Free Speak Ill of the Living by Mark Arsenault Page A

the time. He had a mother and a stepfather. He had been accepted into the police academy. He played the drums.
    In one sense, there was little difference between two murders and three—one man escaping didn’t make Henry any less of a killer. But the difference of one life was infinite.
    â€œSo how did they catch them?” Eddie asked.
    Durkin pulled out another clip. “Partial fingerprint in the truck. They finally matched it to a punk stickup man, who was doing life in prison on the installment plan—a year or two at a time.” He pointed to a mug shot of a young man with sharp, bony features. “This is the dude, Jimmy Whistle. He helped your brother pull off the heist.”
    Eddie stared at the picture. He whispered, “My brother’s partner.”
    I gave away the table I made to my partner’s old lady.
    â€œOnce the police nabbed Jimmy, he turned on Henry Bourque—fingered him as the mastermind and the trigger man who killed the guards, Dumas and Forte,” Durkin said. “Your brother admitted he had helped Whistle hold up a convenience store a few months before the armored car robbery, but he denied any involvement in the Solomon Transport murders. The jury saw it otherwise.”
    Eddie read the story. In exchange for testimony against Henry, prosecutors had offered a plea bargain for James J. Whistle: parole in thirty years.
    â€œHe’d be out by now!” Eddie shouted.
    Durkin read over the story. “I guess, assuming he stayed out of trouble. Cripes, imagine that—going into prison in your twenties and getting out at my age. That’s a lot of life to miss.”
    Eddie flipped through the file. “Something doesn’t make sense,” he said. “Without the guards’ bodies, and just the testimony of a convicted felon, how did the state stick the murder charge on Henry?”
    â€œBlood evidence, if I recall,” Durkin said. He explained as he searched the file for the right story. “They found blood on his shoes.” He found the clip he was looking for and scanned it quietly for a minute. “Yeah, the cops found bloody sneakers in your brother’s closet. Henry tried to say it was his own blood—and he did have a cut on his hand at the time. But you can’t run from science. This was long before DNA testing, but an expert matched the blood types on the shoes to the missing guards.”
    â€œHow could they do that?”
    â€œThey knew from Army records that Dumas was blood-type B-negative,” Durkin explained, reading from the story. “Forte was AB-positive. Both types are rare—just two percent of the population is B-negative, four percent is AB-positive. Your brother is O-positive, which is common. But they didn’t find any type O on his shoes—they found
both
of the rare types. It’s pretty hard evidence.”
    He offered the story to Eddie.
    Durkin was right. Considering that Henry had tried to claim it was his own blood, the scientific conclusions were solid evidence. Beyond a reasonable doubt, for sure.
    A name in the story leapt out at Eddie. He stood and read it again.
    Dr. Alvin Crane.
    â€œHoly shit—Dr. Crane testified at my brother’s trial.”
    â€œCrane? The guy who hanged himself yesterday?”
    â€œYeah…” Eddie read on. “He did the blood-type matching. It looks like he was the only expert to testify for the state.”
    Durkin frowned. “Eddie, man, what the hell?” he said. “You’re turning white.”
    Eddie’s eyes raced across the text. “Jesus! He was the only expert to testify
at all
. The defense didn’t even offer a counter expert.”
    â€œThat was the public defender, back thirty years ago. What do you expect?”

    The district attorneys are fighting the good fight!!!! When they needed me, I was THERE.
    He sputtered, “Alvin Crane…he went to the rope a
liar
.”

Chapter