“He followed her.” Morgan could picture it.

“Unfortunately, there are three hundred thousand Honda Accords registered in the state of New York, and silver is one of the most popular colors.” Grandpa sighed. “So again, good supporting evidence, but not enough to get him convicted.”

“What about the rest of his house?” Morgan asked. “Where do they think he killed her and washed her body?”

“They don’t know. Cliff lived with his brother, Joe, on a small farm. The house and outbuildings were clean. No evidence was found that Brandi was killed there. However, Joe slaughters his own animals. He stocks coveralls, gloves, and tarps and rinses his floors with oxygen bleach. The drains were full of blood and animal matter and oxygen bleach. The sheer amount of biological evidence would have been overwhelming.”

Morgan took out her notepad and wrote notes. “How was she killed?”

“She was strangled with her own belt,” Grandpa said. “A neat, bloodless kill.”

“Was she raped?” Morgan lifted her pen.

“The weather had been unusually warm that autumn. The body was too badly decomposed for the ME to tell.” Papers rustled over the connection; then Grandpa said, “The state sent cadaver dogs to Joe’s property and to the area where Brandi was found. The dogs didn’t find any additional bodies.”

“Without bodies, there’s no physical evidence to connect Cliff with the other five missing women.” Lance frowned at the phone.

“That’s correct,” Grandpa said. “Appeals have to be legal not factual, correct? Can Franklin file an appeal based on the incomplete chain of custody?”

“That’s a little murky, but the answer is maybe.” Morgan clicked her pen. “It’s true that appeals are normally made for legal errors, not evidentiary ones. Counsel objects to the inclusion of a piece of evidence, and the judge then rules if said evidence is admissible. The objection puts the legal issue on record. The judge’s ruling becomes the legal grounds for appeal. If the defense counsel fails to object, then the error is implicitly waived.”

“Franklin’s attorney didn’t object. So technically, there’s no basis for appeal,” Grandpa clarified.

“Correct, but appeals can be granted for ineffective assistance of counsel. Franklin’s attorney missed a chain of custody error on the biggest piece of evidence in the prosecutor’s case. If I were going to file an appeal for him, that is the route I would take.”

“Well, shit.” Lance smacked the steering wheel. “I can’t believe the sheriff’s department screwed up that badly collecting the evidence from Cliff’s trunk.”

“Similar errors occurred in the OJ trial.” Morgan’s thoughts whirled. “If the appeal were granted, the DA would have an opportunity to bring a new trial. Is there enough evidence?”

Grandpa huffed. “I don’t know. The exhibits aren’t included with the trial transcript. I’d need to see the murder book.”

The trial transcript only included the words spoken at the trial. Copies of evidence had to be obtained separately.

But Morgan had to wonder if Cliff Franklin was innocent.

And who might not want the truth revealed.

Chapter Twenty

Lance hated to think an innocent man was sitting in prison for a murder he didn’t commit. But it was equally hard to believe that Franklin had been set up.

Morgan pulled her notebook out of her tote.

“The sheriff investigated this murder, correct?” Lance tapped his finger on the steering wheel.

“Yes.” Morgan made more notes in her file.

Lance said, “We already know he was corrupt.”

“Yes, he fudged evidence in one investigation. There’s no reason to believe he wouldn’t have done it in others.” Morgan lifted her pen. “But why would he have wanted to convict the wrong man and presumably let the real killer escape justice? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Too bad the sheriff is dead and we can’t ask him.”

Morgan lifted the phone to talk into the speaker. “Grandpa, did you find an interview with Bryce Walters in Olivia’s documents?”

“No,” Grandpa answered. “But I found several notes about her leaving messages for him.”

Had the DA been avoiding Olivia?

Someone called for Grandpa in the background.

“I have to go,” he said. “The kids are looking for me. That’s all I have for now anyway. I’ll let you know if I find anything else. There’s still plenty of material to read.”

“Thanks. You’re the best.” Morgan lowered the phone.

“I know.” Grandpa ended the call.

Lance started the Jeep’s engine. “Where do you want to go now?”

Morgan bounced her pen on her fingers. “Let’s drop in on Cliff Franklin’s attorney, Mark Hansen. The firm is located in Redhaven.” She read the address into her phone and asked it for directions. Then she called her sister and gave her the information on the evidentiary error in Cliff Franklin’s case.

Redhaven was a neighboring town to Scarlet Falls. The law offices of Hansen, Adams, and Green occupied a small suite in an office complex. Lance parked directly in front of the glass door. Morgan got out and tried the door. It was locked. She cupped her hand over her eyes and tried to see inside.

Morgan returned to the car. “It doesn’t look like anyone is in today, but I don’t want to leave a message. Any ideas?”

“Let’s stop by his house.” Lance backed out of the space.

Morgan called Jenny and asked her to get the attorney’s home address. Jenny called back in a few minutes with the information, and Morgan plugged the address into her phone’s GPS. Mark Hansen lived close to his office. In less than ten minutes, Lance turned onto a country road.

He slowed in front of a black mailbox. “It looks like Hansen does all right as an attorney.”

Lance steered the Jeep onto the long driveway. Mark Hansen lived in a converted barn that sat well off the road. The front lawn was the size of a soccer field and just as well kept. Large windows had been inserted across the front of the boxy stone structure. Ornamental cabbages lined the flower beds, and a collection of straw bales and pumpkins was artfully arranged on either side of the front door. He parked at the end of the driveway, and they got out of the Jeep.

“I don’t see any cars,” Morgan said as she walked around the front of the vehicle.

Lance joined her. He pointed to a four-car detached garage behind the main house. “I wouldn’t expect to.”

They went up the front walk. A gust of wind hit Morgan in the back and blew her hair into her face. She held it back with one hand. Lance reached for the doorbell. Inside the house, chimes echoed. A few seconds later, the sound of footsteps approached.

A petite redhead of about thirty opened the door. “Can I help you?” She wore black slacks and a black blazer over a white blouse.

“We’re looking for Mr. Hansen.” Morgan handed her a business card. “Are you his wife?”

“No. I’m the housekeeper. You should leave a message at Mr. Hansen’s office.” The redhead moved as if to close the door.