A Reasonable Doubt Susan Sloan (chrysanthemum read aloud TXT) 📖

“And just so you know, we don’t do kids anymore.  Not even high school.  Now, it’s all about coke and meth and adults only -- responsible, consenting adults.  Oh yes, and believe it or not, it’s also about real estate,” Van Aiken added with a smile.  “I guess, after thirty-five years, we had to learn something.  And now that this recession is more or less over, and the economy’s coming back, we’re actually getting pretty good at it -- if you’re ever in the market.”

“After all these years,” Joe acknowledged with a dry chuckle, “it’s nice to know you’re finally providing a civic service.”

. . .

There were three names on the list Van Aiken had given him.  Joe recognized all of them.  But, when he met up with Arnie Stiversen at The Hangout that evening, he had no idea which one it was.

“So tell me,” he asked his former protégé, “Did McAllister know?”

“Did McAllister know what?” Stiversen replied.

“That Dale was dirty?”

The police officer’s eyes popped.  “What are you talking about?” he exclaimed.

“Oh come on, Arnie,” Joe chided, “don’t play dumb with me.”

“I’m not,” Stiversen protested  “Honest-to-god, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You mean, you never wondered, not once, not even a tiny little bit, what was going down when all the drug raids on a particular party kept coming up empty on Dale’s watch?”

“In case it’s slipped your mind, I wasn’t assigned to the drug detail,” Stiversen declared.  “And no, I never wondered what was going down, because I didn’t know anything about it.  And anyway, what exactly are you trying to say?”

“I’m not trying,” Joe declared, “I’m saying it -- whatever happened to basic police investigation?  You railroaded the Indian without a second thought.  You should have investigated.”

“He was there,” Stiversen argued.  “He had the murder weapon, his fingerprints were all over it, he was covered in GSR, and he had history with the victim.  What did you expect us to do?”

“Your job,” Joe declared with a heavy sigh.  “I expected you to do your job.”

Stiversen scowled hard at the private investigator for a long moment.  “It wasn’t our call,” he said finally.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, it was Randy’s call, from right before we even took the Indian in.  McAllister put him in charge.  Until you showed up, Paul and I, we just did what we were told to do.”

Joe thought about that for a moment.  “McAllister put Randy in charge of his own partner’s murder case?” he asked finally.

“Yeah,” Stiversen told him.

“What about Roy and Teri?”

“No, they were never involved in Dale’s case,” the police officer assured him.  “They came on for the bombing.”

Joe couldn’t believe it.  “I don’t get it,” he murmured.  A policeman was never put in charge of his own partner’s death investigation.

Stiversen shrugged.  “It was Randy, right from the get-go,” he said.  “I thought it was a little weird, myself, but then again, Randy has always seemed to be on an inside track -- hell, he made detective after just six years, didn’t he?”

“I’m sorry about that, Arnie,” Joe said, and he meant it.

The police officer shrugged.  “I got past it.”

Joe sighed.

“

In that case, I need you to do one more thing for me,” he said dropping his voice, although the football game that was blaring from the big screen television set on the wall at the end of the bar had everyone else’s rapt attention.

“What?” Stiversen said warily.

“I need you to check something.  I need you to go back maybe three or four months before Dale was killed.  I need you to check on any drug raids he may have been involved in, or more importantly, the results of any drug raids he may have been involved in.”

Stiversen frowned.  “What do you know?”

“I don’t know anything for sure yet,” Joe said, “but I’m thinking the Indian may not be the killer you all are trying to make him out to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what if he stumbled into a meet of some kind -- something he wasn’t supposed to see?  And what if he saw a cop doing something he wasn’t supposed to do?  What do you think that cop would have done?”

“Are you thinking Lightfoot could have been defending himself?”

“I’m thinking he could have been,” Joe told him.  “I’m thinking he could have walked into the middle of something he wasn’t going to walk out of so easy.  And much as I can’t believe I’m saying this, I’m thinking we better to do right by him.”

“All right,” Stiversen said, because now he had more questions than answers.  “Let me see what I can find out.”

. . .

There was a hearing in September, held in the Presiding Judge’s chambers, informal, off the record, and out of sight of cameras and reporters.

The suits from Seattle reviewed the evidence connected with the bombing of Amanda Jansen’s cottage.  They listened to testimony from Lily Burns about the two traffic incidents with the red Chevrolet Silverado, and about the gold plane with the black stripes that had dropped the bomb.

They heard from Jeffrey Nordlund who had treated Lily’s injuries.  They heard from Andy Cooper who had found pieces of the bomb at the scene, and had identified identical bomb-making materials in Grady Holt’s garage -- with the fingerprints and DNA of both Holt and Wayne Pierson on them.  And they heard from Ben Dawson who had found the computer in Wayne Pierson’s home.

When it was over, they recommended that Pierson and Holt not go to trial.

“We’ve bailed you out of more trouble over the past twenty years than we care to remember,” one of the attorneys told the two men.  “You’re not children anymore.  When are you going to stop behaving like you are?”

Walter Pierson fussed and fumed, but he knew that, short of buying off a judge and a jury, there was nothing more he could do for his youngest son.  He gave the boy and his friend a piece of his mind, and