Officer Jones

Chapter 75

I had to get to Lamar Thompson.

The northward evacuation traffic was as bad as the weather and it took over two hours to get to Kitty Hawk, which according to Joe, was normally a twenty-minute drive.

Kitty Hawk looked much like the other Outer Banks villages I’d passed. Endless rental homes, clapboard cottages and fishing boats. The museum stood on the grounds of the Wright Brothers National Memorial.

Lamar was dressed in a beige park-ranger-type uniform and he was hunched over with bad posture that made him appear shorter than he was. His head was shaved bald and he walked with a limp. Besides myself, the only other folks taking the tour were a senior citizen couple who must not have had access to a weather report.

Lamar appeared a little nervous, and spoke mechanically on the tour. But the charisma I remembered from years ago would occasionally appear. And as a bonus, I learned more about the Wright Brothers, Orville and Wilbur, and their first flight than I ever thought possible.

Following the tour, I introduced myself to Lamar, and informed him that I had a few questions for him. He didn’t look happy to see me.

“I’m done with all you reporters. That crazy blonde lady told me she’d pay me five hundred bucks to come on, and how much of that do you think I’ve seen? It was supposed to be one time, then it was until they solve the case … I’m sure it’ll be something else now!” He limped away as fast as he could.

It didn’t surprise me that Lauren would offer money for interviews-a definite no-no. Or at least it used to be.

When I caught up to him, I pleaded, “Lamar, I don’t work for GNZ anymore. I don’t want to do a story with you, I just have a few questions.”

“I don’t got time for this, man. I gotta get home to see if I still got one.”

“I’ll buy you dinner,” I desperately offered.

Thompson stopped. When you spend your teenage years being the most highly recruited high school basketball player in the country you get used to free stuff. He looked nostalgic … and hungry. I could tell he was up for a free dinner; I guessed it had been a while.

We didn’t go to a fancy restaurant, rather, the coffee shop in the museum. Thompson splurged with an order of roasted chicken and a cheeseburger on the side. He ate like he hadn’t eaten in a month.

“So how’s the new job going?” I asked.

“You saw me out there, what you think?” he replied, and flashed the smile that was once splashed on the cover of Sports Illustrated.

“I thought you were good,” I answered as I bit into my greasy Salisbury steak sandwich. I was pretty hungry myself. “I learned a lot about the Wright Brothers.”

He laughed. “Yeah, an airplane is the only way a couple of white boys like Orville and Wilba could get off the ground.”

I laughed back, finding his straightforwardness refreshing. We had a lot in common-two limping guys who wanted the truth … and to avoid Lauren Bowden at all costs.

“Lamar, you mentioned that the Kingsbury family lied during your trial. I also believe that a deal was cut with the judge in the case.”

He looked relieved that someone finally believed him. “The not-so-Honorable Raymond Buford. I’ll never forget that sumbitch as long as I live.”

The thing was, Buford and the others who knew about the cover-up didn’t live that long. And I was convinced that this was because Benson got to the judge, and got him to spill the beans, probably while he was begging for his life on that hook.

“I need to know the name of the kid you called Weasel Suit. The one who got paid by the Kingsburys to lie on the stand. It’s very important, Lamar.” I was sure I knew who it was, but needed confirmation.

“Like I told the blonde lady, the lawyers…”

“It’s okay, Lamar-this will just be between us.”

I was sure he’d heard that one before. He thought for a moment, but I could sense when a source felt a trust between us. He just needed to be nudged across the finish line. “The Kingsburys are dead, Lamar. The nightmare is almost over. If you give me this name, I can put an end to it.”

Thompson thought for a moment. “Things are better for me now. Not what I thought life would be, but better than yesterday. I don’t want to go back there.”

I wasn’t sure if he was referring to prison or the night of the accident, perhaps both. “It’s important, Lamar.”

“He was this rich white kid who lived down the hall from me. I didn’t even know him that good. Brad was the one who asked him to come that night. He used to wear a suit and tie to class like he was some sort of businessman. And he would blast U2 music from his room. I told him once if he didn’t turn it down, the only Bloody Sunday he was going to witness was when I introduced my fist to his face.”

“Did he?”

He smiled confidently. “I could always spot an opponent with no spine.”

“Like a weasel … I need a name, Lamar.”

His smile vanished. He rubbed his temples, as if he were having an internal debate. His face scrunched like he was feeling physical pain. But I could see he’d passed the moment of no return. The volcano was bubbling over with twenty years of pain … and then it erupted, “His name was Bobby … Bobby ‘The Weasel’ Maloney! If I ever get my hands on that sumbitch I will…”

I was already scrambling through my overnight bag. I removed a bunch of objects, including my cell phone, and placed them on the table. Finally, I found the copy of the newspaper I was looking for. On the front page was a picture of Maloney giving the Lisa Spargo Memorial Award to Kyle Jones at the Rockfield Fair.

“Is that him?” I asked, shoving the paper in his face. “Is this the Bobby Maloney who sold you out?”

Lamar studied the photo. Years had gone by, but a person never forgets the man who sent him to prison. He shook his head with a combination of anger and sadness before simply saying, “Sumbitch.”

Having spent countless hours with Coldblooded Carter, I’d become quite knowledgeable on the history of professional wrestling and it’s cast of characters. At the center of many of Carter’s stories was a wrestling manager named Bobby Heenan, who was known derisively in many quarters as Bobby the Weasel. He was infamous for talking tough at his opponent, but then cowering when confronted. This led to a famed match in 1988 against the Ultimate Warrior, in which the loser had to wear a weasel suit.

When Lamar mentioned the wrestling nickname to Lauren, it clicked for me. I first thought of Carter’s Bobby Heenan stories, but then my mind wandered to weasels I knew named Bobby, including one who used to wear his weasel suit to school to impress the teachers. Before that moment I hadn’t connected that Maloney had also attended UNC, and would have been a freshman at the time of the accident-not yet eighteen at the time of the accident. I now understood why Grady Benson moved to Rockfield. There was just one more key piece of information.

“What was the date of the accident?” I asked urgently.

He flashed ten fingers. Then he did it a second time. “The day that ruined my life.”

10/10

I thanked Lamar like he just saved my life, and rushed out of the museum into the torrential downpour. I climbed into my rental and headed north toward the airport. I went to call Christina to pick me up and realized I left my phone in the cafeteria. It was too late to go back.

I now knew Officer Jones’ next move, and I had the date marked on my calendar.