The Guardians(35)

I’m led to Castle’s office and he greets me with a smile and firm handshake. He’s about forty and has the easy manner of a rural politician. He did not live in the county at the time of the Russo murder, so hopefully he carries no baggage from those days.

After a few minutes of weather talk, he says, “Quincy Miller, huh? I looked through the file last night to get up to speed. Are you a priest or something?”

“A lawyer and a minister,” I say, and spend a moment talking about Guardian. “I take old cases that involve the innocent.”

“Good luck with this one.”

I smile and say, “They’re all difficult, Sheriff.”

“Got it. So how do you plan to prove that your client did not kill Keith Russo?”

“Well, as always, I go back to the scene and start digging. I know that most of the State’s witnesses lied at trial. The evidence is shaky at best.”

“Zeke Huffey?”

“Typical jailhouse snitch. I found him in prison in Arkansas and I expect him to recant. He’s made a career out of lying and recanting, not unusual for those guys. Carrie Holland has already told me the truth—she lied under pressure from Pfitzner and Burkhead, the prosecutor. They gave her a good deal on a pending drug charge. After the trial, Pfitzner gave her a thousand bucks and ran her out of town. She hasn’t been back. June Walker, Quincy’s ex-wife, lives in Tallahassee but so far has refused to cooperate. She testified against Quincy and lied because she was angry over their divorce. Lots of lies, Sheriff.”

This is all new to him and he absorbs it with interest. Then he shakes his head and says, “Still a long way to go. There’s no murder weapon.”

“Right. Quincy never owned a shotgun. The key, obviously, is the blood-spattered flashlight that mysteriously disappeared not long after the murder.”

“What happened to it?” he asks. He’s the sheriff. I should be asking him.

“You tell me. The official version, according to Pfitzner, is that it was destroyed in a fire where they kept evidence.”

“You doubt that?”

“I doubt everything, Sheriff. The expert for the State, a Mr. Norwood, never saw the flashlight. His testimony was pretty outrageous.” I reach into my briefcase, pull out some papers, and place them on his desk. “This is our summary of the evidence. In there you’ll see a report from a Dr. Kyle Benderschmidt, a renowned criminologist, that raises serious doubts about Norwood’s testimony. Have you looked at the photographs of the flashlight?”

“Yes.”

“Dr. Benderschmidt believes that the specks, or flecks, on the lens are probably not even human blood. And the flashlight was not found at the scene. We’re not sure where it came from and Quincy swears he had never seen it.”

He takes the report and takes his time flipping through it. When he gets bored he tosses it onto his desk and says, “I’ll spend some time with it tonight. What, exactly, do you want me to do here?”

“Help me. I’ll file a petition for post-conviction relief based on new evidence. It will have reports from our experts and statements from the witnesses who lied. I need for you to reopen the investigation into the murder. It will be a tremendous help if the court knows that the locals believe the wrong man was convicted.”

“Come on, Mr. Post. This case was closed over twenty years ago, long before I came to town.”

“They’re all old cases, Sheriff, old and cold. That’s the nature of our work. Most of the actors are gone—Pfitzner, Burkhead, even the judge is dead. You can look at the case with a fresh perspective and help get an innocent man out of prison.”

He’s shaking his head. “I don’t think so. I can’t see getting involved in this. Hell, I never thought about the case until you called yesterday.”

“All the more reason to get involved. You can’t be blamed for anything that went wrong twenty years ago. You’ll be seen as the good guy trying to do the right thing.”

“Do you have to find the real killer to get Miller out?”

“No. I have to prove him innocent, that’s all. In about half of our cases we manage to nail the real criminal, but not always.”

He keeps shaking his head. The smiles are gone. “I can’t see it, Mr. Post. I mean, you expect me to pull one of my overworked detectives off his active cases and start digging through a twenty-year-old murder that folks around here have forgotten about. Come on, man.”

“I’ll do the heavy lifting, Sheriff. That’s my job.”

“So what’s my job?”

“Cooperate. Don’t get in the way.”

He leans back in his chair and locks his hands behind his head. He stares at the ceiling as minutes pass. Finally, he asks, “In your cases, what do the locals normally do?”

“Cover up. Stonewall. Hide evidence. Fight me like hell. Contest everything I file in court. You see, Sheriff, in these cases the stakes are too high and the mistakes are too egregious for anyone to admit they were wrong. Innocent men and women serve decades while the real killers roam free, and often kill again. These are enormous injustices, and I’ve yet to find a cop or a prosecutor with the spine to admit they blew it. This case is a bit different because those responsible for Quincy’s wrongful conviction are gone. You can be the hero.”