“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.

  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.”

  Castle frowns and says, “Great. Just what I need.”

  “We didn’t touch it, but we didn’t notice any bullet holes in the skull. Could be just another suicide.”

  “I like the way you think, Post.”

  “And there was no clothing at all. Anyway, we didn’t tell the Tafts, so it’s all yours.”

  “Thanks for nothing.”

  44

  Glenn invites Frankie and me to another round of Chinese food on the porch, but we beg off. I leave Seabrook late in the afternoon, with Frankie close on my tail as if to help guard my valuable cargo. It’s on the seat next to me where I can keep an eye on it. One little box with the flashlight, yet to be touched for the first time in decades, and one plastic bag holding a bloody shirt. We drive nonstop for three hours and get to Savannah just after dark. I lock the evidence in my apartment for the night so I can sleep beside it. Vicki is roasting a chicken, and Frankie and I are starving.

  Over dinner, we debate driving versus flying to Richmond. I don’t want to fly because I don’t like the idea of subjecting our evidence to airport security. A bored agent could have a blast with our bloody shirt. The idea of another one fiddling with the flashlight is terrifying.

  So we leave at five in the morning, in Frankie’s roomy and much more reliable pickup, with him behind the wheel and me trying to nap for the first leg. He starts nodding off just over the state line in South Carolina and I take the wheel. We pick up an R&B station out of Florence and sing along with Marvin Gaye. For breakfast we get biscuits and coffee at a fast-food drive-in window and eat on the road. We can’t help but laugh about where we were exactly twenty-four hours earlier. In the attic, terrified and expecting to be attacked by evil spirits. When Frankie recalls my violent vomiting when the skeleton almost jumped out of the closet, he laughs so hard he cannot eat. I remind him that he practically fainted. He admits he took a knee and actually grabbed for his Glock.

  It’s almost 4:00 p.m. when we arrive in downtown Richmond. Kyle Benderschmidt has cleared the deck and his team is waiting. We follow him to a large room in his suite of labs. He introduces us to two colleagues and two technicians, and all five pull on surgical gloves. Two video cameras, one suspended directly above the table, the other mounted at one end, are activated. Frankie and I take a step back, but we’ll miss nothing because the eye-in-the-sky broadcasts simultaneously to a high-def screen on the wall in front of us.

  Kyle addresses the camera at the end of the table and gives the names of everyone in the room, as well as the date, place, and purpose of the exam. He casually narrates what he’s doing as he removes the box from the plastic bag, opens it slowly, and removes the smaller bag holding the flashlight. He unzips it and places the prize on a white ceramic board, three feet square. With a ruler he measures its length—eleven inches. He explains to his audience that the black casing is some type of light metal, probably aluminum, with a textured surface that is not smooth. He assumes it will be difficult to find fingerprints. For a moment he becomes a professor and informs us that latent prints can remain on a smooth surface for decades if left untouched. Or, they can disappear quickly if the surface is exposed to the elements. He begins unscrewing the cap to remove the batteries, and specks of rust fall from the grooves. He softly shakes the flashlight and two D batteries reluctantly drop out. He does not touch them but says that batteries often have fingerprints. Smart burglars and other criminals almost always wipe off their flashlights, but often forget about the batteries.

  I’ve never thought of this. Frankie and I exchange glances. Breaking news to us.

  Kyle introduces a colleague named Max, who happens to be the better fingerprint guy. Max takes charge of the narrating as he leans over the two batteries and explains that since they are primarily black in color he will use a fine white powder, similar to talcum. With a small brush and a deft stroke he applies the powder to the batteries and says it will stick to the body oils left behind by the skin, should there be any. Nothing at first. He gently rolls the batteries over and applies more powder. “Bingo,” he says. “Looks like a thumbprint.”

  My knees turn to rubber and I need to sit down. But I can’t do it because everyone is now looking at me. Benderschmidt says, “What about it, Counselor? Probably not a good idea to proceed with the print, right?”

  I struggle to collect my wits. I convinced myself months ago that we would never find the killer. But—didn’t we just find his thumbprint?

  I say, “Yes, let’s stop with the print. It’s probably headed for the courtroom, and I’d feel better if the Florida crime lab crew lifts it.”

  “Agreed,” Kyle says. Max is nodding too. These guys are too professional to screw up evidence.

  I have an idea. “Can we photograph it and send it to them now?”

  “Sure,” Kyle says with a shrug and nods to a technician. He looks at me and says, “I suppose you’re rather eager to ID someone, right?”

  “That’s correct, if it’s possible.”

  The technician rolls in a contraption that is described as a high-resolution camera with an unpronounceable name, and they spend the next thirty minutes taking close-ups of the thumbprint. I call Wink Castle in Seabrook and get his contact with the state crime lab. He wants to know if we’ve made any progress and I say nothing yet.

  When the camera is gone, Kyle places the batteries in plastic containers and turns his attention to the lens. I’ve looked at the photographs a thousand times and know that there are eight specks of what was believed to be Russo’s blood. Three of them are slightly larger and measure close to one-eighth of an inch in diameter. Kyle plans to remove the largest of these three and do a series of tests. Because the blood has been dried for almost twenty-three years, it will not be easy to lift. Working like a team of neurosurgeons, he and Max take off the cap and place the lens in a large clear petri dish. Kyle keeps up his narration. Using a small syringe, he discharges a drop of distilled water directly onto the largest speck of blood. Frankie and I are watching this on the screen.

  The water mixes well, and a drop of pinkish liquid rolls off the lens and into the petri dish. Benderschmidt and Max nod in agreement. They are pleased with the sample. They peel off their surgical gloves as a technician takes it away.

  Kyle says to me, “We’ll take a small sample of the blood from the shirt and compare things. Then we’ll run some tests, diagnose the samples. It’ll take some time. We’ll work tonight.”

  What am I supposed to say? I would prefer to have the results, and favorable ones at that, right now, but I thank him and Max. Frankie and I leave the building and roam around downtown Richmond looking for a café. Over iced tea and sandwiches we try to talk of things unrelated to blood, but it’s impossible. If the sample from the flashlight matches the stains from the shirt, then the truth is unclear and there are still unanswered questions.

  However, if the samples came from different sources, Quincy will walk. If he’s able. Eventually.

  And the thumbprint? It will not automatically lead to the guy who pulled the trigger unless it can be proven that the flashlight was at the scene. If the samples don’t match, the flashlight wasn’t there but was planted in Quincy’s trunk by Pfitzner. Or so we speculate.

  During the long drive from Savannah to Richmond, Frankie and I debated whether we should inform the Tafts that there is a skeleton in one of their closets. When we told Sheriff Castle, he showed little interest. On the one hand, the Tafts may have a relative who vanished years ago and this could solve the mystery. But on the other hand, they’re already so spooked by the place it’s hard to believe they’ll have much interest in yet another haunted death.

  Over coffee, we decide that the story is too good to leave alone. Frankie pulls up the number for Riley Taft and gives him a call. Riley is just leaving work at the school and is surprised to learn that we are already so far away with the evidence. Frankie explains that most of it is now in the possession of the sheriff, but we took what we needed. He asks if the family has any stories about folks disappearing, say in the past ten years or so.

  Riley wants to know why this is important.

  With a grin and a glow in his eyes, Frankie tells the story of what else we found in the house yesterday morning. In the closet of the east bedroom there is a skeleton, fully intact with a plastic rope around its chest holding it in place. Probably not a suicide. Possibly a murder but not by hanging, though little is certain.

  As Riley reacts in shock, Frankie grins and almost chuckles. They go back and forth as Riley accuses Frankie of pulling his leg. Frankie warms to the story and says that the truth is easy to prove. Just go have a look. And, furthermore, he and Wendell should enter the house as soon as possible and retrieve the skeleton for a proper burial.

  Riley howls at this and begins cursing. After he settles down, Frankie apologizes for bearing bad news, but just thought they would want to know. The sheriff may contact them soon and want to look around.

  Frankie listens, grins, says, “No, no, Riley, I wouldn’t burn it.”