THE PROSECUTOR Read Online Free Page A

work with. People continued to file out of the building, their voices and footsteps clicking against the cement.
    4:40.
    By the look of the mountain of files in his office, Zac Hennings would probably still be at his desk. He struck her as the diligent type—a man who’d sit and study his notes, losing all track of time. Maybe she’d march up and demand—no— ask about the receipt. Playing nice with the new prosecutor might get her a little cooperation.
    If not, too bad. She wanted answers.
    * * *
    A LREADY , Z AC HAD DETERMINED one thing. The video had to be deep-sixed. On a decent day, a detective’s deathbed confession was a nightmare scenario. Couple that with Zac’s rabid sister and the persistent Emma Sinclair and he had one hell of a problem. Emma didn’t have his sister’s flashy clothes and sarcastic manner, but she obviously had a quick mind and adjusted to conflict easily. With these two, he’d have his hands full.
    First thing was to obtain copies of all the case files and interview the detectives.
    Still at his desk, he tapped the screen again and the dying detective’s face appeared. Damn, he looked bad. It could be a major problem in court. Who wouldn’t be sympathetic to someone dying of cancer?
    He set the phone down and jotted notes as the now-deceased detective spoke. Witness unsure. Alley dark. Couldn’t positively ID. Showed a six-pack —the old photo lineup where the witness was given photographs of possible suspects and asked if he could identify any of them. In this case, according to the dying detective, the witness thought that maybe Brian Sinclair could be the guy.
    All of it should be documented in the case files.
    Zac shook his head as the detective confessed to coaxing the witness with leading questions. He had dark hair, right? And a white shirt, correct?
    Zac studied the detective’s sallow face, seeking anything that might indicate that brain cancer had caused mental impairment. Outside of the papery, sagging skin that came with chemo treatments, his speech was clear and he seemed rational. Zac checked the date on the bottom of the screen. Six weeks ago. He’d have to research the effects of brain cancer in the weeks prior to death. To refute this evidence, he’d simply need to prove that the man had lost cognitive brain function. In which case, everything on the video would be thrown out.
    Problem solved.
    Next. Identification of the white shirt worn by the accused might be something for Penny to run with. The murder happened in March. It could have been cold. Did the assailant wear a jacket? That had to have come up in court.
    Again, all this information should be in the case files, which Zac didn’t have. He scooped up his desk phone and dialed his office assistant. “Hey, Beth. Have you seen the files from the Sinclair case yet?”
    “I put them in your office. They’re in a box by the corner window.”
    On the floor sat one square file box, maybe eleven by thirteen inches. A corner of the lid was torn, as if someone had tried to lift it and it ripped. “That’s it?”
    “That’s all that was delivered.”
    One box. On a six-month investigation. There should have been stacks and stacks of reports particularly General Progress Reports—GPRs—where detectives recorded notes. Those GPRs were what he needed. Typically handwritten by the detectives, the reports told the story of who said what. Anything on the investigation’s progress should have been documented for use in trial.
    So why did Zac only have one small box?
    He’d have to track down the old prosecutor—the one who’d been fired by the new State’s Attorney—to see what happened to the rest of the documentation. Yeah, he’ll be more than willing to talk.
    Zac stood, grabbed the box and set it on his desk. At least it had some weight to it. Inside he found a few supplementary reports, along with a lineup report. He perused one of the pages for any mention of a white shirt. Nothing. He checked the next