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A copy of Samuel Barnard peered up at her from a face ravaged by illness and defeat. It shook her. The son appeared older than the man she’d coached through purchasing an android tablet.
“Mr Barnard,” she managed with a nod. She fixed a weak smile on her lips, though her neck wobbled like an inadequate dandelion stalk. Trent Barnard shot her a frown, and she pursed her lips. She realised too late that a man who’d spent almost eighteen years living with the worst of humanity knew fake when he saw it. She retook her seat and spread her fingers over her thighs. Their dampness worked its way through the fabric of her trousers. Flecks of lint stuck to her fingers.
The guard at the entrance had read off a list of warnings. No touching made it into the top three, yet Grant still reached across the table and shook Trent Barnard’s crabbed hand. “Nice to see you again,” he said, the picture of calm gentility.
Sam Barnard’s son responded with genuine pleasure. His facial muscles relaxed. Though his chin dipped, he studied the lawyer with interest and veiled respect. It seemed odd to Lexi. Grant Herbert’s loss of the defence case cost Trent Barnard his life. She detected no resentment in the other man’s glittering blue irises. His father’s sparky nature lurked behind a partial smile. Despite herself, Lexi liked him. It made it easier to find her courage.
Grant began first. He introduced Lexi as a private inquiry agent. The guard who’d remained in the corner narrowed his eyes and stared at her with renewed interest. Her ruse of serving as the legal assistant to War, Long, and Herbert fell at the first hurdle. The lawyer seemed not to care. He boxed on with the story, handing over to Lexi for her version of events.
“We don’t have social media here.” Trent Barnard issued the statement as though it might surprise his audience. He gave a one sided shrug in his wheelchair. “I don’t know who employed you to look into this.” He ran a wavering right hand across his grizzled cheek. His left remained on the tyre of his wheelchair, as though prepared for a hasty exit. As the tufts of beard shifted, Lexi spotted more scars and bald patches beneath the hair. Regret filled her chest with the knowledge this potentially innocent man shouldn’t be here.
She leaned forward, emboldened by the lure of justice. Her hunter’s spirit gained traction, and the familiar tick began in her veins. “I’ve identified almost all the children in the image,” she stated. “Father Donald Douglas took the photograph. It led me to a lady named Joanne. She attempted to provide you with an alibi, but the police disregarded it. Though an adult, by the time your case reached trial, they considered her teenage testimony unreliable.”
“Ahhh.” Trent closed his eyes, revealing another scar on his left eyelid. His fingers fluttered on the table’s cold surface as though he played an invisible piano. “A sweet kid. Liza loved her. She wanted to adopt them all, every one of them.” He sighed over the litany of things robbed of a woman he clearly still loved. Collecting himself, he set his blue-eyed gaze on Lexi’s face. “You know Father Donald? My brother-in-law. He believed my innocence from the start. His head tilted again as he struggled to lift his chin. “Don missed Monday’s visit. It’s not like him. Is he well?”
Lexi quelled the unhealthy lurch of her heart. It beat an erratic staccato. “Father Donald visits you?” Her voice cracked on the last word. “Here?” The redundant qualifier caused her cheeks to flush pink. Where else would the priest visit an incarcerated man?
Trent Barnard glossed over her gaff with grace. “Yes. On the first Monday afternoon of every month. Right from the beginning of my sentence. We discuss theology and literature.” He exhaled with something akin to pleasure. “He brings books.” His hand waved towards the guard. “It takes a few days for them to pass through security, but they top anything available in the prison library. I have some to return to him. He usually picks them up from the gate guard on the way out.” His voice trailed off, perhaps alerted by the silence of his visitors. “I called him on Monday morning to ask for a specific book on Calvinism. He said he needed to tell me something but then he didn’t come to the visiting room. Is Father Donald, okay?” he asked.
Trent had identified himself as the caller who cheered the priest’s black mood. Lexi’s gaze slid to Grant. Surely the priest’s death was his purview and not hers. The lawyer cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to tell you that Father Donald Douglas died on Monday,” he said.
Lexi saw their mistake too late. The instant grief which washed over Trent Barnard negated any other news they’d brought. She sensed the moment they lost him. His body bowed lower in the wheelchair and he sank into a familiar pit of despair.
The guard remained in the corner, but his feet shifted as though he doubted his role. Comforter, wheelchair pusher, or human being. He chose the latter. From within his trouser pocket, he tugged a packet of tissues. Without speaking, he lifted the tab and tugged free a rectangle of thin fabric. Trent took it with a nod of thanks. He didn’t open the tissue, but pressed the folded edge against his nose and mouth. Despite his obvious dismay, he collected himself with remarkable speed. Lexi saw in his hasty movement back to emotional stability that grief provided a red flag in this harsh prison environment. Intolerable weakness would earn him another beating. Or worse.
Trent cleared his throat, though his words seemed to choke him. “Thank you for telling me,” he concluded. His lashes fluttered, damp from tears he couldn’t let fall. “How did he die?”
Lexi held her breath. She didn’t know how to answer the direct question. One wrong word could send him into an abyss she dared not contemplate. Grant held no such inhibitions. “Murdered,” he replied. His voice remained kind and sensitive, but he didn’t draw back from inflicting the wound. “Strangled with a metal wire around his throat.” His sympathetic upside down smile drew Lexi into the conversation. “Miss Allen discovered his body.”
Her sharp inhale bucked the lie. But a moment’s fleeting consideration voided it. It didn’t matter. She hadn’t seen the poor priest’s body, but she’d witnessed its discovery.
Trent’s features hardened into knots of bone and gristle. “Garroted? The same as Liza?” A tremble wracked his body like a spasm. “Poor Father Donald,” he breathed. The note of tragedy held genuine pain for a friend. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Oh, God!” he breathed. And the plea held a raw and naked honesty.
