Chapter Thirty

One Step at a Time

Dani

Dad and Mr. Cunningham returned home late Thursday night from their trip to Arkansas. At breakfast on Friday, they told Frankie and me the details of their trip.

Joel and Grace joined us for dinner that night. Joel updated us on what he and Sean had learned. “Sylvia Leopard had an extensive criminal record. She was incarcerated for the robbery of several grocery stores in Little Rock in the early sixties as well as prostitution charges. Ms. Leopard died of a drug overdose in the late seventies.

I didn’t care about this woman. I wanted to know about Jackson. “Joel, what does she have to do with Clay Jackson besides being his girlfriend?”

“Here’s the clincher. The clerks at each grocery store she robbed said she was accompanied by a tall, thin male with light brown hair, beard, and mustache who wore leather gloves. Ms. Leopard would confiscate the money putting it in a leopard print handbag while her male accomplice held a gun on the clerks. I called Beatrice Willis to get a description of Jackson. Her description fit that given by all the store clerks.”

Frankie asked, “How about fingerprints? Has anything come back on those?”

Joel took a sip of his coffee. “Well, the partial print found on that whiskey glass hasn’t been identified yet. However, it’s surprising how little a print is needed to get a full identification. We’re hoping Jackson’s prints might be in the national database. Maybe we’ll also be able to identify or match the fingerprint on the letter Jackson sent Bill’s mother. I know this is sensitive, Bill, but as for the semen left on the sheets in your mother’s room, hopefully it can still give us the DNA of the killer.’

Mr. Cunningham let out a deep breath. “Joel, it’s okay. I’m trying to think of all these findings from an observer’s point of view.”

Frankie patted Mr. Cunningham on his shoulder. “That’s hard to do, and sometimes it doesn’t always work, does it?”

“You’re right son. You’re right.”

After a few moments of silence, Grace thought it best to move on to another topic. “What about the bullet found in the boy’s room?”

Joel gave us the latest information he had. “The bullet and the bullet casing found in the kids’ rooms were both .380 millimeter. With all the time that has passed, the gun may have been used in another crime, and the new technology on weapons and ammunition enables us to search prior crimes in the database for matches. So this is another avenue where we’re still looking.”

****

Joel and I hadn’t had much quality time alone since he began working with Sean. After he finished his update, I grabbed a light jacket, and we went out to the back patio. Grace and Dad got comfortable on the living room couch. Frankie and Mr. Cunningham went to play computer games.

We were getting serious about each other. He was so different from most of the guys I’d dated who were only interested in partying, drinking, sex, and drugs. Joel wasn’t like that. He was more mature and knew what he wanted out of life. We seemed to have so much in common, at least with important things, like politics, religion, and family. Sure, we didn’t agree on everything, but that also made the relationship more interesting. I had this game I’d secretly play with him. We’d talk about something controversial, and I’d take the opposite side from what I really believed. Every time, he’d try to convince me of his views, which were my views too. Someday he’d catch on to my game.

That night on the patio, we kissed and made out, wanting more, but knowing it wasn’t the time and place. We both were having difficulty pulling away from each other. I wanted him so badly, but I have the Reynolds stubborn willpower. I had to use every ounce of it when I was with him in these compromising situations.

We heard Grace leaving about eleven. Joel said he probably should go too. He gave me a long, passionate kiss before walking through the patio doors. I stood there, my body still trembling with desire.

****

I needed to catch up on my homework, especially for the criminology report. I had brought out Mr. Cunningham’s identity in my last reports. Late that night, I added the information learned from the men’s trip to Arkansas and from the investigation by Sean and Joel. Shortly after I emailed my report to Professor Belinsky, he texted me saying how pleased he was with the report and how he’d never had a student take such a direction as long as he’d been teaching. I was proud of myself. Granted, I wasn’t the one who discovered Clay Jackson or the one looking into all the evidence. But what if I never had all those terrible nightmares, and my grandfather never reached out to me beyond the grave? It’s strange how one seemingly unrelated and personal event can lead to something so gigantic and so important that it affects many lives.

I went to bed after reading Mr. Belinsky’s text. I hadn’t had a dream I could remember in quite some time. I’d usually fall asleep quickly, but this night was different. I tossed and turned for a couple of hours. Maybe I had too much coffee after dinner. Maybe I worked too late on my report. Or maybe I was still worked up from Joel’s fantastic kisses. I don’t know. When I finally got to sleep, I found myself on Mr. Cunningham’s bench near the Gunderson House passively looking out at Lake Gossette, throwing stale bread into the lake.

Fish would come to the surface to grab the morsels and plop back into the water. My mind was clear of all thoughts. Soon my grandfather sat on the bench beside me. I knew immediately it was he, not Mr. Cunningham, not Clay Jackson, not a monster, but my grandfather. He took a handful of the bread crumbs from the plastic bag and also tossed them into the lake. Then he put his arm around my shoulders. Oh, my gosh! I had the most comforting, most protective feeling I’ve ever had. He turned his head to my ear and whispered, “Thank you.” Then he was gone and the dream ended. When I awakened in the morning, I still had that peaceful feeling enveloping me.

****

On Saturday, we gathered in the living room after dinner for additional information from Sean and Joel.

Sean began, “First, we checked the .380 caliber bullet and bullet casing. As we suspected, they were shot from the same gun. We also found a match with another bullet on file fired from a Walther PPK pistol.”

Mr. Cunningham shouted, “Amen! This is a huge breakthrough.”

“Hold on, hold on.” Sean quickly interrupted. “Here’s the thing making this case even weirder. That weapon was used in a home invasion in 1965. The perpetrator was not apprehended at that time. He shot the homeowner, but in a struggle with the homeowner, he dropped the gun and escaped. The fingerprints left on the gun were from the homeowner and a perp named Lemont White, who’d been previously charged with crimes in the same area. The gun has been in the possession of the Orange County Sheriff’s Department ever since that incident.”

This didn’t make sense. Dad asked, “What are you saying, Sean?”

“I’m saying the county has that gun in their possession, and it was used in a crime before the Cunningham murders. The sheriff in 1971 didn’t look specifically at that gun as the weapon used to kill the Cunningham children because it already had been confiscated.”

“How can that be?” asked Grace.

“Every law enforcement agency has strict procedures regarding the handling of evidence from a crime scene. It does not leave the evidence room, especially a weapon, unless an officer of the law removes it. Officers will oftentimes re-examine evidence, just as Joel and I are doing now, but the whereabouts of that evidence should be known at all times.”

“Did they ever catch this guy, Lemont White?” I asked.

Sean retrieved his notepad. “Yes, they arrested him in March 1971, when he committed another home invasion. Fingerprints at the scene were enough to convict him. He then confessed to several home invasions going back to 1963, one being the crime when the Walther PPK was collected in 1965.”

Frankie wrinkled his forehead. “So, he was in jail when Grandpa’s family was killed?”

“That’s correct. Even if it was the gun White used in a prior home invasion, he could not be guilty of the Cunningham murders.”

I guess I wasn’t the only one not understanding what Sean was telling us. Grace asked, “If that gun never left the evidence room, and if Lemont White was in jail at the time of the Cunningham murders, how did the bullet and casing from it get into Mr. Cunningham’s house?”

Sean said nothing at first. Then he looked around the room and shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Everyone started talking at once, trying to make sense of this Catch-22.

Frankie asked, “Do they keep a record who takes evidence from the room?”

Joel answered, “Yes, every officer must sign it out with their signature, their department, and the date and time the evidence is removed. They also need to show valid ID to the officer manning the evidence room. When it’s returned, they must sign and date when they return it. The officer on duty verifies it has been returned and is in the same condition as when it left the room. If it’s a gun, it has to be noted if, when, and why it was fired by a police officer for testing. Sean and I checked all guns shooting .380 caliber bullets we had in evidence, including this Walther PPK. According to the records, this gun was signed out several times between August 1965 and March 1971. The last time was by my grandfather, Scott Adams, when he was a deputy with the sheriff’s department.”

“Did it say why he was looking at the gun?” I asked.

Joel turned toward me. “Yes, he was comparing the fingerprints on the gun, trying to link Lemont White with the 1965 home invasion. So, the gun was removed several times before March 1971, but we were the first to access it since then.”

Thinking out loud, I said, “In other words that gun supposedly stayed in that evidence room even though the bullet and casing were shot from it seven months after it was last accessed.”

“That’s the way it appears,” responded Joel.

Mr. Cunningham finally spoke, loud and indignantly, “That’s impossible!”

“I know, sir,” said Sean. “It is impossible, but we also discovered something unique about that gun. Portions of Lemont’s fingerprints had been partially blotted out or smeared compared to the copies of the fingerprints on file. If an officer handles an evidence gun, he wears special gloves and handles the gun in a manner to avoid damage to any markings or fingerprints. Someone must’ve accessed and fired that gun possibly using gloves, which would result in the smearing of the original prints. He must’ve removed the gun illegally after March of 1971.”

No one spoke. Our minds were trying to process this enigma.

Joel urged, “Let’s leave that area of investigation for a while and focus on the fingerprints found at the scene. We compared the partial print on the one whiskey glass with the National FBI Database. There was no match. We got in touch with Beatrice Willis to see if she had anything with Clay Jackson’s fingerprints on it. To our delight, she possessed a large belt buckle Jackson had left at the house. Detective Daly of the Booneville Police Department, who had worked with us in Arkansas, retrieved the belt from Mrs. Willis, took the fingerprints, and sent the result to us. They match the partial that was found on the whiskey glass.”

Mr. Cunningham quickly stood, throwing his arms in the air. “I knew it! Ever since I found that letter to my mother, I knew he was the one. That dirty, rotten bastard. Brother, humph. He’s no brother to me, nor son to my mother. He is the devil himself.”

“That’s not all, Bill,” continued Joel. “Not only did that partial print match those on the belt buckle but also those on that letter you found.”

Sean took out his notebook. “I’d like to tell you what we learned about this Clay Jackson. He had quite an extensive criminal career as a youth, mostly petty theft. What was most disturbing are the incidents of extreme cruelty to animals, cutting off appendages of cats, tying bricks to dogs and drowning them, horrible acts like that, indicating his violent nature. We also learned he’s gone by many aliases. First, they were similar to his real name, like Carl Jepson. Later, he chose aliases completely different, such as Wilbur Cummings, names like yours, Bill. However, we were unable to find any the same as someone you knew. We also found no death notices for his name or any of the aliases, so we think he’s still alive. We can’t even be sure of that since we might not have the correct alias he used when and if he died.”

Mr. Cunningham sighed, “That doesn’t give us very much, does it?”

“I’m afraid not, sir, but we’re still working on it.”

Before we called it a night, we concluded whoever removed the Walther PPK from the evidence room had to be familiar with the procedures of the department and able to circumvent the process. So, who had access to the evidence room? Anyone who worked at the sheriff’s department including Sheriff Albert Bailey; Chief Deputy Edgar Fitzsimmons; Deputy Scott Adams; Deputy Phil Drummond; Deputy Glen Myers; Dr. Wade Perkins, the coroner; Trudy Prout, the desk clerk, and Maureen Sturgis, the part-time receptionist.

Sean said, “Joel and I will investigate these individuals. Maybe we’ll get a lead on Clay Jackson from one of them.”