after us.”
Sandy flipped her cowboy hat in her hands, as though she was making an estimate. “Dick is . . . strange,” she said, finally. “He’s rough, he was good-looking at one time, although . . . not so much now. He was wild. He attracted all the wild guys in the Seed, you’d hear about crazy stunts on his bike, or sleeping on the yellow line. He really did sleep on the yellow line once—on Highway 64, outside a tavern. Dead drunk, of course.”
“Do you think he’ll come after us?” Lucas asked.
“Are you worried?” asked Sandy, curiously. The big guy didn’t look like he’d worry.
“Some,” Lucas said. “ ’Cause I don’t know enough about him. And his wife and his sister—excuse me for saying this, I know Candy was your sister—the things they did were nuts.”
Sandy nodded. “That’s from Dick,” she said. “Dick is . . . he’s like an angry, mean little boy. He’ll do the craziest stuff, but then, later, he’ll be sorry for it. He once got drunk and beat up a friend, and when he sobered up, he beat himself up. He got a two-by-two and hit himself in the face with it until people stopped him and took him to the hospital.”
“Jesus,” Sloan said, looking at Lucas, impressed.
“But he can be charming,” Sandy said. “And you can shame him out of stuff. Like a little boy. Unless he’s drunk, then he’s unstoppable.”
“You keep talking about drinking. Is he drunk a lot?”
“Oh, yeah,” Sandy nodded. “He’s an alcoholic, no question. So are most of his friends. But Dick’s not one of those guys who’s drunk all the time—he’ll go dry for a while, but then he’ll go off on a toot and be crazy for two weeks.”
“Somebody cut this prison officer’s throat while he was cuffed up and laying on the floor. You think LaChaise could do that?” Lucas asked.
“He could if he was in one of his bad-boy moods,” Sandy said. “No question. I don’t know if I’m getting this across—but when I say like a mean little boy, I mean just like that. He has tantrums, like fits. He scares everybody when he has one, because he’s nuts, and because he’s so strong. That’s what’s going on now: he’s having one of his tantrums.”
“But a kid’s tantrum only lasts a few minutes . . .”
“Well, Dick’s can go on for a while. A week, or a couple of weeks.”
“Is that how he came to get involved in this murder over in Michigan? A tantrum?”
“Oh, no, he wasn’t involved in that,” she said. “The cops framed him.”
Lucas and Sloan both glanced away from her at the same moment, and she smiled, just a bit. “So you don’t believe me—but they did,” she said. “I testified at the trial. There was this guy named Frank Wyatt, who killed another guy named Larry Waters. The prosecution said that Waters stole some dope from Wyatt, and that Dick owned part of the dope—which he may have, I don’t know. Anyway, the night that the dope was stolen, the prosecution said Dick and Wyatt got together at a tavern in Green Bay and talked about killing Waters.”
“That was the conspiracy,” Lucas said.
“Yes.” Sandy nodded. “They had this informant. They let him off some dope charges for his testimony. He testified that he was at the tavern when Wyatt and Dick talked. Wyatt shot Waters the next day.”
“And you say LaChaise wasn’t at the tavern?” Sloan asked.
“I know he wasn’t,” Sandy said. “ ’Cause he was at my place. I had a filly who broke a leg, shattered it. There was nothing we could do about it, the break couldn’t be fixed, we had to put her down. I hate to do that; just hate it. Dick and Candy were in town, and I mentioned it to them. Dick said he’d take care of it, and he did. That was the night he was supposed to be in Green Bay. I had it written in ink on my income-tax calendar. In fact, Dick and Candy were there that whole week . . . But the jury didn’t believe me. The prosecution said, ‘She’s his sister-in-law, she’s
Sandy flipped her cowboy hat in her hands, as though she was making an estimate. “Dick is . . . strange,” she said, finally. “He’s rough, he was good-looking at one time, although . . . not so much now. He was wild. He attracted all the wild guys in the Seed, you’d hear about crazy stunts on his bike, or sleeping on the yellow line. He really did sleep on the yellow line once—on Highway 64, outside a tavern. Dead drunk, of course.”
“Do you think he’ll come after us?” Lucas asked.
“Are you worried?” asked Sandy, curiously. The big guy didn’t look like he’d worry.
“Some,” Lucas said. “ ’Cause I don’t know enough about him. And his wife and his sister—excuse me for saying this, I know Candy was your sister—the things they did were nuts.”
Sandy nodded. “That’s from Dick,” she said. “Dick is . . . he’s like an angry, mean little boy. He’ll do the craziest stuff, but then, later, he’ll be sorry for it. He once got drunk and beat up a friend, and when he sobered up, he beat himself up. He got a two-by-two and hit himself in the face with it until people stopped him and took him to the hospital.”
“Jesus,” Sloan said, looking at Lucas, impressed.
“But he can be charming,” Sandy said. “And you can shame him out of stuff. Like a little boy. Unless he’s drunk, then he’s unstoppable.”
“You keep talking about drinking. Is he drunk a lot?”
“Oh, yeah,” Sandy nodded. “He’s an alcoholic, no question. So are most of his friends. But Dick’s not one of those guys who’s drunk all the time—he’ll go dry for a while, but then he’ll go off on a toot and be crazy for two weeks.”
“Somebody cut this prison officer’s throat while he was cuffed up and laying on the floor. You think LaChaise could do that?” Lucas asked.
“He could if he was in one of his bad-boy moods,” Sandy said. “No question. I don’t know if I’m getting this across—but when I say like a mean little boy, I mean just like that. He has tantrums, like fits. He scares everybody when he has one, because he’s nuts, and because he’s so strong. That’s what’s going on now: he’s having one of his tantrums.”
“But a kid’s tantrum only lasts a few minutes . . .”
“Well, Dick’s can go on for a while. A week, or a couple of weeks.”
“Is that how he came to get involved in this murder over in Michigan? A tantrum?”
“Oh, no, he wasn’t involved in that,” she said. “The cops framed him.”
Lucas and Sloan both glanced away from her at the same moment, and she smiled, just a bit. “So you don’t believe me—but they did,” she said. “I testified at the trial. There was this guy named Frank Wyatt, who killed another guy named Larry Waters. The prosecution said that Waters stole some dope from Wyatt, and that Dick owned part of the dope—which he may have, I don’t know. Anyway, the night that the dope was stolen, the prosecution said Dick and Wyatt got together at a tavern in Green Bay and talked about killing Waters.”
“That was the conspiracy,” Lucas said.
“Yes.” Sandy nodded. “They had this informant. They let him off some dope charges for his testimony. He testified that he was at the tavern when Wyatt and Dick talked. Wyatt shot Waters the next day.”
“And you say LaChaise wasn’t at the tavern?” Sloan asked.
“I know he wasn’t,” Sandy said. “ ’Cause he was at my place. I had a filly who broke a leg, shattered it. There was nothing we could do about it, the break couldn’t be fixed, we had to put her down. I hate to do that; just hate it. Dick and Candy were in town, and I mentioned it to them. Dick said he’d take care of it, and he did. That was the night he was supposed to be in Green Bay. I had it written in ink on my income-tax calendar. In fact, Dick and Candy were there that whole week . . . But the jury didn’t believe me. The prosecution said, ‘She’s his sister-in-law, she’s
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