“Then why-”
She answered with a shrug. It wasn’t that she didn’t know. It was that she didn’t understand. “Ugly rumors can take on a life of their own. Maybe you’re too young to have learned that yet. Once someone mentioned that there was something… romantic…”-she gave the word a funny twist-“between Jeff and that girl, everyone just assumed it was true. They claimed that’s how she ended up in that motel here in town, that she and Jeff used to meet there from time to time, and that one of those times, things got out of hand. They said he shot her.”
“They found his gun at the scene.”
Her head came up. “You know that, do you? You’ve been reading the old newspaper articles.” “Something like that. They said his gun was there and-”
“He always kept it in his desk at our home near the prison. The drawer was locked. He hadn’t checked it for a while. I mean, why would he? Then when the police came around and asked to see it, well, of course, he went right for it. That was the first he realized it had been stolen.”
“And the cops weren’t buying that.”
It wasn’t a question so she shouldn’t have felt obligated to answer. She did, anyway. “That was the chief evidence they had against him. Jeff’s fingerprints were on the gun. Of course they were; it was his.”
“And his blood was on Vera’s blouse.”
“Jeff had cut his hand at work earlier that day. Vera helped him bandage the wound.” “And left for a date two hours away in Cleveland without bothering to change her clothes?” This was curious, because changing into something that didn’t have my boss’s blood on it was the first thing I would have done before meeting a guy in a motel. Before Helen could think I was accusing anybody of anything, I added, “That’s just weird. I wonder why she was in such a hot hurry to get to Cleveland.”
“I asked the police the same thing when I heard about the blood. I told them Jeff had told me about the way he’d cut his hand. Of course, the police weren’t very forthcoming. They didn’t have an adequate theory about why, if Jeff and Vera were having an affair, they needed to come to Cleveland to do it, either. You’d think if you were sleeping with your boss, you wouldn’t want to drive so far to do it.”
“Or you would because then it would be less likely that you’d get caught.” I was thinking out loud. I should have known better, so I offered Helen a smile of apology. “Just trying to think the way they were thinking,” I said. “If Mr. Lamar supposedly killed Vera because he was jealous-”
“Those rumors were all part of the frame-up.”
Honestly, had I been talking to anybody else, I would have told her to get real, come to grips with the fact that her husband was a cheating creep and a murderer, and get on with her life.
If I hadn’t heard the frame-up theory from the dead guy in question.
“But who-”
Her laugh was anything but funny. “Some people have overactive imaginations. That’s why they believed that nonsense about Jeff and Vera. Others might have been paid to say what they said on the stand. It’s possible, don’t you think? I told the police that, but honestly, I don’t think they believed me. Still others… There’s a lot of pettiness and jealousy in the world. You’ll learn that, too.” She heaved a sigh at the same time she hauled herself out of the chair, and without another word, she disappeared into the house.
I wondered if our interview was over, and I was about to chalk the whole thing up to bad timing when she came back to the porch carrying a framed eight-by-ten photograph of the man I’d been talking to at the cemetery. In the picture, Jefferson Lamar was wearing the same pin-striped suit I’d seen him in. His tie was plain and dark. His glasses were high up on the bridge of his nose. The thick black frames weighed heavy on his face and made it look as if he didn’t have any eyebrows.
Helen put the photo in my hands. “Does that look like the kind of a man who would kill somebody?”
I didn’t need to look at the picture, but I did, just so she wouldn’t get suspicious. “People kill people every day,” I said. “I can’t say for sure, but I bet they don’t all look like killers.”
“Not Jeff.” She took the photo, and before she sat back down, she set it on the table next to me so that Lamar was staring right at me. “He was a good man. He was honest and ethical. He-” Helen’s voice caught on a lump of emotion and she took a drink of her tea. “He believed in justice. He believed in the system. He thought criminals could be reformed, that he could help change their lives. He wasn’t the kind of man who would take another life.”
“You had him buried in Cleveland, not near Central State.” It was something I’d planned to mention later in our conversation, but this seemed as good a time as any. “I would have thought-”
“We were both born in Cleveland, and there was nothing keeping us near Central State. Nothing but Jeff’s job. Once he was arrested…” Helen didn’t fill in the blanks. She didn’t need to. “My parents lived right here in this house, and they were elderly. It made sense for me to stay with them. I helped out around here, and I was close enough to downtown so I could visit Jeff during the trial. Once he was convicted…” A wave of pain crossed her face, and suddenly, not even her cheery T-shirt or her flip-flops could keep her from looking old and frail. “He didn’t think it was possible,” she said. “All the time the police questioned him, he understood they were just doing their jobs. He was cooperative and tolerant. He said they were only eliminating him so they could concentrate on finding a truly viable suspect. Then when he was arrested… And all through the trial…” Her shoulders rose and fell.
“I knew he didn’t do it, and he kept telling me my faith in him was all that mattered. But I could see that the publicity and the stain on his reputation was eating him up inside. He never once stopped believing in the integrity of the criminal justice system, you see. He knew he was innocent, so he never imagined the system would let him down and that he’d be found guilty. But then when he was-”
“He went to prison. Not to-”
“Central State? Oh, no. They’d never send a warden back to his own prison. Not as one of the inmates. Not that it mattered in the end.” Again, her shoulders rose, but this time when they dropped, she shuddered. “He had such a strong belief in the right way of things, such a firm notion that the system was good and that it was just. It broke his heart seeing that it failed him. He was embarrassed, and he was demoralized. He died of a heart attack in his sleep his first night in prison.”
This was another bit of the story Lamar had failed to mention, and as much as it annoyed me not to have all the details a detective needs to solve a case, I guess I understood why. A warden had to be tough, and tough guys didn’t die of broken hearts.
Rather than think about it and get all mushy, I concentrated on my case. “Do you know who could have done this?” I asked Helen. “Who would have wanted to frame your husband?”
“A warden makes a lot of enemies.” It was the same thing I’d heard from Lamar. “It’s hard to even know where to begin thinking about it. Believe me, I’ve tried. For more than twenty years.”
“And so what do you think?”
She gave me a half smile. “I wish I knew what to tell you. I’ve been over it in my head a couple million times.”
“Your husband never mentioned names? I mean, prisoners who might have had it in for him? Or employees with grudges?”
“Oh, he’d come home and say there had been problems. He would say some of the inmates were more trouble than others. Or he’d mention that he had some personnel crisis to deal with. But he never mentioned names. He didn’t want to bring that much of the job home with him. You know, so that I wouldn’t worry.”
Wondering where to take my questions next, I drummed my fingers against my legal pad. That’s when I remembered the missing silver dollar.