The Guardians: The explosive new thriller from international bestseller John Grisham (36 page)

When Frankie yanks down the fourth board, a box of old fruit jars comes crashing down and shatters around our feet. “Beautiful!” I yell. “There is storage up there.” Inspired, Frankie rips boards with a fury and before long a third of the bedroom ceiling has been reduced to debris, which I toss in a corner. We’re not coming back and I don’t care how we leave the place.

I position the ladder and gingerly climb through the gap in the ceiling. When I’m waist-high in the attic I scan it with my light. It’s windowless, pitch-black, cramped and musty, no more than four feet in height. For an old attic, it is surprisingly uncluttered, evidence that its owners were not consumers; evidence too that Kenny may have sealed it off over twenty years ago.

It’s impossible to stand, so Frankie and I slowly crawl on all fours. The rain is pounding the tin roof just inches above our heads. We have to scream at each other. He goes one way, I go the other, very slowly. Crawling, we fight our way through thick spiderwebs and watch every square inch for another snake. I pass a neat stack of one-by-six pine planks, probably left over from construction a hundred years ago. There is a pile of old newspapers, the top one dated March of 1965.

Frankie yells and I scurry over like a rat, the dust already caked on the knees of my jeans.

He has pulled back a shredded blanket enough to reveal three identical cardboard boxes. He points his light at a label on one and I lean in to within inches. The faded ink is handwritten, but the info is clear:
Ruiz County Sheriff’s Department—Evidence File QM 14.
All three boxes are sealed with a thick brown packing tape.

With my cell phone I take a dozen dark photos of the three boxes before they are moved an inch. To protect them, Kenny was smart enough to place them across three two-by-four planks to keep them off the floor in the event of rain leakage. The attic, though, seems remarkably sealed, and if it can stay dry in a deluge like this, the roof is working fine.

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.

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.”