The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(50)
For a good part of the day, I debated with myself whether or not I should jump on a plane and fly down to assist him. Eventually I dropped the idea. Aside from perhaps offering to help pay for legal services, what could I do? I also had my professional reputation to consider. The media would have a field day linking the famous romance author Shelby Truman with a “devil-worshipping” murderer who rivaled Jack the Ripper in his modus operandi. At the time, I didn’t think it would be wise to insert myself into the investigation or judicial process. Later, though, I came to the conclusion that Eddie needed advocates.
News from Limite was sparse for the first few months of 2006. Eddie was held without bail. The trial was scheduled for September, so that meant the poor man would be stuck in a cell, possibly without medical attention. He needed a hospital, not jail. Through the media, I finally saw a photograph of the victim, Dora Walton. The woman with whom Eddie had been living—his “High Priestess”—was a brunette and beautiful in an “exotic” way; she may have had Mediterranean or Middle Eastern blood. She was forty-one years old at the time of her murder.
Things started looking up for Eddie in the summer. Robert Crane, a respected defense attorney in the state, volunteered his time pro bono to represent the defendant. I phoned Crane’s office, explained who I was, and offered to help in any way I could. Crane explained that they were going for an insanity defense, but it was going to be a tough ride. The prosecution’s psychiatric examinations were “inconclusive,” and, apparently, Eddie was mostly lucid and rational and knew exactly what he had done. He’d even signed a confession outlining the steps he’d taken to drug, strangle, and eviscerate his victim. The fact that he had aborted a seven-month-old fetus was the clincher. Crane said the best he could hope for was to prevent Eddie from receiving the death penalty.
It was all so unbelievable. It made me physically ill for months to think that I had slept with—and loved—this beautiful but very sick man.
To make things worse, my father died at the end of August.
20
Limite was still hot in September. The arid climate could be stifling, especially when one was acclimated to an area of the country that usually had a short, moderate summer and seven months of winter. As soon as I stepped out of the airport to pick up a rental car, the “dry heat” hit me hard. The odor of petroleum in the air was something that residents became so accustomed to that they didn’t smell it anymore. After being away for a long time, I’d forgotten about it, too. Boy, did Limite stink.
As I drove into town, familiar sights bombarded me; however, many spots were also overrun by new buildings and facelifts. The east side of town had expanded even farther, such that Chicory Lane was now fairly deep in the medium-sized city of a hundred thousand or so inhabitants. Limite had certainly grown, but had the people progressed with the times? When I drove into my father’s apartment complex, I noticed a pickup truck in the parking lot with a rifle on the gun rack and a Confederate flag bumper sticker. No, sometimes social attitudes and trends never changed. I figured all smaller cities in rural areas were the same way. It’d take time for change to trickle down from the larger, cultural centers of the country—if they did at all.
My father had lived simply, so there wasn’t a lot of stuff to get rid of from the apartment. Furniture and clothing would be donated, of course. Getting his personal affairs in order would take a bit of time, and I planned to stay as long as necessary to complete the task and put the apartment on the market. Billy was already on the payroll in Chicago, so I didn’t have to worry about work.
The first thing I did after unpacking was drive to the funeral home where my father’s body was being prepared. Some family friends from the church my parents had belonged to their entire lives had stepped up to the plate and graciously taken care of arranging a viewing and funeral for me. It was something I wasn’t prepared to do myself; it was just too painful. The enormity of what happened didn’t fully hit me until I saw him in the casket. I cried like a child.
A few days later, my father was buried in Limite Cemetery on the northeast side of town, right next to my mother. Dad had purchased the plots a long time ago, which was ironic since I could have paid for them with no sweat. Taking care of official death notices and Dad’s estate was a slower process, so in the meantime I decided to look into what was going on with Eddie’s trial. Coincidentally, it was due to begin in a couple of days.
I phoned Robert Crane to let him know I was in town. He offered to make sure I got a seat in the courtroom, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to be there. “Your name will be on the list should you decide otherwise,” he said.
“How’s Eddie doing?”
“Well, he’s fit to stand trial, and he can communicate when he wants to. Most of the time he stays silent. I fear being locked up is having a negative effect on his mental condition.”
“Can’t something be done? Can’t you sue the county or something for inhumane treatment?”
“Unfortunately, no. Eddie was found to be mentally sound by the court-appointed psychiatrists. It didn’t matter that the doctors I brought in said otherwise. They’ll be testifying at the trial, though. We’ll do what we can and hope for the best. Ms. Truman, there’s no question that Eddie will be found guilty and will, at a minimum, get life in prison. The prosecutor’s going for the death penalty, so the goal is to prevent that. Nobody ‘wins’ here, but perhaps we can save a life.”