Free Last Light by C. J. Lyons Page A

a pipe dream with her delusions of his innocence. But when I began re-investigating his case, I found more than just one hole in the prosecution, I found a whole slew of them. Too many for me to handle on my own. Which is why, given my mother’s condition, I need—we need—your help.”
    He hauled a box across the table and began throwing folders down, each smack of paper against wood releasing the pungent odor of decay. “Coroner’s notes that didn’t make it into the final, official report, scant as it was. And yes, it was a coroner, a funeral director, but he did a half-decent job and was the first to examine the bodies. It was a week before the state pathologist did his examination. No rush, they had their men, signed confessions.”
    “Except?”
    “Except the coroner said the man my father supposedly killed, the husband, was actually the first victim, not the last. And he died late afternoon to early evening, not the next morning.”
    Lucy glanced up at that. “So, Friday night? When your father was in front of thousands of high school football fans.”
    “Exactly.”
    “But your uncle had no alibi for that time, right?” TK put in.
    “No, afraid not.”
    “And the other victims?” Wash, the man in the wheelchair, asked via the computer linkup.
    “The baby and mother both died several hours later. According to the coroner, the outside estimate of their time of death was midnight or thereabouts.”
    “When your father was with your mother.” TK moved to join him.
    Tommy chimed in from the computer screen, finally fully engaged. “Can you send me a copy of the coroner’s notes? Even with modern methods, time of death is never cut-and-dried, but maybe I can give you some idea of what our widest window of opportunity is.”
    “What else do you have?” TK asked David, craning to look into his box.
    “The knife was never recovered despite searching the house, the truck, and my father’s trailer.”
    “So they ditched it.” TK shrugged, leafing through a file and setting it down. David retrieved it and returned it to its proper place.
    “Why ditch the knife and not the gun?” Lucy asked.
    “Was the gun’s ownership ever traced?” Wash put in.
    “No. I was hoping maybe you could help there.”
    “And what about your uncle’s alibi witness? This Ronald Powell he was doing drugs with. Did they ever locate him?”
    “No. Apparently he hid out in Mexico until things calmed down—he was growing marijuana on federal lands.”
    “Wash,” Lucy said to the screen.
    “On it, boss.”
    David liked the way she smiled and sat back, letting her team run with ideas and suggestions rather than micromanaging.
    “What about the lone survivor, Alan Martin?” Worth asked. “Was he ever able to give a statement? He could maybe narrow the gaps in the timeline, provide basic descriptions of the perpetrators.”
    “He never recovered fully from his injuries. Had permanent brain damage, the doctors said. Never spoke again.”
    Worth frowned at that, his skepticism about the competence of the doctor’s prognosis evident. “He’s still alive?”
    “Last I heard, he lives in a group home outside of Dallas.”
    “Let me make a few calls, see if we can get permission from his guardian to speak with him. Or at least to talk to his attending physician.”
    “Thanks, Tommy,” Lucy said. “But I’m most interested in the man who did the initial interviews. Any chance of meeting him? Andrew Saylor, he was sheriff.”
    “Don’t see why not,” David answered. “He retired five-six years back, lives out near the river, not far from the Martin place, actually.”
    “Good.”
    “But there’s one more witness I need your help with,” he told them. “The boy who placed my father and uncle at the scene of the crime the morning they were arrested.”
    “Right,” TK said. “Caleb Blackwell. Any idea where he is now?”
    “Yeah. Right down the road. He’s the new sheriff of Blackwell