Free The Deadline by Ron Franscell Page B

is there?”
    “Maybe.  Why?”
    Legally, a citizen wasn’t required to say why he wanted to see a public document, but Morgan was reluctant to get lawyerly.
    “Gilmartin says he didn’t do it.  He wants me to check it out.”
    “And you believe him?  Jesus, he pleaded guilty and spent most of his sorry-assed life in prison.  Everybody in town knew he was a goddam liar.  Now he’s conning you.  Take off those rose-colored glasses, my friend.  I did a long time ago, and now I can see you just want to sell a few papers.”
    “I don’t know if I believe him.”  Morgan thought it over.  “No, to be honest, I don’t think I believe him at all.  But what can it hurt to check it out?”
    “Nobody gives a shit.  Let this dog sleep, Jeff.  There ain’t nobody — nobody — wants to see this skank get off the hook for killing that girl.  Ask anybody.  He’s the most evil son of a bitch this town ever saw and he’ll be lucky if somebody doesn’t whack him in the middle of the night.  Folks have long memories.”
    “But you wouldn’t let that happen, would you, Sheriff?” Morgan asked sarcastically.
    “I just might,” Kerrigan said.
    Morgan shook his head as Kerrigan continued his diatribe.
    “I don’t understand you media guys,” Kerrigan chafed.  “Always looking to stir things up and sell papers.  You don’t believe this lyin’ baby-killer, but you’re gonna make a big stink of it.  That’s a fuckin’ hoot.”
    Morgan’s face flushed hot.  The two of them might have been close once as children, but as adults they’d become natural enemies: a lawman and a reporter.
    “I never said I was going to do a story, Trey.  Dammit, I just want to know what happened.  You’ve got the file.  Just let me take a look at it.  That’s all.  It can’t hurt.  For my own peace of mind.”
    “How about this town’s peace of mind?  The boogey-man is back and you want to scratch open this bloody scab?  You’ll get somebody hurt.  There’s still people alive who wanted to string this fucker up and they’d love another shot at him.”
    “And your dad didn’t let them do it,” Morgan said.
    Kerrigan winced.
    “That was a long time ago,” the sheriff glowered.  “It’s old news, Jeff.  Leave it alone.  You run out of stories already?  Why don’t you go do something positive for this town.  We don’t need this kind of sensational tabloid crap right now.”
    “You mean you don’t need it right now,” Morgan said, pushing back his chair.  “If there’s anything to Gilmartin’s claims, you don’t want it out before the election.  You want it to look like everything’s under control.  That’s it, isn’t it?”
    Kerrigan twisted the drooping ends of his mustache, forming a response and quelling his anger.  Then he spoke.
    “If you weren’t my friend, I’d throw your ass out of here,” Kerrigan seethed.  His jaw muscles flexed as he stifled an outburst.  “As for the file, even if I’ve got it, I don’t think you could see it, being an investigatory record and all.  I’ll see what the county attorney says.”
    “C’mon.  It’s a closed case, Trey.  Nearly fifty years old,” Morgan argued, but he’d already lost.  “It’s not an ongoing investigation.  It should be public, unless you’re trying to hide something.”
    “Well, you can have your lawyer call my lawyer and hash it out, but I’m not going to let you have any files today.  Maybe never.  Nothing personal, but I’m not gonna help you stir up this town.”
    Then he added, mockingly, “I hope you understand.”

    On Friday mornings, only the front desk clerk came to work at The Bullet before nine.  The newsroom was quiet.  The lingering smell of ink and paper had settled overnight.  The ceiling fan chirped like a cricket in the dwindling coolness of the room.  The backshop lights were off because Cal Nussbaum had taken the day off.  Morgan knew he needed it.
    Crystal had left a pink