Free Revolver by Duane Swierczynski Page B

based on his hard work and good behavior while behind bars.
    “Can’t fucking believe it,” Jim mutters.
    “See what I’m saying? This is why I’ve been calling you, man. There ain’t no statute of limitation or whatever on murder, right?”
    The reporter—who’s either a veteran or has done some righteous digging in the newspaper’s morgue—mentions Stanton was a notorious North Philly “agitator” who got under the skin of both police officers and civil rights leaders. Some even claimed he was one of the men who helped fan the flames of the ’64 riots on Columbia Avenue. He led a life of petty crime until 1970, when he was tried and convicted of killing a shopkeeper during a liquor store robbery gone wrong.
    “You can reopen the case, can’t you? Nail his ass proper this time?”
    There is no quote from Stanton himself, but his caseworker told the paper that “Mr. Stanton is eager to make a positive contribution to the city of Philadelphia, and he’s grateful for the support he’s received.” Family of the shopkeeper could not be reached.
    “Jimmy, man, you hearing what I’m saying?”
    “Yeah, I hear you, George.” Jim folds the paper and hands it back. He has to be careful here. Inner Jim is screaming, but George Junior doesn’t need to meet him. So it’s Outer Jim who tells him,
    “It’s been thirty years—no physical evidence, no witnesses. I don’t think there’s much I could do.”
    (Yes there is. You promised.)
    George Junior takes the paper, sighs, smacks it on his leg, lowers his head.
    “Fuck, man.”
    “I know that’s not what you want to hear.”
    “Damn sure isn’t,” he says before lifting his head and locking eyes with Jim. “This motherfucker shot our daddies point-blank in the head—and he gets to walk away? Why does he get a free pass? Shit, I know people been locked up for longer than this and they ain’t murderers!”
    He’s right, Jim. You going to let this monster score a free pass?
    “George, buddy, it’s late.”
    Junior takes this as his cue, but he’s not happy about it. He grunts as he pulls himself up from the concrete stoop, then pats Jim on the shoulder.
    “I know, man. I just wish…”
    “Look, let me see what I can do. I’m not going to promise anything, but let me see.”
    “Yeah, yeah, okay.”
    Junior makes like he’s going to leave but then stops in his tracks.
    “Oh—and look, I never scratched your record.”
    Jim stares at him, truly perplexed. “What?”
    “When we were kids, I was over with my old man on New Year’s Day, you thought I scratched one of your new records. It wasn’t me, man. It was one of those other kids. What’s his name, Taney. One of Taney’s kids.”
    “It’s okay, George. I’m over the record. You take care.”
    Jim waits until George Junior has walked back down the block and turned the corner before reaching into his pocket to pull out his keys. His hand is shaking so violently it’s as if the keys have been electrified.
      
    Jim opens the front door as quietly as he can. Which is a real trick, considering the damned thing has a deep-set creak that more or less alerts the whole house to anyone’s arrival. He can’t see anyone tonight. He just can’t.
    Put the Stanton stuff out of your head for now, Jim, there’s nothing you can do.
    (But then again, you did promise.)
    The living room is dark. Sta ś is dead asleep. Jim starts creeping up the stairs toward the bathroom, where he can finally peel off his clothes. He remembers something. He sniffs his shirt. Any telltale signs?
    “Hi, Daddy,” a voice whispers from the darkness.
    Audrey sits patiently at the top of the staircase, elbows on her knees, little feet poking out from under her nightshirt.
    Shit.
    “Hi, sugar,” Jim whispers back. “You should be in bed.”
    She’s light but squirmy. Jim puts her down.
    “What did you do today, Daddy?”
    All Jim can see is Kelly Anne Farrace’s head twisted at an unnatural angle. His father in his