The Guardians(26)

At sixty-six, McKnatt is definitely on the younger side of this population. I spot him wearing a blue Braves baseball cap and walk over. We sit at a picnic table near a wall with dozens of posters and bulletins. He’s overweight but seems to be in decent shape. At least he’s not on oxygen.

He says, somewhat defensively, “I like it here, lots of good people who take care of each other. No one has any money so there’s no pretense. We try to stay active and there’s plenty to do.”

I offer something banal, like it seems to be a nice place. If he’s suspicious he doesn’t appear so. He wants to talk and seems proud to have a visitor. I walk him through his career in law enforcement for a few minutes, and he finally gets to the point.

“So why are you interested in Quincy Miller?”

“He’s my client and I’m trying to get him out of prison.”

“Been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“Twenty-two years. Did you know him?”

“No, not till the murder.”

“Were you at the crime scene?”

“Of course I was. Pfitzner was already there, got there pretty fast, and he asked me to take Ms. Russo home. She’d found the body, you know, and called 911. Poor lady was a mess, as you might guess. I drove her home and sat with her until some friends came over, it was awful, then I went back to the scene. Pfitzner was in charge, as always, and he was barking orders. I said I thought we should call the state police, which is what we were supposed to do, but Pfitzner said he would do it later.”

“Did he?”

“The next day. He took his time. He didn’t want anybody else working the case.”

“What was your relationship with Pfitzner?” I ask.

He smiles but not in a pleasant way. “I’ll be honest with you,” he says, as if he has been dishonest so far. “Pfitzner got me fired, so I have no use for the man. He’d been the sheriff for twenty years when the town hired me as chief, and he never respected me or any officer in my department. He had an iron grip on the county and didn’t want anybody else with a badge trespassing on his turf. That’s just the way it was.”

“Why did he get you fired?”

McKnatt grunts and watches the old men play shuffleboard. He finally shrugs and says, “You gotta understand small-town politics. I had about a dozen men, Pfitzner had twice that. He had a big budget, whatever he wanted, and I got the leftovers. We never got along because he saw me as a threat. He fired a deputy, and when I hired the guy Pfitzner got pissed. All the politicians were afraid of him and he pulled some strings, got me sacked. I couldn’t leave town fast enough. You been to Seabrook?”

“Not yet.”

“You won’t find much. Pfitzner’s been gone for a long time and I’m sure all his tracks are covered.”

It is a loaded statement, as if he wants me to jump in, but I let it slide. This is the first meeting, and I don’t want to seem too eager. I have to build trust and that takes time. Enough of Sheriff Pfitzner. I’ll circle back in due course.

“Did you know Keith Russo?” I ask.

“Sure. I knew all the lawyers. It’s a small town.”

“What was your opinion of him?”

“Smart, cocky, not one of my favorites. He roughed up a couple of my men once in a trial and I didn’t like it. Guess he was just doing his job. He wanted to be a big-shot lawyer and I guess he was on his way. One day we looked up and he was driving a sleek new black Jaguar, probably the only one in town. Rumor was he settled a big case down in Sarasota and made a killing. He was flashy like that.”

“And his wife, Diana?”

He shakes his head as if in pain. “Poor lady. I guess I’ll always have a soft spot for her. Can you imagine what she went through finding his body like that? She was a mess.”

“I cannot. Was she a good lawyer?”

“Well regarded, I guess. I never had dealings with her. A knockout, though, a real beauty.”

“Did you watch the trial?”

“No. They moved it next door to Butler County, and I couldn’t justify taking time off to sit through a trial.”

“At the time, did you think Quincy Miller committed the murder?”

He shrugs, says, “Sure. I never had any reason to doubt it. As I recall, there was a pretty strong motive for the killing, some bad blood. Wasn’t there a witness who saw him running away from the scene?”

“Yes, but she didn’t make a positive ID.”

“Didn’t they find the murder weapon in Miller’s car?”

“Not exactly. They found a flashlight with some blood on it.”

“And the DNA matched, right?”

“No, there was no DNA testing in 1988. And the flashlight disappeared.”

He thinks about this for a moment and it’s obvious he doesn’t remember the important details. He left Seabrook two years after the murder and has tried to forget the place. He says, “I always thought it was an open-and-shut case. I suppose you think otherwise, right?”

“I do, or else I wouldn’t be here.”

“So what makes you think Miller’s innocent after all these years?”

I’m not about to share my theories, not at this point anyway. Maybe later. I reply, “The State’s case doesn’t hold up,” I say vaguely, then move on with “Did you maintain any contacts in Seabrook after you left?”