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“Yes. But if it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t Strickland, then who? Moody claims only to know who didn’t. Not who did. We need to—”
“Go see Haymaker,” he said.
The retired detective looked as elfin as ever. “Sorry about your dad,” he said to Bellamy.
She acknowledged the condolence but didn’t linger on it. “Moody said you’d be expecting us.”
He moved aside and motioned them in. They sat as before, he in the recliner, them competing with the dog for space on the sofa. Haymaker pointed down to the case file lying on the coffee table. “Recognize that?”
She nodded.
“Frankly, I can’t believe Dale is ready to share this.” He held up his hands and gave an elaborate shrug. “But who’s to say how a man’s conscience works?”
“He told me that he left some kind of confession with you.”
The former cop took several folded sheets of paper from the pocket of his shirt and spread them open. “Signed.”
“And thumbprinted,” she said, checking the last sheet, where Moody’s signature was affixed along with the thumbprint.
“So what does he confess to, exactly?” Dent asked.
Haymaker settled more comfortably into his chair. “Ever hear of a Brady cop?”
Bellamy and Dent shook their heads.
“There was a Supreme Court case, midsixties, I think. Stemmed from a murder trial, Brady versus Maryland. The court ruled in Brady’s favor. The upshot of it was that police officers and prosecutors had a duty, an obligation, to tell a defendant’s attorney about any exculpatory material or information, even if they think it’s hogwash.
“Even if they’re damn near certain a witness is lying through his teeth on behalf of an offender, they’re still required to share with the other side what they’ve been told. If an investigator discovers something on his own that favors the suspect, he’s still obligated to share it.”
“Which allows for lots of wiggle room,” Dent said.
“And we—meaning cops—wiggle. But those who flat-out lie or deliberately withhold something are cheating the justice system and the law of the land. They’re called Brady cops.”
Bellamy said, “That’s what Moody did?”
“With Jim Postlewhite. Moody questioned him early on, as he did all the men at the barbecue.” Leaning forward, Haymaker reached into the file and removed the sheet of paper bearing Postlewhite’s name underlined in red.
He slipped on a pair of reading glasses. “Mr. Postlewhite told Moody where he was and what he was doing immediately before and after the tornado tore through the park. He described it in some detail. He told Moody about pushing some kids into a culvert before taking cover himself.
“If you can read Moody’s chicken scratching, it’s all written down here.” He removed his glasses and looked at them. “Postlewhite’s story eliminated Allen Strickland as a suspect.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because Allen had helped him shepherd those kids into the culvert.”
“Where was this culvert?” Bellamy asked.
“A long way from where your sister’s body was found. And Postlewhite said that Allen came running over to him and the kids from the parking lot, where he’d been looking for his brother.”
Dent said, “He couldn’t have been two places at once.”
Haymaker nodded. “You had an alibi Dale and Rupe couldn’t shake, so Rupe said they’d nail Allen Strickland instead. But Dale reminded Rupe that Postlewhite could testify that Strickland was somewhere else while the murder was taking place. Rupe told Dale to do whatever was necessary to get Postlewhite to forget that.”
“Oh no,” Bellamy said mournfully.
Haymaker patted the air. “He didn’t have to do anything. Postlewhite had died of a heart attack three days after the tornado.”
“Lucky for them,” Dent said drolly.
