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

me put it another way,” Joe countered.  “Why do you think two suits from Seattle just happened to show up, looking for that particular file, at this particular time?”

Stiversen hesitated because it was pretty much the same question he had been asking himself.  “You tell me,” he said finally.  “You got me into this, and now I need to decide what to do.”

“All right, let me lay out a chronology for you,” Joe said, taking a long swig of beer, and leaning forward in his chair.  “Jason Lightfoot, a Native American, is arrested for killing Dale Scott.  Lily is assigned as his attorney.  As the news gets around, hate mail starts showing up at Lily’s office.  Her car gets keyed.  Her tires get slashed.  A rotten tomato is thrown at her.  She gets sideswiped as she’s walking across the street.  She gets run off the road driving back from the jail.  She almost gets killed by a pipe bomb thrown from a plane while she’s spending a weekend at a cottage without her bodyguard.”

“A plane?” Stiversen echoed.  “It came from a plane?  How do you know that?”

“Lily remembered.  She saw it.”

“Wow,” the police officer breathed.

“Now add this,” Joe continued.  “The son of the owner of one of the twenty-two planes that were in the air at the time of the bombing was a suspect in an assault case twenty years ago, a case in which the victim, who was beaten half to death, just happened to be a Native American.  And, as luck would have it, the best friend of this son who, by the way, was also a suspect in that assault case twenty years ago, just happens to have had a red Chevy Silverado that was conveniently reported missing around the same time that a red Chevy Silverado was reported being involved in two attacks on Lily -- the same kind of pickup, by the way, that then conveniently turned up burning a big hole in a field.”

“You’re kidding me,” Stiversen said.

“Oh yes, and the son of that plane owner,” Joe added, “turns out, he’s not only a licensed pilot, he also happens to have been the one who filed the flight plan for his father’s plane on Sunday, July 6th.”

Stiversen let out a low whistle.

“There’s more,” Joe told him.  “Another little story about this airplane owner’s son and his good friend.  Four years after the White Horse incident, while the two of them were enrolled at Washington State University, there was a girl at the school -- a freshman, who was there on a full scholastic scholarship.  A bright, beautiful Native American girl from Omak who, it turns out, was pledging the very same sorority that the girlfriend of the airplane owner’s son was pledging.  And as the story goes, this Native American girl turned up missing exactly one day after the sorority accepted her -- but rejected the girlfriend.  Her body was recovered ten days later, beaten almost beyond recognition.”

“And you found this out how?”

“Once I was pointed in the right direction, all it took was a little digging,” Joe explained.  “Old newspaper accounts.  Old police reports.  And a good guy with a long memory.”

“And you think?” Stiversen was almost afraid to ask.

“I don’t think anything,” Joe said.  “What I know is that the minute the police over in Pullman started asking questions, two suits from Seattle swooped down and yanked those two boys right out of the university.  The case went cold.  No one’s ever been charged.  Now, tell me, how hard can it be to put together a Michael White Horse, a Native American girl from Omak, and a defense attorney, who’s currently representing Jason Lightfoot -- coincidentally, another Native American?”

Stiversen drank his beer in one swallow.  “And the minute someone was about to connect planes flying on July 6th to a specific pilot and an old assault case, the whole house of cards was in danger of collapsing.  No wonder the suits showed up.  Someone wanted that file to disappear.”

“My question,” Joe said softly, “is why would two suits from Seattle think they could walk right into the police department here in Port Hancock and just make a file disappear?  Who would let them do that?”

Stiversen scowled into his empty beer glass.  “I’m not sure I like where this is going,” he said.

“I don’t blame you,” Joe agreed.  “Look Arnie, you’re here with me right now for one reason, and one reason only -- because I trust you.  And I always have.  I’d trust you with my life.”

“Right back atcha, man,” Stiversen said, and meant it.

“Okay then -- so tell me, who else in the department can you say that about?”

“Well, up to a few minutes ago, I would have had a simple answer to that question,” Stiversen told him.  “But now, I guess I might not be so sure.  The thing is, the only two people who could have authorized handing over a file just like that would be the chief or the deputy chief.   No one else could’ve done it.  But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“How many in the department are up on the details of Lily’s case?” Joe inquired.

“There’s only six of us who’ve been working it steady,” Stiversen said.  “Me and Paul from the beginning -- the hate mail, her car, the Silverado, and all that.  And then Roy Flynn and Teri Coello since the bombing, and of course Ben Dawson and Andy Cooper.  I know Paul’s young and can be a hothead sometimes, but he’s a good cop.  Besides, he doesn’t know any more than I did before you filled me in.  And I haven’t said a word to him about it.”

“And the others?”

“Ben and Andy, they’re just about gathering evidence.  As for Roy and Teri, I’d go to the wall for them,” Stiversen declared.  “If you’re wanting to bring someone else in on this, they’d be my pick.”

Joe nodded.  “Kinda the way I saw it, too,” he said.

“So what do we do now?”

“We invite