Free Evidence of Guilt by Jonnie Jacobs Page B

this Wes Harding thing, isn't it? That's what's got you so riled up."
    "I'm not riled up, I'm tired." But she was right, Wes Harding was on my mind.
    By the time I'd finished talking with Sabrina I was in no mood for work. I took Loretta and Barney out for their evening romp, then poured myself a hefty shot of brandy and settled in with a "Star Trek" rerun. If Tom had been there with me it would have been a nearly perfect Friday night.
    Summer mornings in Silver Creek are magical niches in time that make me happy to be alive. In the Bay Area I'd grown accustomed to waking under habitually gray skies and rarely seeing the sun until noon. But here in the foothills the sun slides easily over the horizon, spreading fingers of pink and purple across the vast expanse of open sky. The morning breeze is cool enough that it prickles
    the skin, but the air underneath is awash with the promise of warmth. I made myself a cup of coffee and took it out back with the file of news clippings on Lisa Cornell's death.
    I moved my chair to a spot in the sun, propped my feet on a section of fallen pine and started going through the articles chronologically. Early pieces focused on the grisly nature of the crime scene itself and expressions of disbelief from neighbors. There was some speculation about the deaths being the work of a serial killer, but this was discounted almost immediately by a police spokesperson, who noted there was nothing about the crime to support the premise. Also squelched at the outset was one man's theory about a federally sanctioned invasion of alien body snatchers.
    The press had been thorough, talking to friends and neighbors in addition to official police sources. One article made note of a taxi cab that had been seen that Friday night stopped beside an empty lot near the Cornell place. Another alluded to sightings of a van and a pickup truck, both of which had struck their respective viewers as "suspicious." There was, interestingly enough, no mention of a motorcycle by any of Lisa's neighbors.
    After Wes was arrested, the stories shifted focus. One account, based on interviews with his buddies, covered his activities on the evening in question. It added nothing to the information I'd gleaned from the police report. A second piece delivered a spattering of background information on Wes. He had dropped out of school during his senior year, then earned a high school diploma by taking the GED exam. He'd spent two years in the army, a month in detox, and a couple of weekends in jail. His employment record was spotty, but he'd earned good marks from
    his boss at the auto shop where he'd been working since his return to Silver Creek three years ago.
    In addition, there was the . son-of-the-prominent-physician angle, which appeared in one form or another in every article. Jake Harding's capsule bio was given almost as much attention as Wes's, although the papers were careful to note that the relationship was that of stepfather and son rather than a biological one.
    There'd been little coverage in the papers recently, but I knew all that would change once we got closer to trial. Too bad I didn't share Curt's enthusiasm for finding myself front-page news.
    I slipped the last of the clippings back into the file, then shut my eyes for a moment to enjoy the caress of golden warmth on my back. Eventually I took my empty coffee cup and dragged myself into the house. I wasn't eager to tilt at windmills, especially on what was shaping up to be a spectacular Saturday. But in the interest of thoroughness I thought I should talk to Lisa's neighbors myself. And while I was at it, with Wes Harding's. There was a small chance one of them had seen something that never made it into the official report--or the newspapers.
    Wes lived in a narrow, two-story house that reminded me of those San Francisco Victorians that had yet to be gen-trified. The neighborhood was in the older section of town, a pleasant if somewhat time-worn stretch up the