The Deadline by Ron Franscell

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.