Maybe the two of us need to talk more, spend more time together. Maybe youre not studying because youre upset about Daddy or mad at me?"

"Oh, Mom," she moaned. "Why do parents always think its something big, just because a kid fails one stupid math test?"

Suddenly the television set on the counter clicked on and Mom flipped to channel two, the local NBC affiliates morning news.

"Some man named Garrity says theres something on the news you need to see," she explained, pouring herself a second cup of coffee.

"This discussion isnt over," I called to Maggie, who flounced from the kitchen, her backpack hanging like a disfiguring hump from her shoulders. "Get your jacket, and Ill drive you to school."

"I told Strings Id ride the bus with him," she shouted back.

"Well pick him up on the way," I said. "Five minutes, you and me, in the car."

I poured myself a mug of black coffee to wash down the two thousand calories of coffee cake, just as Priscilla Lucas, head down, dressed in a pale purple suit fit for a society luncheon, appeared on the television screen, walking into the Galveston County jail for booking, Scroggins and Nelson trailing behind her. My suspicions had been right; one or both had tipped off the press. They wanted the show, the spectacle of arresting one of Houstons most prominent and wealthiest citizens.

Behind Lucas followed a feisty-looking, white-haired man, his face flushed with anger, who looked to be in his seventies, a man I recognized from newspaper photos as Priscillas father, Bobby Barker. He whispered to another man, fiftyish, in a well-cut suit. Her lawyer, no doubt. Probably from one of downtown Houstons mega firms.

"On Galveston Island, early this morning, Priscilla Lucas was charged with solicitation of murder in the deaths of her multimillionaire husband, Edward Travis Lucas, and a young lawyer, Annmarie Knowles," said the reporter. "Sources within Galveston PD. allege that, at the time of the murders, Edward Lucas and Knowles were lovers and the Lucases were in the midst of a contentious divorce battle, fighting over custody of their three children. According to the arrest warrant, Mrs. Lucas has refused to answer questions regarding one hundred thousand dollars she withdrew from her personal bank account just days before the murders."

I cringed when the station cut to footage of Scroggins and Nelson in front of the courthouse.

"What we have here is an age-old scenario, jealous wife has unfaithful husband and his lover murdered," said Scroggins, frowning into the camera, as Nelson stood solemnly behind him. "We feel confident that we have enough evidence to ensure that the Galveston district attorneys office will have no difficulty in obtaining a conviction."

"This morning, Mrs. Lucas is free on one-million-dollars bail. No alleged hit man has yet been charged in connection with the double murder. More news tonight on the arrest thats rocked Houston and the island," said the reporter.

Mom clicked off the television and asked, "Why did Agent Garrity want you to watch? Is that the case youve been working?"

"Yeah, it is."

"Looks like those detectives think theyve solved it," she said.

"They were grandstanding. She didnt do it."

Mom walked over and looked at me, intently sizing me up.

"Are you sure? They made it sound pretty cut-and-dried."

"Im sure," I said, with an edge of resentment I didnt try to hide. "I dont believe for a second Priscilla Lucas had anything to do with either murder. Id bet my career on it."

Mom was silent, mulling that over.

"Well, can you prove it?" she asked with a frown. "Because if you cant, it appears what youre really betting is the rest of that womans life."

I turned to Mom, wondering why she seemed so concerned about the outcome of the case.

"I knew Priscillas mother," she explained, as if she sensed my puzzlement. "We went to school together. Our parents traveled in the same circles."

It wasnt something I thought about often, probably because it predated my birth and had never had anything to do with my life. Mom hadnt always had to scratch for a living. Her dad was a successful wildcatter whod made millions drilling for oil in West Texas. Someplace in the attic, we have pictures of my grandparents and Mom-the-debutante at her coming-out ball.

Then my grandmother died young, and the grandfather I never met disowned Mom when she married Pop, who Grandpa said would never be able to support her. Financially, the old guy was right. An Englishman whod come to Texas to make his fortune, Pop used up Moms trust fund digging dry holes from West Texas to the Louisiana border. Still, my grandfather had been wrong about the most important thing: my father was a good man. When I was a kid, I sometimes wondered how my life would have been different if my grandfather had understood that and hadnt written us off and left his millions to charity.

"I hadnt seen Jessica Barker in years until Priscillas wedding," Mom explained. "But I work with the family caterer, and I made the cake when she married Edward Lucas. Jessica was very gracious, not treating me like an underling. And Priscilla was a beautiful bride, such a waste when everyone in Houston knew Edward Lucas was a spoiled playboy."

"I didnt know that you knew the family."

"There was never any reason to bring it up," she said, frowning. "I knew all those families, years ago, before your father entered my life. Since then, Ive been something of a social outcast, not that Ive cared. Theres more to life than money. Anyway, Priscillas mother was always kind. I honestly grieved when I read that she died of breast cancer a few years ago."

"You were friends?" I asked, genuinely surprised.

"I guess you could say that. Jessica offered to help us once, a long time ago," Mom continued. "Something that meant a lot to me. I never forgot."

"Whats that, Mom?"

"She heard about your fathers stroke and offered to move him into the clinic at the medical center, the one the Barker family funded," she explained. "It was too late. Your father was near death. The doctor examined him and said there was nothing they could do. But I never forgot her kindness. When I faced a crisis, Jessica Barker was the only one from my old life who cared."

Mom tilted her head and looked at me closely. "Sarah, are you certain Priscilla Lucas is innocent?"

"I cant be sure. Theres the possibility Im wrong," I admitted. "But my instincts tell me that Im right."

"Well, then you need to not worry about Maggie and me for a while," she said.

"Mom..." I protested.

"No," she said, raising her hand to shush me. "I promise you that Ill handle things here. Well be all right. Until this case is closed, you just go do your job. Because if Jessica Barkers daughter is truly innocent, you need to prove it."

Maggie and I shared the car but little else on our drive to her middle school. I tried talking; she just didnt answer. Mom was right-something was troubling her and she wasnt yet at the point where she was willing to talk about it. Picking up Strings cut through the silence, and they gabbed about their science projects, his still based on an ever-expanding theory that dinosaurs were not only alive and hiding somewhere on the planet but would someday reclaim the earth after yet another ice age. I couldnt help smiling when Maggie clicked her tongue in disbelief; it was just so Mom. When I pulled up in front of the school, she seemed surprised that I parked the car.

"Im going to stop in to visit with Mrs. Hansen for a few minutes," I explained.

Maggie frowned, but I sensed she was actually pleased.

As they ran off to talk to friends, I found my way to Emily Hansens cla.s.sroom. Mrs. Hansen was Maggies homeroom teacher, as well as her instructor for math and science. It was Maggies first year in middle school, but Id been at the school a few times before, most recently for spring open house. The cla.s.sroom reminded me of mine in sixth grade: blackboards, books, desks with attached chairs, and a bulletin board full of profiles of ancient scientists and mathematicians, including Galileo and Pythagoras. The cla.s.s pet, a gerbil named Leo, after Leonardo da Vinci, spun aimlessly inside a wheel, and Mrs. Hansen, a stocky woman in her late fifties with a helmet of highlighted hair, sat behind her desk, making notations in her grade book.

"Mrs. Armstrong," she said, sounding genuinely pleased I had come. "Thank you for dropping in."

"Im worried about Maggie," I said. "She told me about her math test."

"I think you should be concerned," she said, frowning. "Maggies having a difficult time, maybe not surprisingly so for a child whos lost a parent, but a hard time."

When I left, Mrs. Hansens words were still ringing in my ears. "Maggies having a difficult time." Id known, but hearing it from her teacher somehow made my daughters sadness more real. We had only a few minutes before the bell rang and a herd of young bodies invaded the room, but we agreed to talk again by phone in the coming week. She also promised to call if Maggie failed to turn in her homework or wasnt prepared for cla.s.s. As I was on the way out the door, she handed me a paper brought to her by Maggies English teacher. The a.s.signment: to write about what makes her happiest.

I read it in the car. It began, "What makes me happiest is being with my mom," Maggie wrote. "But shes gone a lot, because she helps solve crimes, like my dad used to do. My gram takes care of me, but Im lonely a lot. Since my dad died, everything is different. We dont have fun like we used to when my dad was with us. Hed kid us, and call Mom and me his girls. My dad could make anything fun." Maggie wrote about our trip to the dinosaur exhibit and that Strings and Mom came along. It ended: "We had a good time, but the next day my mom was gone again, working on a case. Her job is important. People die if she doesnt catch the killers, so I guess the truth is that Im being selfish."

I tucked the paper in my bag and drove to the office, but it was impossible to put it out of my mind.

Twelve.

David and Captain Williams were in the conference room when I arrived. Theyd already begun compiling the information wed collected by building a chart on a sheet of poster board. Across the top, they listed the names of the three victims and the dates of each of the murders. Below each name, they noted details of the offense and the murder scene: nature of the wounds, position of the bodies, any forensic evidence. Here they had only the two strands of blond hair to enter. They also wrote in the cross slashed across each victims chest and the b.l.o.o.d.y crosses painted on the walls above their bodies. Theyd left two empty columns in front of the Fontenot murder and four before those of Edward Lucas and Annmarie Knowles. I knew without asking that they antic.i.p.ated writing in the names of other, still unknown victims.

Most frightening, theyd left five columns after the Galveston murders, reserved for future victims, a possibility that increased in probability every day the killer remained free.

"This is where you two have a problem, if youre going to prove Priscilla Lucas wasnt involved," said Captain Williams, pointing at the final category, "connection with the killer." That square remained empty under Louise Fontenots name, but under the Galveston murders the captain had penciled in hired by PL followed by a question mark.

"Seems to me that you two have to find a way to fill that square with hard evidence if youre going to erase Mrs. Luca.s.s name," he said.

"Maybe when we track down other cases," I said, pointing to the open areas theyd left between the murders. "As we fill in the blanks, well be able to determine how our guy made contact with the others, suggesting how and why he chose Lucas and Knowles."

"The captain and I were just talking about the same thing," said David, frowning. "I think its safe, at least until we uncover other evidence, to a.s.sume that there were others before Louise Fontenot. We did a pretty good canva.s.s in Bardwell, and we came up without any clues. We really have no evidence she was his first. After her, of course, weve got a substantial lapse until the Galveston murders. Very uncharacteristic for someone who gets such a kick out of killing."

"So why are we coming up empty on other matches?" I said, posing the question we all knew had to be answered.

"Im not sure," he said. "Maybe were wrong and there are no other murders. In my view, as weve already discussed, highly unlikely."

"Or?"

"Our guy is smart. He changes MO, at least enough for the murders not to match on a computer search. Thats a possibility," David said. "This guys sophisticated enough to cover his tracks on the scene. He doesnt leave physical evidence. Hes also shown an ability to adapt parts of his MO to fit the situation. He slashed Louise Fontenots and Annmarie Knowless throats, but when he found a gun at the scene, he used it to finish off Lucas."

"Any other possibilities?" I asked.

"One. In my opinion, the most likely: for some reason were missing cases. Some just werent reported."

"So none of us believe these three are this guys only victims?" I asked.

David glanced at the captain, and then turned back to me.

"No," he said. "None of us believe that."

"Well, if the only factor here is that the murders arent being reported, its going to be nearly impossible to fill in those blanks," I said, unhappy at the prospect that we may have hit a dead end.

"Then we have to ask why these other agencies arent reporting," said David. "What cases dont make the list?"

"Of course, theoretically, they all do," I said. "But we all know thats not true."

"Right," he agreed. "It could be that the murders are taking place in small towns where police are often too short staffed to take the time to report."

"Also, departments dont report cases if they believe they know who committed the murder and just cant prove it," I added. "They dont consider those cases truly unsolved."

"That happens," agreed the captain. "What else?"

"High-risk victims, vagrants, homeless, prost.i.tutes, drug addicts, or dealers," I said. "More often than not, theyre considered nonpersons."

"That wouldnt fit the profile of the murders weve got so far," David said.

"So where do you two start?" asked the captain.

"If we a.s.sume its number three, unreported cases, whats the best way to contact agencies to ask them to look through their unsolved case files?" asked David. "Something that will have a wide distribution."

"We could e-mail a departmental bulletin to rangers and law-enforcement agencies across the state," I suggested. "One asking for information on any murders even remotely similar to the three were investigating, anything that hasnt been reported to ViCAP."

"Thatd work," said David. "But should we extend the search? Go national?"

The captain thought about that. "Since ViCAP is a national database, we should have had hits on similar cases in other states the first time we ran a comparison. Im reluctant to go too broad with this. Search too wide and well be swamped in cases. At least for now, lets keep this in Texas. Ill get Sheila to get the bulletin out," the captain offered, referring to his secretary.

"Itll be a while before we start getting responses. While were waiting for those to come in, where do we look?" asked David. "How do we fill in those blanks on our own?"