Last Chance for Glory Read Free Page A

some other way to prove I wasn’t there? I’m getting very tired.”
    “You know, Billy, you don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to. You can leave. But I think you should try to clear this up before it goes any further. I mean, if you didn’t do it.”
    “But I didn’t do it. You said you believed me.”
    “I do believe you, Billy. I believe you because you’re helping me do my job. But if you go home before we can prove that you’re innocent, I might have to think something else.”
    7:20 PM
    Tommy Brannigan rubs his weary eyes. He is sitting at his desk in the detectives’ squad room, trying to ignore the chaos around him while he works on the photo array spread across the desk. The problem is that he can’t make Billy Sowell’s Polaroid photos look anything like the eight mug shots surrounding them. For one thing, the Polaroid film stock is a good deal thicker than the mug shots and he has no effective way to flatten it. For another, the mug shots were printed on a single sheet of paper, full-on and profile. Billy’s two Polaroids, even cut down to the size of the others, stand out like a sore thumb. That alone will keep it out of court, even if Melody Mitchell can make a positive ID, which she probably can’t, not without some help.
    But how much help? That’s the real question. Tommy Brannigan isn’t a lawyer, but he’s been in the system long enough to know that some judges are much more likely to throw out evidence than others. He also knows that some judges admit virtually anything, because they figure that while the average voter cannot define the word appeal, he or she knows all about technicalities. Especially if the perp goes right back out and does it again.
    “Hey, Lieutenant.” Brannigan tugs at a passing sleeve. “You got a minute to look at this? I don’t wanna screw it up.”
    Lieutenant Corelli turns on his heel with the grace of a ferret. “Whatta you want, Brannigan? I’m busy.”
    “I have a suspect in the Tillson case. And a witness. What I wanna do is work up a good sheet, but I don’t think we can get this in.”
    Corelli glances at the photo array. “This the suspect?” He points a long, bony finger at a smiling Billy Sowell.
    “That’s him.”
    “The profile shot’s fucked up, Tommy. You got the perp facing the camera with only his head to the side. You were supposed to have him turn his shoulder into the camera. The array’s biased.”
    “You think it’s hopeless?” Brannigan’s usually smiling mouth drops into a disappointed frown. “See, I’m working with the mutt’s cooperation.”
    “You read him his rights?”
    “He’s not a suspect, yet. I got him to sign a release for the photos, some hair, some blood, and a few fibers from his coat, but he can walk out the door any time he wants to.”
    “So, why’s he stayin’ around? This is a homicide we’re talkin’ about.”
    “He’s slow. Retarded. I mean he can talk and write his name, but the kid’s definitely retarded. Plus, he drinks every day and that adds to it. I told him I was gonna try to clear him—which I am, in a way—and he bought it. At least, for now he bought it.”
    Tommy Brannigan, smiling again, watches Lieutenant Corelli study the photos. Involving the whip helps in two ways. Not only will it result in a photo lineup more likely to be admitted into evidence, it commits Corelli to the case. Without Corelli’s approval, Brannigan has no way to get to the prosecutors. And there’s no guarantee that Corelli will go ahead with a flawed case. Department policy is to not further burden already overwhelmed Assistant DAs with bullshit.
    “Did the witness mention an overcoat when she gave her description?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Your suspect’s the only one wearing an overcoat. The rest of them are wearing jackets. That’s a little obvious, Tommy. In fact, that’s a lot obvious. Did the witness happen to mention a scar on the perp’s left cheek?”
    “No, Lou. No