Page 13 of Too Old for This
That’s how people perceived it, though it wasn’t true. There were so many reporters and so many camera flashes that I couldn’t see. I was squinting.
That photo was printed and reprinted over and over. It damaged me almost as much as how I was described.
Thirty-six-year-old Lorena Mae Lansdale, a never-married single mother.
Good thing it was the ’80s and not earlier. Otherwise, they might’ve thrown me in prison just for that.
When I went to the station, I had no idea the police had called the press or leaked my name and called me a person of interest. The media firestorm was a surprise.
If they hadn’t done that, maybe the interview would have gone differently.
Kenneth Burke greeted me at the door, after watching me navigate my way through the cameras. Spokane’s most renowned detective had thick, unruly brown hair, a matching mustache, and that coffee-cigarette stench. But I don’t remember him being particularly intimidating. Not at first.
“Miss Lansdale, thank you for coming in.”
I nodded.
He led me into the station. We walked by a lot of staring people and went into an interrogation room. No windows, a tile floor, a mirror on one wall. The table and chairs were metal and cheap.
A secretary appeared. She was young and nervous and asked if I wanted something to drink. I shook my head no. She closed the door, leaving Burke and me alone. I assumed quite a few more were watching through the mirror.
Burke had a cup of coffee, a pack of cigarettes, and a thick file of pictures and reports. I had nothing. A black ashtray sat between us.
“Are you comfortable?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Good. Like I said, I just wanted to ask you a few questions. Let’s start with Paul Norris. How did you two meet?”
I stared at him.
Burke waited for a few minutes, then repeated the question.
I stared at him.
“How about Marilyn Dobbs?” he asked.
Still nothing from me.
“Walter Simmons?”
Again, nothing.
“Maybe these will help jog your memory.” He opened the file and laid out six photos on the table. Two photos each of Paul, Marilyn, and Walter. One alive and one dead.
I did not react. Nor did I speak. Neither was easy, especially the silent part. I hadn’t planned on that until I saw the reporters outside and realized how stupid I’d been to think I could walk into a police station and convince them I was innocent.
The problem was I didn’t know what evidence they had. And I didn’t know what they were hiding.
When I sat down in that interrogation room, I decided this was their problem. If they wanted to charge me with these murders—and convict me—they would have to prove it. And I wasn’t about to help them.
After about fifteen minutes of saying nothing, Burke got up and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. I kept my smile to myself.
When he returned, his demeanor had changed. His frustration was gone. The pictures were still laid out in front of me.
“Miss Lansdale, I’m sorry I had to show these pictures to you, but this is what we’re dealing with. What their families are dealing with. We have a lot of evidence that points to you, but if we’re wasting our time, then we need to figure out who did commit these murders. Do you understand?”
I stared at him.
