Mistaken Identity (18 page)

Thirty-Three

Lucinda used her lunch hour to visit Charley Spencer. The young girl bounced up and down with excitement from the moment she opened the door. She didn’t settle until Lucinda said, “Come on, Charley. I know you’re excited but if you can’t calm down and pay attention, it would be a waste of time for me to show you what to do.”

Charley stiffened her body, arms at her sides. “Yes, ma’am. I’m good.”

“Yes, you are, Charley,” Lucinda said, smiling as she noticed that Charley’s movements had slowed but a quiver of anticipation made her vibrate in place.

“First thing you need to do is take fingerprints of everyone in your home – Ruby will be the hardest because she won’t understand why you need to take it slow and easy. But if you go too fast, you’ll smudge the prints.” Lucinda inked each of Charley’s fingers and rolled them on the fingerprint card. “Now, let me show you an alternative that will work if you don’t have the right equipment.”

Lucinda picked up a pencil and scribbled a dense rectangle on a piece of white paper. “Give me your index finger,” she said and pressed Charley’s digit into the lead-covered spot, rolling it from side to side. “Okay, hold it straight up.” Lucinda ripped off a piece of transparent tape and carefully placed it on the little girl’s finger. She lifted it off and attached it firmly to a blank spot on the paper. “See – your fingerprint.”

“Wow! But it’s not as good as the ones with ink.”

“No, but it’ll do in a pinch.”

Looking very solemn, Charley said, “Like a fingerprint emergency?”

Lucinda stopped the laugh that struggled to escape and answered in a serious tone, “Yes, you never know when that might happen.”

Charley nodded her agreement and Lucinda wondered just what Charley’s imagination had set free to frolic in her head.

“Now, I need to demonstrate how you recover fingerprints. Let’s use the surface of your door right by the door knob. There should be scads of prints there. The trick will be finding ones that aren’t smudged or overlapped.”

Lucinda crouched down, brushed on the powder and peered at it with a magnifying glass. She let Charley look through it as she pointed out the print she wanted to lift. She went through the procedure with care, explaining every step. She laid the tape on a recovery card and held it up for Charley to see.

“Okay, supposin’ I had an emergency and didn’t have all this good stuff, is there an in-a-pinch way for this, too?” Charley asked.

“Sure. All you need is a little paintbrush – like you’d use for doing watercolors – a tin of cocoa, Scotch tape and a thick piece of paper like an index card – but you’ve got to use the side without the lines.”

“Then, when you’re done, you can lick the mess away – mmmmm,” Charley said.

Lucinda tried not to choke at that thought. “Don’t lick the fingerprint powder, Charley, it tastes nasty.”

“How do you know? Did you taste it?”

“Well, no,” Lucinda admitted. “But look at it. It looks kind of nasty, doesn’t it?”

“Looks like powdered licorice. Think it tastes like licorice?”

“Charley, even if it does, I don’t like licorice.”

“I do, can I taste it?”

“No!” Lucinda said but suspected that she wouldn’t get to her car before Charley did just that. “I gotta run, sweetie. Call me if you have any problems.”

“Where ya goin’?”

“I have to go see Ms. Whitehead and her grandson Freddy.”

“Who’s Freddy?”

“He’s a boy who lost his mom. He’s going to her funeral tomorrow.”

“Was she murdered, too?”

“Yes, honey.”

“Well, I’ll go with you and talk to him. I’ve been there and done that.”

A bittersweet lump jammed in the back of Lucinda’s throat. She choked on it as she responded. “That is sweet of you, Charley. But I don’t really want you going over there and getting caught up in the middle of my investigation. Everything is a real muddle right now. When we have more answers, then I’ll make sure you and Freddy get a chance to talk.”

“Will that be soon?”
“I hope so, Charley. But right now, I’m having trouble finding the answers to all the questions.”

“Oh, you’ll figure it out, Lucy.”

Charley’s faith in her abilities touched Lucinda.
Dear Lord, please let me live up to her expectations – or at least, get close.

Victoria Whitehead jerked the front door halfway open and stood in the gap. “Mercy, Lieutenant! You can’t give a moment’s peace to a grieving mother, can you?”

“I’m sorry to intrude, Ms. Whitehead. But I have some important new information about Jason King that I think you need to know.”

“My daughter’s funeral is tomorrow, Lieutenant,” she said, stretching her arm across to the far frame of the door, blocking Lucinda’s entrance.

Lucinda sighed but didn’t say a word.

For thirty seconds,
Victoria
didn’t budge. The she broke down, dropping her arm in defeat. “Very well, Lieutenant, if you insist.”

Victoria
slipped into her familiar southern belle pose on the sofa beneath the front window as Lucinda slid into a chair facing her.
Victoria
spoke first. “Out with it, Lieutenant. What is so important that it couldn’t wait until after my daughter’s funeral?”

“I just got back from
Texas
.”

Victoria
blinked her eyes much faster than normal. “Really? And did you speak with Jason?”

“No, ma’am, but I did spend time with Karen King. In fact, she gave me a complete tour of her home.”

“In her wheelchair?”

“No, she was walking,” Lucinda said.

“That is a miracle. What wonderful news. I wonder why Jason didn’t call and tell me about that.”

“As a matter of fact, Ms. Whitehead, Karen King is a robust, vital woman of your age with no outward signs of any illness at all.”

“Oh, yes. She would put a front on for you. She’s a very brave woman. I hope you didn’t distress her. You could cause her a serious setback if you did.”

“Ms. Whitehead, I believe that you believe what Jason told you about Karen King but it simply isn’t true. Karen is not ill or bedridden. In fact, she’s not even Jason’s mother. She’s his lover and is quite proud of the fact that she can keep up with the sexual demands of a younger man.”

Victoria
paled and covered her distress with bluster. “Her boyfriend is none of my concern. My only interest is in her son.”

“That’s just it, Ms. Whitehead, she does not have a son. The man you call Jason King is Karen King’s lover – only she knows him as Jeremy Kneipper.”

“That explains it then. You’re confused. It’s two people. That Jeremy person is her lover, Jason is her son.”

Lucinda wanted to jump up and shake her. Instead she shut her eyelids through one deep inhale and exhale. “As I said, Karen King denies that she has a son.”

“That’s what she told you. Mothers are protective, Lieutenant. You don’t have any children, do you?”

“No, Ms. Whitehead, I do not.”

“See. You just don’t understand how it is with mothers. We will lie, cheat, do almost anything to protect our children. Maybe she just didn’t trust you. Maybe she didn’t like your looks – that would be easy to understand, wouldn’t it?”

Lucinda wanted to wipe the smug look off of
Victoria
’s face. It was obvious that she was very pleased with herself for hitting the mark with her allusion to Lucinda’s facial deformity but the detective refused to give her the satisfaction of reacting to her nastiness. “And when did you last speak with Jason?”

“I told you. I kissed him goodbye before he left here to go to
Texas
,”
Victoria
said and a soft blush rose from her neckline to her face.

“Are you telling me you have not spoken to him since then?”

Two bright red spots bloomed on
Victoria
’s cheeks. “That is what I said, Lieutenant. Are you questioning my veracity?”

“You’re not a very good liar, Ms. Whitehead.”

“How dare you?”

“I know you’ve spoken to Jason. More than once, actually.”

“You know nothing of the sort.”

“Even if I hadn’t known, I would know now. The blush on your face betrays your dishonesty, Ms. Whitehead. Now, please tell me about your conversations with Jason in the last couple of days.”

“You are a horrid woman! My face is flushed because I am under so much stress. You come in here, interrupting my grief, and you expect me to act as if nothing is amiss. What’s wrong with you?”
Victoria
shot to her feet and raised her chin high. “I am distraught, Lieutenant. My daughter has been murdered. And you sit here badgering a poor old woman instead of doing your job. Don’t you have a single shred of human decency? You should be ashamed.”
Victoria
raised her arm and, pointing her finger towards the front door, shouted, “Leave my home, right now. And please don’t return here again. And in the name of common decency, don’t show your ugly face at my daughter’s service.”

Lucinda unfolded her legs and, with great deliberation, rose from the chair. Taking two steps in
Victoria
’s direction she looked down at the woman. “You can rest assured that I will be attending the funeral tomorrow. With or without your help, I will find the truth. You are right, though. Shame does hang heavy in this room – but it doesn’t rest on my shoulders.”

In four long strides, Lucinda was out on the porch.
Victoria
stood in the open doorway staring at her with enough ill will in her gaze to curdle a fresh-from-the-udder stream of cream.

Thirty-Four

Lucinda stood against the back wall of the sanctuary observing the crowd in attendance at Jeanine Sterling’s funeral. She strongly doubted that Jason King would show up here today.
He has to know we’re on to him by now
. However, she suspected his accomplice did not feel as vulnerable. She scanned through the audience looking for any reaction that didn’t appear appropriate.

When the service ended, she stood a short distance from the double doors, watching the mourners depart. She saw nothing out of the ordinary until she spotted a woman who hung back from the crowd. Her face was covered by an old-fashioned widow’s veil. She seemed determined to cling to her anonymity. To Lucinda, that was a bright red flag.

The woman exited and Lucinda followed. As she emerged into the sunshine, the woman bowed her head and veered over to the far side of the broad concrete stairs. She fast-walked to a car and Lucinda went to her own vehicle, ready to move as soon as she knew the course of the other woman.

When Lucinda saw her pull into the procession line, she drove over and eased into place, three cars behind her. Lucinda knew that, at any point, the woman could turn off in a different direction. If she did, Lucinda would have to make a decision and she knew whatever choice she made, it could be regrettably wrong.

Fortunately, the woman crawled with the others into the cemetery. Lucinda parked near her and kept her in her sights as she walked in the direction of the plot. Again, the woman hung back, keeping her distance from the others. Lucinda leaned against a large oak tree just ten yards away.

The hum of the minister’s voice at the graveside reached them at this distance but his words were not discernible. Still, the woman repeatedly reached under her veil to dab her eyes with a tissue as if moved by his speech.

The crowd dispersed, migrating back to the cars. The funeral director escorted
Victoria
and Freddy back to the limousine. Freddy spotted Lucinda and flashed a woeful smile. Lucinda put a finger to her lips and he signaled his understanding with a thumbs-up gesture.

The mystery woman remained rooted in place, her head turned slightly in the direction of the departing funeral home vehicle. When it pulled away, she took a few tentative steps forward. She paused, looked around and then walked with purpose to stand beside the gaping hole of the grave. Lucinda approached her, hearing the sound of quiet sobs as she drew close.

“Excuse me,” Lucinda said.

The woman’s head jerked in her direction and she took a step backward.

“I’m sorry,” Lucinda said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I thought everyone had left,” the woman said, taking another step back.

“Pretty much. I stayed because I wanted to talk to you.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“Ma’am, I just …”

“Please, I have no desire to speak to the media.”

Lucinda slid her identification out of her pocket, flipped it open and said, “I’m not the press. I am a homicide detective.”

“Oh dear, I guess you know who I am, then?”

“Actually, I don’t,” Lucinda said. “But I would like to know.”

The woman turned her face to the ground and stood silently for a full minute. Then she raised her head and said, “I am Susan Livingston.”

The name was meaningless to Lucinda. She pondered its significance as she waited for the woman to continue.

“Susan Pippin Livingston – Jeanine’s older sister.”

Lucinda was disappointed that she hadn’t taken that logical leap on her own. “I’m delighted to meet you, Ms. Livingston. All I knew about you was your first name and the little bit of information I was able to pry from your mother.”

“Oh, I’m so sure
that
was complimentary.”

“Let’s put it this way, Ms. Whitehead does not score high on my credibility scale.”

“Thank you for that,” Susan said. She scanned the grounds, pulled out a hatpin and lifted the veiled covering off of her head. “I didn’t want my mother to recognize me. I haven’t talked to her in years, and I certainly didn’t want to talk to her now. I couldn’t have borne it today.”

“Could we sit and talk a bit, Ms. Livingston?”

“Is there any place nearby we could grab a cup of coffee in a quiet corner? I’m definitely in need of a little caffeine. And, please, call me Susan.”

Lucinda smiled. “Certainly, Susan, there’s a funky little coffee shop just a couple of blocks away. You can follow me there.”

Lucinda led Susan to an older bungalow, with a broad front porch, converted to commercial use. Inside, a series of small tables with chairs huddled in the center of the room. The perimeter of the room was occupied by clusters of conversation areas – groupings of overstuffed sofas and chairs around coffee tables piled high with tattered magazines and battered paperbacks.

The women placed their orders and took their mugs to a far corner. Susan eased into a love-seat covered by a worn, ancient throw – tufts of cotton poked through the fabric of the uncovered arms. Lucinda settled into a winged, high-back upholstered chair positioned at a right angle to Susan.

Susan took a sip of coffee and said, “How can I help you?”

“I’m hoping you can shed some light on the darkest corners of my investigation. Some things simply make no sense to me.”

“I certainly will do my best.”

Lucinda repeated Victoria Whitehead’s story about Parker Sterling selling his soul to gain immortality, her belief in Parker’s culpability in Jeanine’s murder and her claims that her boyfriend was Freddy’s half-brother.

“That sounds like my mother, I’m afraid. Truly off the wall, as usual. She is a sucker for anything occult and willing to embrace the most bizarre conspiracy theories – she’s always been that way. I don’t believe, though, that she made it all up. I’d bet the boyfriend fed her this line and she took every word as the gospel truth.”

“Quite possible,” Lucinda said. She described the strange genealogy charts recovered during the search of
Victoria
’s home. “Does that make any sense to you?”

“I’d guess that William Blessing might be Freddy’s sperm donor.”

“Excuse me,” Lucinda said as the sharp click of a perfect fit echoed in the back of her mind.

“Jeanine couldn’t get pregnant. She and Parker went to a fertility clinic for testing. It seems it was all Parker’s problem. He had an older brother who was autistic. His parents blamed childhood immunizations for their first son’s condition and, as a result, refused to get shots for Parker. In high school, Parker came down with the mumps and the doctors believed that is what made him sterile.

“Jeanine and Parker still wanted a baby so they decided to attempt artificial insemination. But Jeanine didn’t want just any biological father for her child so she ferreted out a sperm bank specializing in donors of better than average intellect and flew to
California
for the procedure. I told her that was a bit over the top. But who pays attention to their big sister,” she said, ending with a laugh.

“IQ Genetics?” Lucinda asked.

“That could have been the name,” Susan said, “but it was so long ago, I simply don’t remember one way or the other.”

Distracted by her own train of thought, Lucinda asked Susan a few perfunctory questions about Jeanine, expressed sympathy for her loss and then excused herself with the promise that she would call her when she had any new developments.

Jeanine provided important information that answered a lot of questions. But those answers spawned more questions. Lucinda zoomed back to the office. She had work to do.

Even without DNA confirmation, Lucinda felt certain that William Blessing, founder of IQ Genetics, was a donor to his own sperm bank. In all likelihood, there was truth in the genealogy papers – no direct interaction with the women on those pages, but a biological bond with their children, just the same.

Lucinda ran down the list of Jason King’s victims. She couldn’t reach them all but with every successful contact, she received the same response. Each one of them had used the services of IQ Genetics.

She placed her next call to the company. She slogged through a number of people before she reached someone who actually had answers – but at that point, she hit a brick wall.

“I am sorry, Lieutenant. We cannot divulge any information about our clients – it’s all confidential.”

“What would you say if I told you someone else has detailed information about one of your sperm donors and about the women who withdrew his deposits from your bank?” Lucinda cringed at her own language but couldn’t think of a less crude way to say it.

“It is simply not possible that anyone received that information from us.”

“What if I told you that the person with this information is probably the biological son of the founder of your company.”

“That, Lieutenant, would put it in the far reaches of the possibility scale. We certainly wouldn’t violate our founder’s privacy. We do have an open-identity program. That allows a child who reaches the age of eighteen to submit a request to receive information about the donor’s identity. We honor all those requests; however, that is the only information we provide. We reveal nothing about any other children from the same donor.”

“Listen. I am investigating a homicide. Outside of that context, I do not care about who fathered whom.”

“I empathize, Lieutenant. And I wish I were at liberty to help you. I would suggest that you contact any suspected progeny and convince them to file a request for information. That would be the only appropriate way to obtain the data you want.”

“How long does that take?”

“We respond to all requests within ninety days.”

“Oh, Jeez!” Lucinda exclaimed.

“I caution you not to attempt to short-circuit this process, Lieutenant. I know you can get a court order rather easily. But we have ethical principles to uphold. And we have an attorney who will block your every move claiming medical privilege. You may win in the end but, trust me, he will stall you for far longer than three months and, in the interim, we may need to freeze our records and delay our responses to the requests from offspring.”

Lucinda felt like telling him what he could do with all that sperm in his care but stopped herself. She said, “Thank you,” between clenched teeth and hung up the phone. She had no proof for her theory but she knew she was right. Still, even with that knowledge, Jason King’s motivation remained veiled in mystery.