The Guardians(86)

The boxes are not at all heavy. We gently scoot them to the opening. I go down first and Frankie hands them to me. When they are in the bedroom, I take more photos of the scene. With snakes and skeletons around, our exit is swift. The front porch is falling in and wet with rain, so we keep the boxes just inside the front door and wait for the weather to break.





Chapter 43



Ruiz County is grouped with two others to form Florida’s 22nd Judicial District. The current elected prosecutor is one Patrick McCutcheon, a Seabrook lawyer with offices in the courthouse. Eighteen years ago, when McCutcheon finished law school, he took an associate’s position with the busy law offices of the Honorable Glenn Colacurci. When his career took a turn toward politics, they parted ways amicably.

Glenn assures me, “I can talk to the boy.”

He can and he does. And while he’s getting McCutcheon’s attention, I work the phones tracking down Sheriff Castle, always a busy man. However, when I finally convince him my adventures earlier that morning were real, and that I have in my possession three boxes of old evidence Bradley Pfitzner tried to burn, I get his full attention.

Glenn, with no sign whatsoever of having been excessive the night before, seizes the moment with gusto and wants to take over. At 2:00 p.m. we gather in his office—me, Frankie Tatum, Patrick McCutcheon, Sheriff Castle, and Bea in one corner taking notes.

My correspondence with McCutcheon has all been written and cordial. Almost a year ago I made the routine request that he reopen Quincy’s case, and he politely declined, which was no surprise. I also asked Castle to reopen the investigation, but he had little interest. Since then I have e-mailed each summaries of the latest developments, so they are informed. Or should be. I assume they have reviewed my materials. I also assume they were much too busy until Pfitzner was arrested. That stunning event got their attention.

Now, they are captivated. Their sudden interest is piqued by three lost and found boxes of evidence.

It takes an awkward moment for me to establish who’s in charge. Glenn would like nothing better than to hold court, but I politely shove him aside. Without explaining how or why we became interested in Kenny Taft, I walk them through our contact with the family, the lease, the payment, and the morning’s adventures in the old house. Bea enlarged the photos of the boxes as they sat in the attic, and I pass these around.

“Have they been opened?” the sheriff asks.

“No. They are still sealed,” I reply.

“Where are they?”

“I’m not saying right now. First, we need to reach an agreement about how to proceed. No agreement, no evidence.”

“Those boxes belong to my department,” Castle says.

“I’m not sure about that,” I reply. “Maybe, maybe not. You and your department didn’t know about them until two hours ago. There is no open investigation because you declined to get involved, remember?”

McCutcheon needs to assert himself so he says, “I agree with the sheriff. If the evidence was stolen from his department, regardless of when, then it belongs to him.”

Glenn also needs to assert himself and he scolds his former associate. “His department, Patrick, tried to destroy the stuff twenty years ago. Thank God Post found it. Look, you’re already playing tug-of-war. We need to agree here and proceed together. I represent Mr. Post and his organization, and you have to forgive him if he seems rather possessive of this evidence. There could be something in there that exonerates his client. Given the track record here in Seabrook, he has a right to be concerned. Everybody take a deep breath.”

We do, then I say, “I suggest we agree on a plan, and then we open the boxes together, all on video of course. If the flashlight is there, gentlemen, then I want the option of keeping it and having it analyzed by our experts, Dr. Kyle Benderschmidt and Dr. Tobias Black. I believe you guys have copies of their reports. Once they are finished with their work, I will hand it over so you can take it to the state crime lab.”

“Are you saying your experts are better than the State of Florida’s?” Castle asked.

“Damned right I am. If you will recall, the State put on the stand a quack by the name of Paul Norwood. His work has been completely debunked over the past decade, but he did a number on Quincy. He’s now out of business. Sorry, fellas, but I’m not trusting the State here.”

“I’m sure our crime lab can handle this,” McCutcheon says. “Norwood did not work for the State back then.”

When McCutcheon speaks, Glenn feels obligated to fire back. “You’re not listening, Patrick. My client is calling the shots. If you can’t agree, then you don’t see the evidence. He takes it with him and we go to Plan B.”

“Which is?”

“Well, we haven’t worked out all of the details, but Plan B certainly includes Mr. Post leaving town with the boxes and having the evidence analyzed by independent experts. You’ll be cut out. Is that what you want?”

I stand and glare at Castle and McCutcheon. “I’m not really here to negotiate. I don’t like your tone. I don’t like your attitude. The boxes are safely tucked away, hidden again, and I’ll fetch them when I’m ready.” I walk to the door and open it when McCutcheon says, “Wait.”

The boxes have been dusted off but still show their age. They’re sitting side by side in the middle of Glenn’s long conference room table. A video camera on a tripod is aimed at them. We crowd around and gawk at them. I touch the first one and say, “I’m assuming QM is Quincy Miller. Would you like to do the honors?” I ask the sheriff, then hand over a small penknife. I also give him a pair of thin surgical gloves, which he obligingly puts on. Bea turns on the video recorder as Frankie begins filming with his phone.