His Only Defense. Carolyn McSparren

opportunity. Slaughter had all three. So far as we know, he was the only person who did.”

      “He took two polygraphs after she disappeared, and passed them both.”

      “Polygraphs aren’t admissible in evidence, Mrs. Richardson, because they can be fooled.”

      “Jud wouldn’t know how to do that. Why on earth you people continue to hound him I do not know. If she’s dead, somebody else killed her. If she’s alive, why haven’t you found her?”

      Because we haven’t really looked. At least, not recently.

      An hour later the two women were curled up with mugs of hot tea and had progressed to first names. Liz, however, didn’t know much more than she had before. She was convinced that Irene was not telling her everything she knew or suspected, but Liz couldn’t find any cracks in her story. She was getting ready to start over when the door opened so hard it slammed against the wall.

      “Is this her?”

      Both women jumped.

      “Why didn’t she tell me she was here? I looked out front and saw her car.”

      It had to be Herb. His well-worn jeans bore a knife-edge crease. His immaculate button-down oxford cloth shirt was so stiff with starch that Liz didn’t see how he could raise his arms. Control issues. He was a small man with a tonsure of white hair, and the remnants of a gardener’s tan—much darker on the lower half of his face. Liz immediately categorized him as a rooster ready to take on all comers.

      She stood and extended her hand. “Liz Gibson, Mr. Richardson. Why don’t you sit down and join us.”

      He blinked, narrowed his eyes and scanned her from top to bottom, then glared at his wife. “What crap has Irene been feeding you?” He teetered on the balls of his feet.

      I was wrong. Not a rooster. Jimmy Cagney in White Heat.

      “Herbert Richardson, do not start,” Irene said. “You are perfectly at liberty to join us, but you will not rant.”

      For an instant, it seemed he was going to slap his wife. Liz would have to intervene and arrest him, and she didn’t want to do that. At least not before she’d pumped him dry of all that vitriol.

      “Why the hell not? You’re filling the woman’s head with sweetness and light about that murdering monster who killed my child. I deserve equal time.”

      “Sit down, Mr. Richardson,” Liz ordered. It came out tough, but it worked. Herb yanked a kitchen chair away from one of the worktables and sat bolt upright in it, with his small feet in their glaring white sneakers flat on the floor in front of him.

      “So, what do you think happened to your daughter?” Liz asked.

      “He tricked her into stopping on the road, yanked her out of her car, killed her, carried her somewhere and disposed of the body. Period, end of story. Why the hell you people haven’t arrested his murdering ass I do not know.”

      “Mr. Richardson, let’s say we arrest him. For that matter, let’s say we’d arrested him seven years ago and put him on trial for murder. Which degree, by the way? Capital murder?”