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  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 phone message on his chair because his desk was too cluttered. It was from Neeley Gilmartin at the Teepee Motor Lodge, Room Eight. Although time now passed much more swiftly for the old man, Morgan wanted to know more before he talked to Gilmartin again.

  Maybe next week.

  Morgan understood why Trey Kerrigan wouldn’t want an old murder case reopened just before the election. But Morgan also sensed a son’s loyalty had something to do with his stubbornness. Maybe he didn’t want to believe his father would send the wrong man to prison in a brutal crime. Or maybe Morgan’s interest suggested some question about Deuce’s integrity, or at least his investigative abilities. Either way, Trey Kerrigan would guard his father’s memory with the same devotion that made his office a virtual museum to Deuce Kerrigan.

  The hell of it was, Morgan remained skeptical of Gilmartin’s story. He couldn’t imagine any man had the capacity to endure almost fifty years in prison if he were truly innocent. If the old man was telling the truth, why would he plead guilty and say nothing more for five decades? Wouldn’t he have screamed from the prison walls every day and every night he was forced to remain there? Still, the facts of the case had never been truly knitted together to prove Gilmartin’s guilt. A few stitches were missing.

  But the sheriff’s file wasn’t critical to his inquiry. In Deuce’s day, cops took the unenlightened view that the less they wrote down, the less ammunition they gave defense attorneys. It was likely that Deuce Kerrigan’s file on the murder of Aimee Little Spotted Horse contained a few graphic photographs, an arrest record and some informal notes handwritten after the fact. Nothing more. And it almost certainly would not contain information that obviously exonerated Neeley Gilmartin. If anything, the file was more likely to damage Gilmartin’s claims than to prove them.

  But even in the days before DNA analysis and complex forensic testing, the file might have contained key incriminating evidence that never came out in the newspaper, saving Morgan from a wild goose chase. Even if Old Bell Cockins had supported Deuce Kerrigan in ten straight elections, a smart old cop wouldn’t have given him everything.

  Alone in the silent newsroom, Morgan assessed his few options and made a list on the back of an envelope. He also made a note to himself to invite Trey and Debbie Kerrigan to supper sometime next week, after the sheriff had time to cool off.

  Almost no state agency enjoyed as much official secrecy as the Wyoming Parole Board. Its purpose was to decide which prisoners could be safely returned to society, but society didn’t want them. So the Parole Board succumbed to a kind of siege mentality and hid in a fortress of bureaucracy.

  A receptionist answered the phone, then transferred him to a secretary who quizzed Morgan, then put him on hold. Country music twanged in his ear for two or three minutes.

  Finally, a man’s voice came on the line.

  “How may I help you?” he asked curtly without identifying himself.

  “Hi. My name is Jefferson Morgan, and I’m the editor of the newspaper up in Winchester. I was calling about an inmate who was recently paroled. His name is Neeley Gilmartin.”

  After a short silence on the other end, the man spoke again. His deep voice was deliberate, his tone official.

  “I’m sure you understand we can’t discuss specific cases. State law. Our inmates have lost many of their rights, but they are still deemed to have a right to their privacy.”

  “Yes, I understand, but this particular parolee has come to me seeking help. I’m quite sure he wouldn’t mind if you chatted with me about his case. Again, his name is ...”

  “Gilmartin. I know. I have his file here, but I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Morgan. There’s really very little I’m going to be able to discuss with you or anyone else. I can tell you that Mr. Gilmartin was paroled June 30, almost three weeks ago. That’s about all I can say under state law.”

  Morgan knew there was more, if he was careful. Bureaucrats were like cops and lawyers who made a big show of their antipathy toward reporters — and secretly wanted to tell everything.

  “Okay, let me just ask a few very general questions about process and policy. Just in general terms, how does an inmate get paroled from a life sentence, Mister ... I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Barron. Allan Barron. And in general, the governor must commute his sentence. In this particular case, it’s a public record that he did so, on the recommendation of the entire Parole Board.”

  “The Parole Board sought a commutation?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s privileged information. I really don’t believe we can discuss that.”

  “In general terms, then, Mr. Barron. Why would the Parole Board seek a commutation for a convicted murderer?”

  The officious Allan Barron paused, then answered in a bureaucrat’s monotone.

  “Speaking in general terms, and not about any specific case, mind you, the Parole Board sometimes finds it necessary to release prisoners who are no longer a threat to society to make room for more violent offenders. Also, an inmate can be freed to seek outside treatment for severe medical conditions. This can be done for any prisoner who isn’t on Death Row, but in the case of a lifer, the board needs a governor’s commutation.”

  “Medical conditions, like cancer?”

  “Yes, but only if the inmate can adequately provide for his own care. If not, we believe it would be cruel and inhumane to dump him into a society that has no inclination to help him recover.”

  “Are murderers routinely paroled, Mr. Barron?”

  “Don’t be naive, Mr. Morgan. It’s a reality of the system. It’s highly irregular for an inmate to stay in prison for forty-seven years. In fact, I personally know of no other offender who has been in Wyoming’s correctional system that long.”

  Morgan had connected. Barron was adhering to the letter of his law, but bending its spirit by talking indirectly about Neeley Gilmartin.

  “Really? Why’s that?”

  “Prison is an inhospitable place, Mr. Morgan. A prisoner will survive there only by steering clear of unhealthy behavior. He must not put himself in harm’s way, so to speak. Drugs, gambling, or any other risky liaisons, if you catch my meaning. He must be mentally tough. He must stay physically healthy, too. If he keeps his nose clean, he lives. He also earns a chance at parole. So, in general terms, good inmates tend to go free, bad inmates tend to die. Either way, nobody stays long.”

  “Hypothetically, Mr. Barron, why might an otherwise well-behaved prisoner find himself confined for almost fifty years if it’s so unusual?”

  “Many reasons. He might have enemies who have the governor’s ear. Or he might not be so well-behaved as you think. Under Wyoming law, for instance, an escape attempt renders an inmate ineligible fo
r parole at any time during his original sentence. For a lifer, that’s forever.”

  “Did Neeley Gilmartin attempt to escape?” Morgan asked.

  “Now, I really cannot comment on that, Mr. Morgan. In fact, I believe I’ve spoken far too candidly with you already,” Barron said firmly. His sonorous voice carried no hint of apology.

  “One last thing, then, Mr. Barron. You said a seriously ill inmate can be paroled only if he can pay for his own medical care. Mr. Gilmartin was unemployed and had eighty-five dollars when he was arrested. Even with a generous interest rate, he couldn’t have had much money when he got out. Hypothetically speaking, how could a convicted killer make enough money to pay for his own cancer treatment on the outside?”

  “Inmates can earn money inside. It’s assigned to an account which they can use for personal items, but they never actually get their hands on the money. I believe Mr. Gilmartin, for instance, tied fishing flies and wholesaled them to a local sporting goods shop. Conceivably, an inmate could accumulate a sizeable sum in his prison account. Will there be anything else?”

  Morgan pressed one last question.

  “Hypothetically, Mr. Barron, how much money must accumulate before a convicted killer with terminal cancer would be released after almost fifty years in prison?”

  Morgan heard pages rustling over the phone as Barron contemplated the question. Morgan was certain he was thumbing through Neeley Gilmartin’s prison files.

  “Hypothetically, Mr. Morgan,” he replied, “in excess of seventy thousand dollars.”

  That afternoon, Morgan wrote the next week’s editorial about the town council’s expensive new dog pound and sent one of his phlegmatic reporters to a Little League game, the other to interview a farm-wife poet who’d been published in a Denver literary magazine. But he couldn’t get Neeley Gilmartin out of his skull.

  Seventy thousand dollars. How could a con start with almost nothing and end up with that kind of cash?

  Just after four o’clock, he ventured back out into the parching July heat. He loosened his tie as he walked back toward the courthouse and felt sweat trickle down the middle of his back.

  The district court clerk’s office was on the third floor opposite the dark state courtroom. The door was a frame of brown wood around a panel of frosted glass, the office name handpainted in discreet Roman lettering.

  A small bell tinkled when Morgan came through the door. The counter was empty and a few women worked quietly at computer terminals beneath fluorescent lights. One of them looked up briefly, but quickly resumed her muted tapping at the keyboard.

  A teen-age girl who looked like a summer employee came out of a small room at one end of the office and walked directly to the counter.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  She had braces on her teeth and her limp, dark hair hung straight down, except for two strands that were pulled back across her temples and clipped in back. The syrupy scent of strawberry perfume was so strong, Morgan could almost see a pink haze around her.

  “I’d like to see a court file,” he said.

  “Come on back here,” she said, lifting a hinged piece of the counter to let him pass through.

  She led him into the dead air of the vault. She showed him a bank of dented card-files, some labeled with letters of the alphabet, some with six-digit numbers. The whole cabinet was thick with dust.

  “These are by name of the parties in the case,” she said, touching the first several rows of drawers, “and those are by case number.”

  “Thanks,” he said, hoping she’d leave him in unscented peace.

  “Is there a specific case you’re looking for?” she asked, more curious than helpful.

  “I think I can find it, thanks.”

  Morgan opened drawer “G-H” and thumbed through yellowing index cards until he found the State of Wyoming v. Neeley Gilmartin, Criminal Case No. 48-0237. He scribbled the number in his notebook and closed the drawer, sending a small cloud of dust into the stagnant air of the government vault.

  The young clerk helped him find the conspicuously thin file. He’d seen some capital murder cases take up four or five thick folders in Cook County’s Hall of Records; Gacy’s alone filled a shelf. Gilmartin’s folder had a few affidavits signed by Deuce Kerrigan, Judge Darby Hand’s order assigning Simeon Fenwick to the case, a brief confession and a few other perfunctory court records.

  The sheriff’s affidavits outlined the flimsy case against Gilmartin, relying largely upon statements by the two witnesses to his drunken threat against Charlie Little Spotted Horse. While authorities could not account for Gilmartin’s whereabouts on the day Aimee disappeared, a fact omitted from the sheriff’s affidavit, Deuce Kerrigan took pains to point out that the suspect himself offered no alibi.

  The tragic part to Morgan was that the prosecution’s case was so weak, it likely would have been thrown out at the preliminary hearing — if Gilmartin’s lawyer were tough and the judge fair. Perhaps neither was a reasonable expectation, even for the gambler Gilmartin, but it didn’t matter. He folded before the prelim.

  His one-paragraph confession, typed on the County Attorney’s stationery, signed with an “X” and witnessed by the prosecutor, ironically offered even less proof of his guilt:

  “On or about August 4, 1948, the undersigned did willfully and maliciously murder by undetermined means one Aimee Little Spotted Horse, nine years of age, approximately at a site known as the Iron Mountain Bridge in Perry County, the State of Wyoming. The accused admits his crime and submits a plea of guilty to the charge of first-degree murder.

  (X) Neeley Gilmartin

  Witness: Calvin Davis

  September 21, 1948

  County Prosecutor Calvin Davis held up his end of the bargain, submitting his written recommendation to Judge Hand that Gilmartin receive a life sentence in return for his guilty plea. The judge accepted it and the case was neatly closed less than a month after Aimee was killed.

  But in their haste to dispose of Neeley Gilmartin, nobody ever asked him to explain how it really happened. Perhaps they didn’t even care.

  Claire was waiting for Morgan at The Bullet when he got back with copies of Gilmartin’s court file. It was after five.

  She’d cleared off his desk, which was now covered with a red-and-white checked tablecloth. Two white tapers flickered in sterling silver candlesticks between two complete place settings. Claire had unpacked their best china and rolled their flatware in cloth napkins.

  Her long, blond hair was up, the way he liked it, just a few strands cascading around her pretty face. One curled down and touched the corner of her mouth.

  “What’s this? A candle-lit, Friday night dinner on the town?” Morgan asked, pleasantly surprised. The office lights were turned off, but it was still quite bright outside. Main Street was quiet, as it usually was at the bitter end of the week.

  Claire bit her lower lip like a shy schoolgirl and dipped into the cooler beside his desk. She served their supper: Cold cucumber sandwiches, corn chips, guacamole, some nectarines, a beer for him and a ginger ale for her.

  “I told the hired help to take the night off,” she said, loosening his tie and tucking his napkin in his collar. “Tonight, it’s just you and me and our humble little shop on Main Street. Isn’t that romantic?”

  “This is the most thoughtful thing you could have done, Claire,” he said. “I had a cup of coffee for breakfast and skipped lunch. I didn’t even know I was hungry until now.”

  Morgan wolfed down half a sandwich and took a long, hungry swig of his beer. Claire reached across the desk and touched his hand lightly.

  “I went to see the cold-fingered Doctor Grady today,” Claire said. Morgan stopped chewing and raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Actually, I think his first name is Benjamin, but everybody around here just calls him Doc.”

  “Around here, they call anybody who wears rubber gloves ‘Doc,’“ Morgan corrected her. He almost sounded like a patronizing tour guide. “Veterinar
ians. Dentists. Hell, Doc Chandler is just an optometrist and everybody calls him ‘Doc,’ too.”

  Claire straightened her napkin across her lap demurely. Silently.

  “Sorry,” Morgan apologized. “What did Doc Grady tell you?”

  “We’re definitely pregnant,” she said. She sounded resigned, but not as frightened as before. “Not quite two months, he guessed. That’d be about right.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “He says everything’s fine. He drew some blood and got a urine sample for tests, but other than the fact I’m thirty-eight years old and married to a workaholic, he says there’s not much to worry about.”

  Morgan raised his beer can.

  “Then a toast to the new mother,” he said, his eyes sparkling in the candlelight.

  Claire clunked her can of ginger ale against it and smiled sweetly at her husband. Then she offered her own toast.

  “To my dear editor, who once promised me he wouldn’t work so hard.”

  Just as Claire began to drink to him, she abruptly set her soda on the desk and hurriedly wiped her mouth while it fizzed over. She searched under the desk for her purse.

  “I almost forgot this,” she said, handing Morgan an envelope. “Somebody slipped it under the door before you got here, then hurried away. It was a man, I think, but I just caught a glimpse of him. I don’t know why he didn’t come in. The door was unlocked.”

  The plain white envelope had no return address. The sender had scrawled “Jefferson Morgan, Letter to the Editor” on its front. Setting his beer aside, Morgan slipped his finger under the sealed flap and tore a jagged opening in it.

  The letter was two pages long, single-spaced, and signed by Malachi Pierce.