This is episode fifteen of the novel Better Late Than Dead. It is the 7th book in the Rich Larsen Adventure Series. An episode will be posted every Monday and Friday. However, it can be purchased on Amazon in the Kindle or paperback versions.
Rich has returned to the home he ran away from six years earlier. He’s back living with his parents, hoping to make amends for the pain he caused them. Two years have passed since returning home. That’s where this story begins.
Episode 15 (Originally posted on the Jittery Goat)
Rich walked into his motel room. The phone was already ringing.
“Hello,” Rich said.
“Rich, this is Hiram. Get back to the office right away.”
Rich didn’t reply. He hung up. He rushed out the door. He climbed into the Jeep and paused. His stomach turned. Hiram sounded dreadfully serious. He started the Jeep and paused again. He was now feeling sick.
He pulled out of the motel’s parking lot and onto the state highway. There was no traffic. And if there was, Rich still would not have noticed it. His heart pounded, and he felt as if his neck was swelling. At one point, he pulled into a parking lot and sat for a couple of minutes.
This is like going to the doctor’s office, and you already know he’s going to tell you that you have six months to live, he thought. At least Hiram could have tried to hide his foreboding. He smiled. If I see them erecting a gallows, I just drive on by.
He drove on from the parking lot and continued toward Hiram’s office. He arrived at the office and parked. His legs felt weak as he made his way to the office. He walked in. Maxine smiled and told him to walk in.
Rich caught immediate sight of Hiram’s face. It looked as if he was struck with grief. It was red. He glanced over at Miss Winslow. Normally, she would at least force a smile. She appeared glum. Rich swallowed and tried to take a deep breath to relax. He sat down.
“It’s not good news,” Hiram said.
“What?” Rich asked.
“There was a bloody knife at the scene,” Hiram said. “It has your fingerprints on it. It matches the wounds on your father and mother.”
“Mom set the table with three knives,” Rich said. “We had a roast that night, and each of us cut our own piece of the roast. I’m not surprised they found my fingerprints on a knife.”
“Specifically, the murder weapon,” Miss Winslow said.
“There has to be a mistake,” Rich said, “because I did not stab my mom and dad.”
“They found the gun used,” Hiram said.
“Don’t tell me my fingerprints are on it,” Rich said.
“It was wiped clean of prints,” Hiram said.
Rich held his head down. My prints might as well have been all over it.
Miss Winslow cleared her throat. “This is why there has been so much secrecy, and it has taken so long. The gun and knife were sent to the state lab.”
Hiram handed Rich a folder. “This is the evidence they have and the crime scene report. I want you to take this to our conference room and go over it.” He handed Rich a red pencil. “Circle everything you think is sketchy and put an X next to things completely wrong.”
Rich stood.
“Remember,” Hiram said, “we still believe you are innocent. As I look at this evidence, it can all be challenged, but it is for a jury to consider. Some juries think, others feel, and others daydream.”
It took an hour for Rich to read over the information Hiram gave him. After considering it, he couldn’t imagine anyone thinking he was innocent. It seemed complete and compelling. He leaned back in his chair.
How did I ever get to this point? he thought. I’m doomed. What am I going to say, I saw a man with one arm running from the house?
The conference room door opened. Miss Winslow leaned in. “I hope you’re hungry.”
Rich was so deep in thought that the words sounded like gibberish, just a bunch of syllables.
“Burgers and fries,” she said.
“Yeah, great,” Rich said.
They all sat at the conference room table and ate.
“How did you do with the red pencil?” Hiram asked.
“Pretty good,” Rich said, “but it seems like it comes down to my word against the evidence.”
“Some of this stuff is inadmissible,” Hiram said. “They know that. Lawyers always overpromise and underdeliver.”
“I hope that’s not true with you,” Rich said.
“I told you from the beginning, we speak plain at this office,” Hiram said. “If I thought right now, after seeing this, that you are guilty, I’d tell you. I’ve been presented with much better evidence than this, and when all is said and done, it looks like a pile of pigeon dung.”
“I think the biggest problem they have,” Miss Winslow said, “is the alibi. They can’t produce anyone to refute your timeline.”
“Don’t forget,” Rich said, “nobody can verify it either.”
“They can’t leave the timeline open,” Hiram said. "Anything other than two witnesses is reasonable doubt. Juries love timelines. It gives them something to measure on their own.”
“I don’t know if this is important,” Rich said, “but it’s strange. I’m looking at all the physical evidence they have cataloged. It lists two knives at the scene. There were three at the table. Maybe it’s just me, but if you’re looking for a gun, you might pass up a knife.”
“Or stop as soon as the gun is found,” Hiram said.
“But why look for a third knife?” Miss Winslow said. “They didn’t know there were three to begin with.”
“Miss Winslow,” Hiram said, “let’s give Jason Kirby a call.” He looked at Rich. “Kirby is an investigator we use. Have him look for another knife. You’re sure there were three, Rich?”
“Absolutely,” Rich said.
“There’s one thing I’ve noticed,” Hiram said. “A couple of days after the murder, the newspaper reports the time of death around midnight. In the report we have, the time of death is between seven and eight. To me, the change is obvious; they can’t find anyone who was in your room. So the time had to be adjusted to place you at the scene at the approximate time. So we will have to see if there are other reports and see where and how the reporter got the time of death.”
Miss Winslow turned to a page. She gave a side glance at Rich. “Let’s say you just shot somebody. And you flee the house going south. Do you have that pictured in your mind?”
“Yes,” Rich said.
“You jump in your Jeep,” Miss Winslow hypothesized. “You’re driving along. You want to get rid of your gun. Are you thinking of it?”
“Yes,” Rich said.
“Okay,” Miss Winslow said. “Where do you toss the gun?”
“I would stop at the bridge that goes across the river,” Rich said.
Miss Winslow smiled. “It was found in a cornfield a quarter mile from your home. The field was muddy, yet it lay there. The murderer would have had to stop their car, walk forty-five feet into the field, and lay it down. A murderer would have tossed the gun, and it would have stuck in the damp soil. You see, if it was tossed, it would have slid a little, also. That would show up. And there was hardly even an imprint in the mud. That is planted evidence.”
“Is it too early for champagne?” Rich said.
“Way early,” Hiram said. “If we continue thinking we've got this thing won, we are misleading ourselves. All games are won in the fourth quarter. We have to play as if we’re behind.”
“You’re right,” Rich said.
“We’ll have Kirby look at this,” Hiram said. “He can find a rat in a cat factory.”
“I don’t want us to lose focus,” Rich said, “but is it too taxing to wonder or speculate on who really did it?”
“Shifting blame can be a trap,” Hiram said. “Sometimes the only logical suspect beyond the defendant is a seventy-year-old grandma who bakes cookies for her grandchildren. The defense ends up looking like ghouls, willing to sacrifice a lovely old lady to get a murderer free at any cost.”
Rich grinned. “What if it really is the grandma?”
“I’d want to be her lawyer,” Hiram laughed. “She’d be easy to defend, and she’d pay me in her wonderfully delicious cookies.”
“What next?” Rich asked.
“We continue to go over the evidence report,” Hiram said. “Even if we see what might appear as an error in grammar, note it. Sometimes those are written Freudian Slips. We are looking for any weakness. A small crack in the dam, that’s how the valley was flooded.”
“Look at this!” Miss Winslow said, holding up an 8-by-10 photograph. “This is a photo of where they found the gun.” She handed it to Hiram.
He looked at it and clicked his tongue. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing? Two shoeprints.” Hiram handed the photo to Rich.
He examined it. “This is two days after the murder,” Rich said. “The ground was not muddy. The shoeprint was made when the ground was muddy.” Rich scratched the back of his head. “Can’t they see that?”
“They not only see it but they have already explained it away,” Hiram said. “I don’t know how clever this prosecutor is. He may not be, and he’s getting a lot of help. But we must caution ourselves. They may want us to feel as though we are winning.”
“Here’s a tough one,” Hiram said. “You didn’t show a lot of emotion. They will make a lot of that.”
“Two years ago,” Rich said, “the most precious thing in my life died. We were just married. Brain aneurysm. She was eighteen. One time, I saw two men fight. One man hit the other so suddenly that the man who was hit stood motionless until he dropped. Sometimes things happen so suddenly. After Bridgett died, I swore nothing would ever affect me like that again. It’s like being buried alive. I don’t want to ever feel that way again.”
“If they interview you again,” Hiram said, “say it just that way.”
“I will never use her memory to save me,” Rich said.
“I think she would want you to,” Miss Winslow said.
“They are playing like they’re behind,” Hiram concluded.
“How ‘bout them hamburgers?” Rich said.
