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

it’s all a little hazy.  What I remember is -- I dreamed I was at the fights.”

Lily looked up sharply.  “What?” she said.

“You dreamed you were at the fights?” Joe pressed.

“Yeah,” Jason said.  “Pretty ironic, don’t you think?”

“I don’t remember you saying anything about having a dream about being at a fight,” his attorney said.

“Maybe because you never asked.”

“Okay, well, we’re asking now.”

Jason shrugged.  “I dreamed I was at the fights.  Front row seat, too.  Which may be why it stuck in my mind at the time -- I never sat front row at anything in my life.  It was great.  I could see and hear everything.”

“And what did you see and hear?”

“What do you think I saw?” he said.”  I saw two fighters and they were fightin’.”

“What did they look like?”

“They looked like two fighters who were fightin’.”

“Think, Jason,” Joe prodded.  “It’s very important.  Tell us exactly what you saw.”

The Indian blinked a few times, and then closed his eyes.  “I was at the fights,” he repeated.  “I was sittin’ in the front row.  There were two guys in the ring and they were really goin’ at each other.  Well, not exactly.”

“What do you mean -- not exactly?”

“Well, if I remember right, it was pretty uneven -- one of the fighters really outclassed the other.  And I remember thinkin’ the referee shoulda called it, but it didn’t happen.”

“What did you hear?”

“I don’t know.  I guess I heard gruntin’.”

“Think, Jason,” Lily pushed.  “You guess -- or you did?”

“Okay, yeah.  I heard shoutin’ first, then I heard gruntin’, and then I heard screamin’.  And then I heard the bell ring -- real loud.”

“What else do you remember?”

“Nothin’ else.  That’s it.  That’s all.”

“Jason, are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he said.  “After that, the next thing I remember is those two cops kickin’ me.”

Fifteen minutes later, Lily and Joe were on their way back to town.  “Do you think it’s enough?” she asked.

“Maybe no, and maybe yes,” he declared.

. . .

One of the traits that had made Joe Gideon a first-rate police officer and now made him an exceptional private investigator was his laser-like focus -- his ability to zero in on something that didn’t quite add up and go after it until it did.  And there were a lot of things that were no longer adding up in the Jason Lightfoot case, and that meant a lot of alarm bells going off in his head at the same time.  The first thing was Paul Cady’s testimony.  Not so much about what Cady said as about what he didn’t say.  Then there was the crime scene analyst.  And again, it wasn’t what he said but what he didn’t say.  And now there was this second bullet that had been fired into Jason’s bed.  Joe had no choice, he had to go back to his friend.

“You’re really going to get me fired, you know that, don’t you?” Arnie Stiversen said, when Joe rang his doorbell that evening.

“I’m sorry, but this is important, or I wouldn’t bother you,” Joe said.

He led Joe into the living room, filled with antique furniture from his wife Maura’s New Town shop and, without asking, filled two glasses with ice and whiskey.

“You following the trial?” Joe began.

“Yeah, sure, when I can,” Stiversen said.  “Off and on, the whole department’s following the trial.  The prosecution finished its case, and now Lily’s getting her turn, right?”

“She is indeed,” Joe confirmed.  “Which is why I’m here.”

“What do you want from me this time?”

“Think back, Arnie.  The morning you found Dale and rousted Lightfoot -- what did Lightfoot look like?”

“What do you mean, what did he look like?”

“I mean, when you first saw him, when he came out of the box, before Paul did a number on him, did he have any cuts or bruises on him?”

“Come on, it was six-thirty in the morning, it was still dark.  And I don’t think I really got that good a look at him.”

“Arnie, this is important,” Joe pressed.  “If it was that dark, you’d have used your flashlight.”

Stiversen sighed heavily.  “Okay,” he said, “I guess I gotta tell you, because it’s been weighing on me, especially after the crime scene guy testified.  I don’t remember seeing any cuts or bruises on him.  At least, not until after Paul was done with him.”

“Lily had a lot of photos taken of Lightfoot four days after the fact,” Joe said.  “All the injuries I could see when I looked at them were defensive ones, on his arms and his shoulders and his back.  If he had been in the kind of fight with Dale that the crime scene guy claimed he was, he would at least have had a few offensive injuries, like on his knuckles -- wouldn’t he?”

“Yeah, I’d say he would have.”

“So, where were they?”

“I don’t know, they weren’t there.  I didn’t see them.”

“And you never said anything?”

“No one ever asked.”

Joe nodded.  There was an unspoken rule in the police department -- answer truthfully if you’re asked, keep your mouth shut if you’re not, and whatever else, cover the department’s ass.  “I don’t think this went down like everyone’s saying,” he said softly.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m going to confide in you, Arnie, because I know you to be a good man and an honest cop,” Joe said.   “But it’s looking more and more like the Indian is being set up somehow.”

“What do you mean set up?  What are you talking about?”

“Some new evidence has come to light.”

“What kind of evidence?” Stiversen asked.

“Evidence that might just tell an entirely different story.”

“You think we set him up -- is that why you’re here?”

“No, of course not,” Joe assured him.  “And that’s not why I’m here.  But what would you say if, the morning that you arrested Lightfoot, you’d found a bullet in the Indian’s bed?”

“A bullet in his bed?”

“That’s right.  I found a bullet in his bed.  And it was fired from Dale’s gun.  And if I said I believe it was fired that night -- what would