Page 53

Denise placed her notebook and pen on the counter of her side of the cubicle in the death row visitation room of the Allan B. Polunsky Unit in Livingston.

Staring at her from the other side of the Plexiglas window, framed by the confined booth’s scarred casing, was multiple-murderer Darnell George Sharp, aged forty-one.

She’d discovered his name in the case records.

A brief notation said that he had known Donnie Ray Hyde on death row, where Sharp was awaiting execution for murdering four people: his ex-girlfriend and three members of her family in Lubbock. Sharp had declined to talk to Clear River detectives when they were investigating Hyde years ago. But he’d agreed to Denise’s request for an interview. It took a couple of days to arrange through the warden’s office, his prison chaplain and Sharp himself.

Now here he was. Dressed in prison whites, arms laced with tattoos, bearing a chin curtain beard and shaved head, his eyes shining like dark ball bearings.

He pointed to his handset and Denise picked up hers.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Darnell.”

“I don’t get many visitors, ma’am. It breaks up my day.” He gave her a shy smile.

“I hope it’s been explained to you that I’m here to ask you about Donnie Ray Hyde.”

“Yes, ma’am, it has.”

“I understand you have an ongoing appeal, but I’m not here to report on your case.”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s fine.”

“Okay, so we’re both on the same page.”

“We are, ma’am.”

“You knew Donnie Ray while he was here?”

“I did.”

“But you refused to talk to detectives from Clear River about their investigation of his connection to the two murders there?”

“I was not inclined to assist them at the time. In here, word gets around, and not in a good way. But he’s gone now, so…”

“Did you know much about the Clear River case from Donnie Ray?”

He didn’t answer.

“Darnell, did he ever talk to you about the murders of Abby Hall and Erin Eddowes, the girls from Clear River?”

He adjusted his hold on his handset and shrugged.

“I see,” Denise said. “Shortly before Donnie Ray’s execution, he confessed. Shortly before he confessed, he was visited by Vernon Hamilton, the former sheriff in Clear River. Were you aware of that?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Did Vernon reach out to talk to you?”

Darnell shook his head.

“Can you tell me—I mean, under the circumstances, this may seem like a stupid question—but what was Donnie Ray’s demeanor before Vernon came to the unit, before he confessed?”

“Before?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I can tell you this. Yes, he was appealing. That’s what you do. But in the end, Donnie Ray owned up to his actions; at the time, he’d given in to some dark force. He accepted what he did was wrong, and he was working with his advisor to atone.”

“So, he’d accepted it?”

“He had. You know, in here we realize that when we go to the death house, pass through that door to the other side, there’s only one of two places you’ll end up. You’re either going to rise to heaven or spiral to hell.”

“Right.”

“And people may scoff, but a lot of us are working to reconcile with our acts. You know, prepare for our journey. That’s what Donnie Ray was doing before he confessed, before his last appeal to the board was kicked back.”

“He was getting ready.”

“Yes, ma’am. He was trying to make his peace. I remember hearing him cry like a little kid after his mother walked away from her last visit here.”

Denise sat with that for a moment.

“And how was Donnie Ray after Vernon Hamilton’s visit? After he confessed to the other murders?”

Darnell stroked his beard as if trying to coax the words. “Almost happy?”

“Happy?”

“Yes, ma’am. He said something about how after all the pain he caused his mother, he was going to ease her suffering after he was gone.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did he mean, ease her suffering after he was gone?”

“I’m still trying to figure it out. I guess he was getting spiritual. Maybe he was tired of the roller-coaster ride of all his appeals.”

“Why do you think he confessed, after denying it for so long?”

Darnell shook his head. “Maybe he needed to clear his conscience, cleanse his soul. I mean, he seemed upbeat. You know he didn’t want his mother to witness his execution?”

“I did. She told me.”

“And before they moved him to the death house in Huntsville, he gave away his few possessions. His Bible, his radio. His shoes. That’s why I’m talking to you. I figure I owe him in some way.”

“Why?”

“I’m wearing his shoes.”

“I’m sorry—you’re wearing his shoes?”

“We’re the same size. Nine. So he made sure I got them. He had some books and sketches. He gave those to other inmates, too. So he was ready to go.”

Denise touched up her notes. Several long seconds passed with her looking directly at Darnell before she spoke.

“Tell me, how many people do you think Donnie Ray killed?”

He blinked.

“He killed the girl in Tyler. No doubt about it. He admitted it.”

“And the girls in the woods in Clear River?”

“He rarely talked about them. Only to say police suspected him for it, but he told me once that he did not do it. Now, I get that with his appeals for Tyler, he wouldn’t want to mess up his shot at a reprieve, commutation to life, you know?”

“Right.”

“Now, this may sound funny coming from someone like me in this place, but I honestly don’t think he killed them girls in Clear River.”

“And why do you think he didn’t kill them?”

“I don’t know. Just the vibe I got from him, I guess.”

Looking at him, Denise nodded, weighing what he’d said.

“Thank you for your help, Darnell.”

“Good talking to you. You’re welcome, ma’am.”

Denise signaled a prison staff member, then proceeded to leave, returning her visitor’s chain tag and clearing security.

In her SUV, driving to Clear River, processing all that Darnell had said, she suddenly thought of the old adage a homicide cop had told her about murder investigations.

Things are seldom what they look like.