Last Light (7 page)

To her surprise, the younger woman flushed and looked out the window, away from Lucy. “Not much to talk about. Operational security.”

Military speak for “mind your own business.” As in classified information above Lucy’s clearance level. She changed the topic. “Where do you think we should start?”

“Me? I’d start with the scene of the crime, work out from there. Reconstruct the crime, focus on any forensic evidence we could retest with modern techniques. In 1987, they wouldn’t have used DNA, so that’s an option.”

“If any evidence still has viable DNA and wasn’t contaminated,” Lucy put in. “Think how many cops and crime scene guys—hell, evidence clerks and the DA’s people—would have handled any evidence, left their own DNA.”

TK nodded, conceding the point. “There were no signs of any sexual assault according to the state pathologist, so you’re right. It might be a long shot.”

“Not to mention time-consuming and expensive. Unless...” Lucy thought about the short summary of the crime that she’d skimmed before leaving for the airport. “Did they check that all the blood at the scene came from the victims? This kind of explosive, frenzied attack—especially if drugs play a role—you’ll often see the perpetrator with cuts on the hand wielding the knife.”

TK straightened, her interest piqued. She pulled her laptop out and opened it on her tray. Lucy was glad it was only the two of them in this row. Hopefully no one else could see the gruesome images as TK flicked through them. “I thought only victims got defensive wounds on their hands?”

“These wouldn’t be defensive. They’re from slipping on the victims’ blood as the perpetrator grips the knife’s hilt. The force of the strike—”

“Slices into his palm. Probably near the base of the thumb, right?” TK asked, twisting her own hand as if she held a knife. “No reports of blood, not from the victims, but look at the scene. No way in hell could they have tested every blood spatter—”

Lucy gave the photos only a glance—she wanted time to study them in depth and would prefer to do it alone. A scene like that, she knew she’d need a moment to shed her emotions before immersing herself in it and she didn’t need TK seeing that—or reporting back to Valencia. Who was Valencia testing with this case? The justice system? Or Lucy and her potential future team?

“What about the brothers? Any injuries should have been recorded when they were arrested. Hopefully photographed as well.”

“Nothing on the younger one, Michael Manning.” TK clicked a few more keys. “Hmm...His brother’s initial booking photos are missing. Only one we have is dated two days after when he was officially charged, so three days after the crime. Guy looks in pretty bad shape.” She swung the computer so Lucy could see.

Understatement. Richard Manning appeared barely able to stand and had obviously taken a severe beating.

“He did resist arrest,” TK said, playing devil’s advocate. Lucy got the idea it was a role the young woman relished, even if it meant arguing against herself. “Sent two deputies to the hospital when they picked him up.”

“They must have gotten some kind of medical clearance, even if only to cover their ass. Any mention of cuts on his hands in that?”

“Let’s see...Here’s a doctor’s note. Also dated two days later. Mention of a mild concussion, cracked and bruised ribs, no evidence that prisoner requires further medical treatment. Doesn’t say anything about any cuts. But also doesn’t say he doesn’t have them.”

“We’ll need the complete medical record.”

TK nodded, made a note. “What else?”

“Full transcripts of the interviews that led to the confessions. Have you seen the actual confessions submitted to the court? Less than three pages long between both brothers. And that’s longhand, not even typed.”

“You’re buying into this whole coerced confession thing?” TK sounded doubtful. “I just can’t see anyone sane confessing to such a heinous crime if they’re innocent.”

“You should have that discussion with my husband some time. Turns out there are all sorts of psychological manipulations that can convince someone they did or saw something they didn’t—it’s a fascinating area of study. If you’re not a law enforcement officer depending on accurate statements, of course.”

“So even if they confessed, we can’t rely on those statements?”

“Who knows what went on in the two days between their arrest and their confessions? The police did things differently back in eighty-seven, might have used coercive techniques without even realizing what they were doing. I’d feel a lot more comfortable if I could read the full transcripts or better yet, get actual video or audio tapes of the interviews.”

TK used the plane’s Wi-Fi to email Wash and Tommy Lucy’s requests. “They’re working on it. Anything else?”

“I’d love to nail down the timeline. The day before the killings as well as everything that happened after.”

“You looking for more alibi witnesses? Because the one they have is dying?”

Lucy shrugged. “This early in a case I try not to look for anything specific. It’s more about getting a feel for where any holes are, things that don’t line up and need clarification.”

“So it’s like we start over, a whole new investigation? Fresh eyes and all that?”

“It’s how I prefer to do things. My motto when it comes to cases someone else started is: trust no one, assume nothing.”

TK smiled at that. “No problem. That’s pretty much how I live my entire life.”

THANKS TO THE
time difference, they landed only an hour later than they’d taken off. Lucy let TK collect their rental—a silver Tahoe—while she checked in with Tommy and Wash back at Beacon Falls. It was the first time she’d flown since her leg injury and her ankle was swollen and throbbing, the damaged nerves shooting sparks of pain.

“How’s it coming?” she asked Wash, certain they wouldn’t have much to report. She’d been spoiled by having the cyber-wizards from the FBI’s High Tech Computer Crimes Taskforce at her beck and call.

To her surprise, both had already made progress. “The Justice Project has already gotten a court order for both brothers’ medical records and just sent them,” Tommy answered first. “I’m not seeing any evidence of wounds on either brother’s hands, but I’m really surprised the older brother was allowed to enter a plea at all. From his intake physical at the jail, he suffered from some pretty severe cognitive dysfunction—probably a combo of the drug use and multiple head injuries.”

“Interesting. See if you can pinpoint exactly when he began to have problems. Could it have been from the beating he took around the time of his arrest?”

“Maybe, yes. I’d need to see CAT scans and earlier reports of his functioning to even hazard a guess. Not sure how helpful it would be in any case since it wouldn’t clear the younger brother, Michael.”

“You never know. What about you, Wash? Were you able to create a timeline of everyone’s movements?”

“Yes and no. There are a lot of gaps—we simply don’t have the answers in the material we were given. It might be in the prosecutor’s files and was not turned over to the defense. Or the questions were simply never asked.”

“The lawyers at the Justice Project are supposed to be getting us access to all the evidence from the sheriff and the prosecutor.” Without the go-ahead to examine the original evidence, they’d be limited to witness interviews—witnesses from twenty-nine years after the events.

“They’re working on it. Said they’ll have an answer from the judge by the end of business today. In the meantime, I’ll send you what I have.”

“Good job. Thanks, guys.” She hung up just as TK approached, a set of keys dangling from her fingers.

“Canterville, here we come. The clerk gave me a map—said GPS always gets it wrong because there’s limited satellite coverage and cell towers out there.”

Lucy had to smile. So many of her cases took her to places where modern communications were hampered by geography. “No problems, I love good old-fashioned maps.”

“Great. I’ll drive, you navigate.”

Once they got out of Dallas, the drive down the interstate went quickly, but then they turned off onto the county road leading to Canterville, population 3,718. From the map, Canterville was at the heart of Blackwell County, which only had three thin squiggles of roads and one county highway traversing it. Large swaths of blank space filled up most of the county and only two other towns were marked on the map.

Lucy glanced out the window. Apparently, the blank space was filled with fields, crops, and cattle. Finally, they arrived at the only hotel in Canterville, an old-fashioned, one-story stucco building, U-shaped with a pool at the back and a cracked blacktop parking lot out front.

“You were smart, checking in before the auction,” the clerk said as she registered them. “Come Thursday, every room will be taken.”

“What kind of auction?” Lucy asked as she fished for the Beacon Group credit card Valencia had given her. “Livestock?”

“No, the forfeiture auction.” She raised her left hand, a surprisingly large diamond on the third finger. “My guy got our ring there. Of course, he’s local, so we get a preview on the items and he put the word out for no one to bid against him.” She slid a sheet of paper across the counter to Lucy.

It was a list of items below the Blackwell County Sheriff’s Department letterhead. “A RV? Two speedboats?” Lucy read. “Do you guys have that big of a drug problem around here?”

“Not drugs. That’s the beauty of it.” The clerk leaned forward. “Old sheriff began doing it years back, but just here and there. It took our new sheriff to realize how good this could be for the county, make a system that was fair to everyone. That’s why this place even exists.” She spread her arms wide to indicate the motel.

TK wandered over to join them, glancing at the list. “There are a lot of cars on here.”

“Exactly. You break the law in Blackwell County while in your motorized vehicle, you lose said vehicle, and...” She snapped her fingers. “You’ll need a place to stay. Here we are, conveniently located across the street from the sheriff’s department. Is that genius or what? I’m telling you, it saved this town. The whole county for that matter.”

Lucy exchanged a glance at TK, who shrugged. “Guess we better not break any laws while we’re here.”

“That’s right, ladies.” The clerk laughed.

“Any place to eat nearby?”

“We offer a continental breakfast and coffee in the morning. Got the usual fast-food places on the highway—you would have passed them on the way in. And we have the Sweetbriar—serves a decent breakfast and lunch, great steaks, but just to warn you, evenings it’s not exactly family-friendly. Most of the ranch hands go there to blow off steam, shoot pool, drink their paychecks.”

TK perked up at that. “Where’s that?”

“Block west of here. You can’t miss it—only neon sign in Blackwell County.” She said it as if it were a badge of pride.

They collected their keys—real metal keys on large key chains shaped like cowboy boots—and turned to leave the lobby when the clerk called them back. “Almost forgot. You have a message. David Ruiz with the Justice Project asked if you’d meet him when you got in. He’s in room one-twelve but is working out of the Sweetbriar.”

Both TK and Lucy had missed lunch thanks to the flight. “Can’t come all the way to Texas without a steak,” TK said as they strolled through the heat to their rooms.

Lucy nodded, glancing around their surroundings. So different from small towns back in her Pennsylvania mountains, yet also very similar. The countryside transitioned from flat to gentle rolling hills in the distance, alternating brown and green fields extending to the horizon. Across the street was a small government center that included administration offices and a post office. Separated by a parking lot from the government center was the county jail and sheriff’s department.

The jail itself was typical cement and steel, constructed more for security than aesthetics. Two stories high, it appeared to be the tallest building in view—although, when Lucy glanced down the street in the other direction, she saw it was not quite as tall as the Sweetbriar’s neon sign with its ten-gallon hat, lasso, and cowboy boot.

TK gestured with the asset forfeiture auction list she still held. “Says here they hold these auctions every two weeks. That’s a heck of a lot of stuff they’ve seized. Is that legal?”

“The federal laws go back to the nineties, but after nine-eleven, local police began to use highway interdiction and asset forfeiture to help their budgetary deficits. It’s all done in the name of preventing terrorism and stopping organized crime, but unfortunately some departments get carried away.”

“I don’t get it. If no one’s actually charged with a crime, only pulled over because they’re suspected of something, then how can the cops keep their stuff?”

“A person is innocent until proven guilty, but an object is presumed guilty—the product of a criminal enterprise and therefor subject to seizure—until a person can prove they’ve obtained it legally.”

TK gave a small whistle. “Holy heck. This is the freedom I spent eight years fighting for?”

All Lucy could do was shrug. When they dropped their luggage off and regrouped outside on the sidewalk once more, her blouse was already soaked through with sweat and more had gathered around her foot swathed in its plastic brace. She was relieved when TK didn’t even suggest walking as an option.

They climbed back into the SUV, the equivalent of climbing into an oven. By the time they made it down the street to the Sweetbriar, the AC had barely made a dent in the heat. They each grabbed their computer bags and strolled into the wood-frame single-story building designed to look like a log cabin.

On the inside, it was typical of family-style restaurants across the country: large wooden tables in the center; high-backed booths lining one wall; a long polished bar on the interior wall; a variety of mementos hanging from the exposed rafters and tacked to the walls. There were signed cowboy hats, a pair of horns that spanned at least six feet and could only have come from one of the state’s famous longhorn steers, and a variety of horse shoes, spurs, bridles, and branding irons.