Best Kept Secrets(7)

he said. ' 'Because of who these guys are, we're talking earth-shattering

shit here. Before I stick my neck out, I've got to

have more to go on than your hunch and Granny's ram-Wings."

She followed him to the door of his office. "Come on,

Greg, spare me the legal lingo. You're only thinking of yourself."



"You're goddamn right I am. Constantly."

His admission left her no room to maneuver. "At least

grant me permission to investigate this murder when I'm not

actively involved in other cases."

"You know what a backlog we've got. We can't get all

the cases to court as it is now."

"I'll work overtime. I won't shirk my other responsibilities.

You know I won't."

"Alex--"

"Please, Greg." She could see that he wanted her to withdraw

the request, but she wouldn't capitulate to anything less

than a definite no. Her preliminary research had piqued her

interest as a prosecutor and litigator, and her desperate desire

to prove her grandmother wrong and absolve herself of any

guilt further motivated her undertakings. "If I don't produce

something soon, I'll drop it and you'll never hear of it again."

He studied her intent face. "Why don't you just work out

your frustrations with hot, illicit screwing like everybody

else? At least half the guys in town would accommodate you,

married or single." She gave him a withering look. "Okay,

okay. You can do some digging, but only in your spare time.

Come up with something concrete. If I'm going to win votes,

I can't look or act like a goddamn fool, and neither can

anybody else in this office. Now I'm late for lunch. 'Bye."

Her caseload was heavy, and the time she had had to spend

on her mother's murder had been limited. She read everything

she could get her hands on--newspaper accounts, transcripts

of Buddy Hicks's hearing--until she had the facts memorized.

They were basic and simple. Mr. Bud Hicks, who was

mentally retarded, had been arrested near the murder scene

with the victim's blood on his clothing. At the time of his

arrest, he had had in his possession the surgical instrument

with which he had allegedly killed the victim. He was jailed,

questioned, and charged. Within days there was a hearing.

Judge Joseph Wallace had declared Hicks incompetent to

stand trial and had confined him to a state mental hospital.



It seemed like an open-and-shut case. Just when she had

begun to believe that Greg was right, that she was on a wild

goose chase, she had discovered a curious glitch in the transcript

of Hicks's hearing. After following up on it, she had

approached Greg again, armed with a signed affidavit.

"Well, I've got it." Triumphantly, she slapped the folder

on top of the others cluttering his desk.

Greg scowled darkly. "Don't be so friggin' cheerful, and

for crissake, stop slamming things around. I've got a bitchin'

hangover." He mumbled his words through a dense screen

of smoke. He stopped puffing on the cigarette only long

enough to sip at a steaming cup of black coffee. "How was

your weekend?"

"Wonderful. Far more productive than yours. Read that."

Tentatively, he opened the file and scanned the contents

with bleary eyes. "Hmm." His initial reading was enough

to grab his attention. Leaning back in his chair and propping

his feet on the corner of his desk, he reread it more carefully.

"This is from the doctor at the mental hospital where this

Hicks fellow is incarcerated?"

"Was. He died a few months ago."

"Interesting."

"Interesting?" Alex cried, disappointed with the bland

assessment. She left her chair, circled it, and stood behind

it, gripping the upholstered back in agitation. "Greg, Buddy

Hicks spent twenty-five years in that hospital for nothing."

"You don't know that yet. Don't jump to conclusions."

"His last attending psychiatrist said that Buddy Hicks was

a model patient. He never demonstrated any violent tendencies.

He had no apparent sex drive, and in the doctor's expert

opinion, he was incapable of committing a crime like the one

that cost my mother her life. Admit that it looks fishy."

He read several other briefs, then muttered, "It looks fishy,

but it's sure as hell not a smoking gun."

"Short of a miracle, I won't be able to produce any concrete

evidence. The case is twenty-five years old. All I can hope

for is enough probable cause to bring it before a grand jury.



A confession from the real killer--because I'm convinced,

beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Bud Hicks did not murder

my mother--is a pipe dream. There's also the slim possibility

of smoking out an eyewitness."