A Reasonable Doubt by Susan Sloan (free novels .txt) 📕

metal shelving.  “We’re computerizing everything now, you know,” he said, “but it’ll be years before we get through all this old stuff.”

Together, the two men searched the cabinets, until finally the police officer pulled a folder out of the back of one of the cabinet drawers.  “I think this is it,” he said.

Joe opened the file eagerly.  There wasn’t much there, just a couple of typed reports, two statements that had been hand-written and signed, a medical report from the emergency room at the Port Hancock Medical Center, documenting a horrific series of injuries, several x-rays, half a dozen photos, and two names.  But it was enough.  Joe read through it, studied the x-rays and the photographs for a few moments, and then stared at the names of the two suspects.

“Do me a favor, Arnie,” he said softly.  “Lose this file for me, will you?  Put it somewhere where no one can find it.  Just for a while.”

“Okay, what’s going on?” Stiversen wanted to know.

“I can’t tell you yet,” Joe said.  “But I will as soon as I can, and I promise you won’t get in any trouble.”

The police officer eyed his former colleague for a long moment.  Joe Gideon was the best cop he had ever known or worked with -- smart, thorough, persistent, and most of all, honest.  And, too, he was his mentor and his friend.  Stiversen took the file.

Joe’s next stop was at the residence of one Michael White Horse.  The thirty-six-year-old was a computer programmer who worked from his cozy little cottage on the outskirts of town, partly because he could do everything he needed to do from home, but mostly because he was confined to a wheelchair.

“I remember you,” White Horse said, when he opened his front door and saw the former police officer standing there.

“Can we talk?” Joe asked.

“Am I in trouble?”

“No,” Joe assured him.  “Actually, I need your help.”

White Horse shrugged.  “I suppose it can’t do any harm at this point.”

“That’s true,” Joe agreed.  “And it just might do some good.”

With Joe following, White Horse wheeled his way into a small living room, filled with piles of technical books on shelves and numerous computers on tables, but not much in the way of comfortable furniture, and gestured Joe to a lone chair in one corner.

“What can I do for you, Sergeant Gideon?”

“Not anymore,” the former police officer corrected him.  “I retired from the force several years ago.  Now, I do a little private work on the side.  So, its not Sergeant, it’s just Joe.”

“I seem to remember hearing about that,” White Horse said.  “And it’s too bad.  As I recall, you were pretty good at what you did.”

“Well, let’s hope I’m still pretty good at it,” the investigator said.

“So, how can I help you with your private work -- Joe?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like you to tell me something that you wouldn’t tell me twenty years ago,” the  former police officer said.  “I’d like you to tell me why you recanted your identification of the two boys who assaulted you.”

White Horse looked at him for a full minute.  “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he said finally.

“What you mean is, you can’t tell me because you signed a confidentiality agreement, right?”

The computer programmer sighed.  “I guess you already know then, don’t you?”

“I didn’t, until just now,” Joe admitted.  “Not for sure, anyway.  But as I said, I’m not a cop anymore.  And I’m not trying to reopen any old cases.  What we say here stays here.  I just need to know what kind of deal you agreed to.”

“Does what I did have something to do with another case?”

“Yes, it does,” Joe said.  “A case involving an attorney I work with who was almost killed, very likely because of a case she was working on.”

White Horse nodded slowly.  “Lily Burns,” he said.  “I heard about that, too, and I felt real bad.”

“Bad enough to help me help her?”

“You really think that what happened to me is connected to what happened to her?” the Indian asked.  “It was twenty years ago.”

Joe shrugged.  “I don’t know, but I think it’s possible.”

White Horse thought about that for a long moment.  “All right, I’ll tell you what you want to know,” he said, “on the understanding that it can’t leave this room.”

“You have my word,” Joe assured him.

“In that case, yes, I signed an agreement, one that guaranteed me lifetime medical care, a full college education, and a home of my own.  And for recanting my statement, and declaring that I really couldn’t identify the two boys who beat me half to death -- I’ve gotten all three.”

Joe nodded.  “That’s pretty much what I thought,” he said.  “And now for the most important part -- the assault -- do you know why it happened?”

“Let’s just say that, back then, there were some people who didn’t take too kindly to some other people going to their high school,” the Indian said.  “Especially if those other people happened to be more intelligent than they were, got better grades than they did, and played better football.”

“What you really mean is -- Native Americans who were more intelligent, got better grades, and played better football, don’t you?” the private investigator suggested.

“That might have had something to do with it,” White Horse conceded.

“Thanks,” Joe said.  “You’ve given me exactly what I needed.”  He got up to leave, but then paused for a moment.  “There are likely going to be a couple of detectives coming to call in the next few days,” he told the Indian.  “I was never here, and you and I never had this conversation.  So you can tell them whatever you like.”

. . .

The call that came from Arnie Stiversen didn’t surprise Joe nearly as much as he realized it should have.

“What the hell are you getting me into?” his former protégé inquired.

“What do you mean?” Joe responded.

“You show up, you don’t tell me anything, you just ask me to do you a favor and hide a file,