Ben watched as the uniformed officer hopped into the cruiser marked FLORENCE COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE and took off down the road. No doubt responding to a domestic violence in progress that had been called in clear across the county. That should keep you busy for a half hour or so.
After the late-night meeting with McKenzie, Ben had reluctantly driven two hundred and fifty miles to Florence County. He was certain McKenzie wasn’t working alone, and Ben didn’t know whom he could trust. He had copied the booking card and told Bernie to put it on Plate Boyd’s desk. He could only hope that, in the end, Plate was still a real cop. Leaving Alex in Newberg with McKenzie on the loose had him worried, but what choice did he have? He hoped that she would be safe in jail—also not a particularly comforting thought. Ben had called Tia on her cell—she was still in the hospital, though her parents had gone back to Mexico—and they had come up with what they thought was a simple plan. Tia’s stern directions had left Ben wondering who worked for whom.
“Don’t be going all cowboy on this thing,” she said. “Keep a low profile, be as quick as you can, and get your ass back down to Newberg. I’ll take care of things while you’re gone.”
Once he had some proof of Harlan Lee’s existence and something that indicated that his murder conviction was somehow related to an arrest in Newberg, he’d go to the courthouse and bang on the DA’s desk. I’ll bother her at home if I have to. Hell, he thought, I’ll take it to the media. Somehow, he had to shed some light on the case, do something that would give Alex the benefit of the doubt.
The woman at the counter in the sheriff’s office bought Ben’s line about being a reporter researching an old murder case. She seemed to hope that maybe she would become part of the story. When she couldn’t find anything in her computer, her apology sounded genuine.
“Sorry, sir. Are you sure it was Florence County? Do you have the name right?”
“Positive. The case was transferred up from Newberg. Harlan Lee. Can you check again?”
“I’ve checked three times. I searched through all the L’s and H’s just in case the name got messed up. We have no record of a trial, arrest, booking. Nothing. Nothing on a man named Harlan Lee.”
Ben murmured under his breath, “McKenzie, you son of a bitch.”
“Excuse me?” The clerk was beginning to look annoyed.
“Never mind.” Ben’s mind was turning. “Tell me this. Who were the key players back then? I know the sheriff was a man named Lipinski, but who else was here? Who prosecuted murder cases? Or a judge? Anyone still around?”
“Beats me. I was six years old.” The girl shrugged, her hopes for notoriety dashed.
“That’d be Bill Petite,” a new voice said. “He was the district attorney back then.”
Ben turned around to see a white-haired man with tan leathery skin leaning against a mop. He wore an orange jumpsuit marked FLORENCE COUNTY JAIL and Ben figured his age at seventy-plus.
The clerk said, “Gus, be quiet and stick to your work. Don’t be butting in on other people’s conversations.” The woman looked at Ben and rolled her eyes. “They send him over here every day and I end up babysitting him. He mops that same spot for eight hours.”
“I see,” Ben said, then turned to the man and encouraged him to continue. “What was that you said?”
“I said Bill Petite was district attorney back in them days. Hot-shot lawyer. Came in for a few years, then lost his chair to another young buck. Headed out for greener pastures, or so he thought.” The man snickered. He lowered his stooped shoulders and returned to his pressing duty of dry mopping the floor as if he hadn’t said a word. Ben looked up and down the hall and saw no sign of a guard or other prisoner.
“You got a name, pal?”
The man took offense. “Name’s Gus Walcowski, but that don’t make me no pal of yours now, does it?”
Ben was willing to do what it took to gain the man’s cooperation. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean anything by it. But this is really important to me. Do you know where I can get hold of Mr. Petite? Is he still practicing?”
The old man laughed like he’d heard a good joke. “Practicing? Guess he could be practicing one thing or another.”
“I’m not following you.” Ben tried to hide his growing frustration. “Can you help me or not?”
“I can’t help you with nothing other than to tell you Bill Petite was a district attorney who took a real pleasure in stickin’ it to ya as hard as he could. I can also tell you he is easy enough to find these days.”
“I’m still not following you, Gus.” Ben gave a smile of encouragement.
“Petite went and killed his girlfriend and got his ass thrown in prison for it. No surprise to me. He always was a moody little prick.”
Ben was stunned. “When, Gus? How long ago did this happen?”
Gus pushed his mop in long smooth strokes across the linoleum and spoke in a cadence. “Heard tell from an old partner of mine who finished up a hitch just as Petite was coming in. Wasn’t much more than a few weeks ago, but Petite pled out quick. Cut himself the best deal he could. Serves him right. He was known to serve up a few deals back in the day.”
When Ben was certain the man was finished, he double-checked the facts. “So the former district attorney of Florence County, William Petite, is in prison for murder?”
Gus looked at Ben like he thought the stranger was simpleminded. “Yep.”
A district attorney had gone down for murder. A district attorney who might have prosecuted a killer named Harlan Lee. Ben’s pulse raced and his mouth started to water. He asked a few more questions, but it was clear Gus knew nothing else. Knowing that the sheriff was probably headed back and might walk in at any moment, Ben prepared to leave.
He’d originally intended to make this trip a quick turnaround, but he couldn’t take the word of an old felon from a county lockup. No one in Newberg would believe him. And if McKenzie found out before he got back, he’d figure out some way to discredit Ben’s information. Ben knew he needed more. He turned to Gus and did his best to sound casual.
“Hey, Gus. You wouldn’t happen to know where Petite is now, would you? Where he’s locked up these days?”
“Course I know. He pulled the worst card a man can in this state.” Gus never missed a stroke with his mop. “He landed at Red Cliff.”