The Guardians(87)

Castle takes the knife and runs the blade through the packing tape along the top, then the sides. As he pulls open the flap, we strain to see what’s inside. The first item is a clear plastic bag filled with what appears to be a white shirt covered in blood. Without opening it, Castle lifts it for the cameras, looks at a tag, and reads, “Crime scene, Russo, February 16, 1988.”

He places it on the table. The shirt inside the bag appears to be jagged in places. The blood is almost black, twenty-three years later.

Next is another clear plastic bag with what looks like a pair of dress slacks wadded up and stuffed in. There are black stains. Castle reads the tag—the same information.

Next is a letter-sized box wrapped in a black trash-can liner. He carefully removes the plastic, sits the box on the table, and opens it. One by one he removes sheets of smudged copy paper, a yellow legal pad, notecards, and four cheap pens and two unused pencils. The tag says it’s materials taken from Russo’s desk. Everything is bloodstained.

One by one, he removes four lawbooks, all stained. The tag says they were taken from Keith’s bookshelves.

Next is a cardboard box about twelve inches square. It is snug inside a plastic freezer bag, which in turn is zipped inside another one. Castle carefully removes the plastic, and, as if we know what’s coming, he pauses a second as we stare at the brown box. It is not taped shut but has a fold-in latch. Slowly, he opens it and removes yet another plastic ziplock bag. He places it on the table. Inside is a small black flashlight, about a foot long and with a two-inch lens.

“Let’s not open that,” I say, with my heart in my throat.

Castle nods his agreement.

Glenn assumes command of his office and says, “Gentlemen, let’s have a seat and determine where we are.”

We move to one end of the table and sit down. Frankie moves to the other end and puts away his phone. Bea says, “I’m still recording.”

“Let it run,” I say. I want every word on the record.

For several minutes, the four of us sit in various states of repose and try to gather our thoughts. I look at the flashlight, then look away, unable to comprehend its presence, unable to fully process what it might mean. Finally, McCutcheon says, “I have a question, Post.”

“Go.”

“You’ve been living with this case for almost a year now. We have not. So, what’s your best theory as to why Pfitzner wanted to destroy this evidence?”

I say, “Well, I believe there is only one explanation, and Kyle Benderschmidt helped me arrive at it. As he said, there was a smart law man at work here, and a devious one. The flashlight was planted by Pfitzner and it was carefully photographed. You’ve seen the pictures. Pfitzner knew he could find a quack like Paul Norwood who would look at them, without ever examining the flashlight, and feed the jury the prosecution’s theory that it was used by the killer, Quincy, to fire away in the dark. The reason Pfitzner wanted the flashlight to disappear was that he was afraid that another expert, one with better training than Norwood, might examine it for the defense and tell the truth. Pfitzner also knew that a black guy in a white town would be much easier to convict.”

They chew on this for another long gap. Again, McCutcheon breaks the silence with “What’s your plan, Post?”

I reply, “I was not expecting so much blood. It’s a gift, really. So, ideally, I first take the flashlight to Benderschmidt for an exam. He cannot do his work here because he has an extensive lab at VCU.”

McCutcheon says, “And if the blood on the flashlight matches the blood on the clothing, then Quincy is linked to the crime, right?”

“Possibly, but that won’t happen. The flashlight was a plant by Pfitzner and was not at the scene of the crime. I guarantee it.”

Glenn needs to insert himself. He says to McCutcheon, “Well, the way I see it, we have two issues. The first is exoneration, the second is the prosecution of the real killer. The first is pressing, the second may never happen. Sure, Pfitzner is in jail, but linking him to the actual murder still looks like a long shot. You agree, Post?”

“Yes, and I’m not concerned with that right now. He gave us a gift and he’s locked away for a long time. I want Quincy Miller out of prison as soon as humanly possible, and I want your help. I’ve been down this road before, and when the district attorney cooperates things go much faster.”

“Come on, Patrick,” Glenn scolds. “The writing is on the wall. This boy got screwed by this county twenty-three years ago. It’s time to make things right.”

Sheriff Castle smiles and says, “I’m listening. We’ll reopen as soon as you get the test results.”

I would like to lunge across the table and hug him.

McCutcheon says, “It’s a deal. I only ask that everything is photographed, videoed, and preserved. I may need it for another trial one day.”

“Of course,” I say.

Castle says, “Now, about those other two boxes.”

Glenn sticks his cane into the floor, jumps to his feet, says, “Let’s have a look. There might be some dirt on me in there.”

We laugh nervously and get to our feet. Frankie clears his throat and says, “Hey boss, don’t forget about that closet.”

I had forgotten. I look at the sheriff and say, “Sorry to complicate matters, Sheriff, but we stumbled across something else in the Taft house, in a closet upstairs. I’m not sure you can call it a dead body or a corpse because it’s nothing but a skeleton. All bones. Probably been there for years.”