Free Unreasonable Doubt by Vicki Delany Page A

timing of the killing. Sophia left the bank at three-fifty saying she had an appointment to view the house at four o’clock, and was seen getting into her car at that time. The house was a five-minute drive from the bank. Desmond had left his other clients, at the property a good half-hour outside of town, at quarter after three. He phoned the police from the house phone at four-thirty-nine. He was known for his punctuality, witnesses said, and although he did have a flat tire in the trunk of his car, no one could say when the flat had happened. The police had not examined his car at the scene, leaving the prosecution to claim the man had deliberately run his car over a nail and changed the tire in his own garage after the killing, in order to set up an alibi.
    Sophia, by all accounts, was a timid young woman. A stickler for the rules, they said. Her parents and boss insisted that she would never have gone into the house without the realtor letting her in. Even if the door had been unlocked when she arrived, she would have waited outside in the cold.
    It was a weak case, built on timing and impressions of what the dead woman had supposedly been like. Timid. Shy. A stickler for the rules. No forensic evidence tied Desmond to the sexual assault or the killing. The victim did not have any defensive injuries, thus it was easy to conclude that she’d inflicted no wounds on her assailant. She had probably been taken by surprise and subdued immediately.
    Smith then accessed the police files, starting with the autopsy report, wondering why, if there had been a sexual assault, there hadn’t been any useable forensic evidence. She read quickly.
    She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Oh, God.
    Poor Sophia had been raped with a knife.
    Blood would have been everywhere. No wonder Desmond had the woman’s blood on him. Anyone walking unknowingly into that room would have been covered in it. The knife was a kitchen one, a good sharp chef’s knife, taken from the wooden block on the kitchen counter. No prints, other than those of the homeowners, were found on the knife.
    But, the Crown claimed, Walt Desmond had been wearing gloves when the police arrived. The gloves had been soaked in blood.
    Sure he was, Smith thought. It was January. The gloves were light leather, not big bulky warm ones, the sort one would wear driving and might not remove before entering a house.
    Reading these reports, all these years later, and only a quick overview at that, led Smith to conclude the case had been so flimsy it never should have gone to court. Walter Desmond had a right to be in that house, where Sophia was killed, at the time he was. His excuse for being late was believable. He had no record of any sort, certainly not of violent attacks on women. A witness had testified that Sophia thought Desmond was creepy. The jury was left to conclude that meant he’d been making unwelcome advances on her. It was nothing but hearsay, and Smith was surprised it had even been allowed in court.
    Walt Desmond was found guilty of the murder of Sophia D’Angelo and sentenced to life in prison.
    Over all the years he’d steadfastly maintained his innocence, even knowing that confessing and expressing remorse would have helped him get parole.
    Then, a couple of years ago an organization dedicated to helping the wrongfully convicted took up his case. An appeal can only be launched if new evidence is found. Simple reinterpreting of previously given evidence or testimony isn’t enough. The lawyers, headed by Louise Gravelle, dug up that new evidence.
    And it looked mighty bad for the TCP.
    She’d begun to read the report of the appeal when her radio cracked to life. “Five-one?”
    â€œFive-one. Go ahead.”
    â€œAltercation at 1894 Victoria Street.”
    â€œI’m on it.” She abandoned the computer and headed out back for a car. She slapped the console. Brought up lights and sirens. “Isn’t