Until Proven Guilty

"Thank you, gentlemen, for coming to see my client on such short notice," the stiff in the suit said as he led us to the visiting room of the jail. "With the trial in a few days, we could use all the help we can get."

That was true. From everything I've read about it, it's an open and shut case; but despite what I knew, I still felt compelled to ask the man about it, just in case the papers kept out a few details. And the lawyer was only too happy to oblige.

"Well," he told us, "My client, Mr. Beaux, is accused of stabbing his ex-wife, Janet Limb, in the stomach, and killing her. Of course, Mr. Beaux didn't do it, but the D.A. thinks it has a strong case."

"What do they have?" I asked, to Prettyboy's immense satisfaction. But then, I promised him that I would take this one seriously, and besides, a man's life was at stake. A potentially innocent man.

"Well," the lawyer admitted, shaking his head. "I'm more concerned with what they don't have."

That was interesting, so I asked, "Like, what?"

"Well," he told us, "They don't have any prints on the knife, and they don't have anyone that could place my client at the scene."

"But?" I prompted.

"Well," he replied, "They have some DNA evidence from under Ms. Limb's nails that matches my client, and they have motive. Aparently, she and Mr. Beaux had a huge fight in front of witnesses the day before the murder."

"And, that's what they're running with?" I asked.

"Well," the suit was reluctant to admit, "Apparently, my client took out an enormous insurance policy on his wife, which prompted the argument."

"Right before a murder?" I asked in disbelief. "That's pretty obvious! And, weren't they divorced by then?"

"The policy was signed before the divorce," the suit revealed. "Apparently, he was hiding it from her, and she found out, which prompted the argument."

"That doesn't sound like a motive to me," I replied. "Wouldn't the policy be void after the divorce? Or, the murder?"

"The police think the money had nothing to do with it," the suit told me. "They think it was anger and revenge."

"Anger on his part?" I asked, not seeing the connection. "For what? The divorce?"

"They think that since she made the policy void," the suit said, "She cheated him out of a lot of money, money that he needed badly."

"Did he need money badly?" I asked for clarification. I could feel Prettyboy beaming because I was behaving myself. To tell the truth, I had considered sabotaging things so he would forget all about a "detective agency", but once I started talking with the lawyer, I became hooked, and everything since then was only reeling me in.

The lawyer hesitated, then reluctantly admitted, "My client has had some financial difficulties, but I assure you, he denies ever taking out any insurance policy."

"But you made it sound like he did," I pointed out.

"I'm only outlining the D.A.'s case," the lawyer clarified. "The evidence points that way, but Mr. Beaux has denied over and over again any knowledge of an insurance policy."

"Right," I acknowledged, then we got to the room, and I didn't have a chance to ask him any more.

Mr. Beaux was a nervous wreck. He was pacing restlessly when we entered, and he kept glancing around at everything until he saw his lawyer. Then, he rushed forward and demanded, "When am I getting out of here? You promised I wouldn't be here so long!"

"I've already explained it to you, Mr. Beaux," the lawyer calmly replied. "The judge considers you a flight risk, so you have to stay here until the trial."

"How do you like that?" Mr. Beaux loudly complained at me and Prettyboy. "There's people walking free that incited a riot at the Capitol, and I'm the one in jail!"

Then, he narrowed his eyes at us before turning to the shuyster and demanding, "Who are these two?"

"Remember when I suggested we hire some detectives?" the lawyer quietly reminded him.

Prettyboy was the first and, admittedly, only one to stick out his hand and say, "Nice to meet you!"

Mr. Beaux recoiled from the hand, staring at it in shock, before he turned once more to his lawyer and begged, "You have to get me out of here! You don't know how filthy this place is! Their toilets are disgusting! I'm going to die of constipation of you don't get me out of here!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Beaux," the suit apologized. "It's out of my hands!"

"Out of your hands!" the man repeated in disdain. "Out of your hands! You're a lawyer! Fix it!"

I don't know why I felt sorry for the suit, but I stepped in to the rescue, asking, "Maybe, in the meantime, you could tell me your side of the story?"

He scowled at me and proclaimed, "I've told my side a million times! I didn't do it! Why would I kill my wife, anyway?"

"Ex-wife," I reminded him.

He pointed at me and exclaimed, "That was her idea, not mine!"

"Why did she file for divorce?" I asked, trying to not sound accusatory.

"She claimed 'irreconcilable differences'!" he spat, resuming his pacing. "I still don't know what that means!"

As he was flailing his hands around in emphasis, I noticed the bandage on his hand. Curious, I asked him, "Did you cut yourself?"

He stopped to glare at me in wonder, then noticed the bandage and said, "No, I did not cut myself! She did! When we had that stupid argument!"

"The one over the insurance policy?" I asked, little realizing it would cause a volcano to erupt.

"I didn't take any policies out on her!" Mr. Beaux shouted vehemantly. "I swear it!"

I stepped back, but I remained professional about things. Changing the subject slightly, I asked, "In the argument, she scratched you?"

Mr. Beaux hesitated a moment before saying, in a subdued tone, "Well, we said a lot of things to each other. I guess she got pretty angry, too."

"And, she scratched you?" I persisted.

"Out of the blue!" he roared, then getting control of himself again, he added, "Like some little -!" He took a deep breath, then added, a lot calmer, "After that, she left. And, I swear I didn't see her again until I had to -!"

Mr. Beaux choked and didn't say any more. Prettyboy asked, "Until you had to what?"

I knew what was coming even before the lawyer quietly told him, "Mr. Beaux was asked to identify the body at the morgue."

"But," Prettyboy protested, "I thought the police thought he did it!"

To his immense credit, the lawyer didn't miss a beat telling him, "That was before Mr. Beaux was considered a suspect."

This time I jumped in to Boyd's rescue when I asked Mr. Beaux, distracting everyone from his stupidity, "Did you explain the cut to the police?"

"They didn't believe me!" Mr. Beaux replied. "They thought I got it in 'the struggle'!" Then, giving the bandage a horrid stare, he muttered to himself, "Bled so much I thought I was going to pass out!"

He said "the struggle" pretty snidely, making it clear what he thought of the police theory. I turned to the lawyer and asked, "And, Ms. Limb was found dead -?"

"The next morning," the lawyer replied. "Around ten A.M."

"And, at ten A.M., you were-?" I asked Mr. Beaux, who had taken to a furious pace again.

"Home!" he snapped defensively. "Like I've explained a million times already!"

"Then," I told the man, "I won't waste any more of your time." I turned to the lawyer and asked, "Did the prosecution offer you the evidence they were going to present?"

"To a point," the lawyer carefully replied. "I'm sure they'll have some surprises at trial, though."

"And the police reports?" I asked.

"Yes," the lawyer confirmed.

"Could I have copies of them?" I asked. "And of the prosecution's case? For reference?"

"You can have mine," the lawyer offered, swinging his briefcase onto the table. It struck me as weird that he hadn't set it down right away, but then, I realized Mr. Beaux hadn't given him a lot of time to even think, much less set the valise down. In a jiffy the man had pulled out a couple of messy folders and was handing them to me.

"That's everything I'm aware of," the suit told me. "Including photos taken at the scene."

"You sure you don't need these?" I asked. I didn't want to deprive him of his casework, since he wasn't likely to get any of it back.

He waved his hands dismissively and remarked, "I have copies back at the office, just in case."

I waggled the folders at him in thanks, then told Mr. Beaux, "We'll do what we can to help you."

"Can you get me out of here?" the man complained in reply. "And, can you prove I didn't do it?"

"Like I said, we'll do what we can," I reassured him, then I turned to the suit again and said, "Just one more thing."

"What is it?" he asked me.

I had to make it very clear, since I didn't want a repeat of the last little adventure, so I chose my words wisely. "I won't say that what I find will help your case or harm it. So, I want your assurance that, whatever we uncover, you'll hold up your end of the bargain."

The lawyer was in complete agreement, saying, "Of course! A job is a job! As long as your firm lives up to its promise."

"Promise?" I asked, giving Prettyboy the side-eye.

"Guaranteed results," the suit quoted from memory.

"Can you really find out who did it?" Mr. Beaux demanded hopefully. "And, get me out of this place?"

"We'll do everything possible," Prettyboy told him. At that point, I decided it was best to stop talking. Boyd didn't know what he was promising, and there was no way I could get us out of it.

"Well, I think we know one thing," Prettyboy said when we reached his Hummer. "The man has to be guilty."

This I had to hear, so I asked, "Why?"

"Well, he acted guilty, didn't he?" Prettyboy lectured me. "Besides, the man wouldn't even shake my hand!"

"He's a germaphobe," I told him. "And hemophobic, too. He won't shake hands with anyone."

"So?" Prettyboy asked, obviously clueless as to what I just told him.

"So," I told him, "It's looking less likely that he did it."

Prettyboy thought about it, but it was obvious he still wasn't getting it. Going along with me anyway, he nodded sagely and asked, "So, what do we do now? Look over the scene of the crime?"

"It's been cleaned by now," I told him. "But we might as well swing over, later. Right now, I want to see Mr. Beaux's house."

"In the market for a house?" Prettyboy quipped, and when I gave him a disapproving stare, he gave me a lame smile and stammered, "Well, I just thought that since he wasn't going to need it for a while..."

"You still think he did it?" I asked him seriously.

"You don't?" he turned it right back at me.

I thought about it for a second, then told him, "We'll see."

Mr. Beaux's yard was almost immaculate, and that was only because he wasn't there to keep it to perfection. Pale green buds at the edge of the hedges and errant tufts of taller grass spoiled the otherwise perfect scene. On the way over, I'd called the suit for permission to enter, and he called Mr. Beaux's sister, who stood awaiting us on the front steps. She seemed indifferent to us, although the first thing she said as we approached was, "Are you the ones who are going to prove my brother innocent?"

"We're going to try," I told her.

"Try?" she repeated, sounding confused and irritated, and Prettyboy quickly stepped in and added, "Sometimes these things are delicate work, but give us time, and we can usually unravel things."

"Time?" she demanded. "Justin goes to trial tomorrow! Think you can find something by then?"

"We'll do our best," I told her. Prettyboy just smiled assuringly at her.

She shook her head in dismay, then asked, exasperated, "I suppose you want to look around inside?"

"Not yet," I told her, taking in the lawn. "May I go around back?"

"Knock yourself out," she replied, and it sounded like she meant it literally.

The back was like the front, showing the first signs of entropy in a long time, now that the owner was behind bars. Even the grill was so thoroughly scrubbed that it looked brand new. It was hard to believe anyone even lived in the house; it looked like a floor model. Luckily, the sister's distrust of us made her tag along to the back yard, so I was able to ask her how long Mr. Beaux had lived there.

"Since the divorce," she told us, clarifying by adding, "About a year."

"He did a lot if work here," I remarked leadingly.

"You should have seen it before," she told me. "It was nice, but Justin took it to another level!"

She sounded proud of that, so I used it to my advantage. I said, "He did the work himself?"

"Oh, no!" she laughed. "Him? He had contractors in! He couldn't do any of it himself!"

"Because of his phobia?" I asked,bringing a shocked expression to her face.

"Did he tell you about that?" she demanded, then shook her head. "And, he's always telling me to mind my own business!"

"How long's he been like that?" I casually asked.

"What? A germaphobe?" she asked, and when I nodded, she said, "A very long time. I thought Janet had cured him of it, at one point. God, he loved her! But she was such a slob! And that weird stuff she was into? I don't know how he could stand it!"

"Weird stuff?" I asked, prompting her.

"Yeah," she confided. "Weird stuff. Like voodoo, I think. The occult. Stuff like that."

I watched as my nice, normal murder went swirling down the toilet.

"The occult?" I asked, prompting her to clarify.

"I really don't know what it was," she admitted. "I went over to their place once, and there were all these weird masks and voodoo dolls and stuff decorating the walls, and these old books on their shelves with all these weird titles and stuff. Really weird, like you have to be baked to appreciate it kind of stuff, you know?"

"Did you ask them about it?" I asked her.

"Are you kidding?" she wryly replied. "I was weirded out enough as it was. There was no way I was going to ask them about it!"

"Did Mr. Beaux ever complain to you about any of it?" I asked her.

"You mean Justin?" she asked, then said, "Are you kidding? She...I mean, Janet could have sawed his arm off and he wouldn't have complained!"

"He must have loved her alot," I remarked.

"That's an understatement!" she scoffed.

"Did she love him?" I asked, and she looked at me like I had two heads. But after a second or two, a pensive expression crossed her face.

"I think she did," the sister mused aloud. "At first, anyway."

"What changed?" I asked.

"The divorce," she answered, her eyes distant with memory. "It came out of the blue and surprised us all, especially Justin. Suddenly, she just served him papers! 'Irreconcilable Differences'! Can you imagine that?"

"You find it hard to believe?" I asked, and she snorted cynically.

"If that was the reason," she scoffed, "Then, Janet waited a long time to find it out!"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well," she replied, "They were opposites from the beginning, but the way they always looked at each other, we all thought it would last, anyway. Just goes to show you, doesn't it?"

I nodded, and she asked, "You want to look around inside, now?"

"No, that won't be necessary," I told her. "We need to look at the scene of the crime, too."

She nodded, then looked pensive. Solemnly, she asked me, "Do you think my borther did it? Do you think he killed Janet?"

"It's too early to judge," I told her. "But, based on your brother's lawn, I'd say it wasn't looking good."

"What?" she demanded angrily, as the same word came out of Prettyboy's mouth, as well. He was the one that asked, "Why?"

"The prosecutor could take one look at this lawn and see a meticulous individual," I told them. "Remember, there wasn't any evidence left at the scene except for the murder weapon and some DNA under the victim's nails. And, even the knife was wiped of prints."

"My brother didn't kill her!" she furiously insisted. Then, calmer, she added, "Besides, wouldn't it be too obvious that he did it? I mean, it's not like there's a long list of suspects here!"

"Maybe he wasn't worried about being caught?" I ventured, making her angry.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

"He loved her, didn't he?" I pointed out. "Maybe since he couldn't live with her, he didn't want to live without her."

She just stared at me incredulously for a moment, then frowned and said, accusingly, "You're crazy!"

"I get that a lot," I told her. Then, there was something I had to know ever since I met her, so I asked, "Mr. Beaux is your step-brother, isn't he?"

That shocked her, all right. Even Prettyboy's jaw dropped. She peered at me intently and demanded, "Where did you hear that?"

"Well," I asked, dodging her question, "Are you?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" she heatedly demanded. I didn't reply, and she glared at me some before admitting, "It's a family secret, but, yes, we are. Sort of. It's a long story, but hardly anyone knows it. Did he tell you?"

"I just noticed certain things," I told her. Then, knowing what she was going to ask, I added, "And, no, I don't think it has anything to do with the case."

"So, you won't tell anyone?" she hesitantly asked.

"No." I promised. And, I meant it.

When Prettyboy and I returned to the Hummer, the sister waved good-bye to us. He turned to me and said, "Step-sister?"

"Get your mind out of the gutter," I told him.

"What are you talking about?" he asked so innocently that I knew he wasn't faking. "I just wanted to know how you figured it out!"

"Never mind," I told him. "Let's just go to the victim's apartment."

"Finally!" Prettyboy merrily exclaimed. "The scene of the crime!"

It wasn't voodoo that decorated the house. It wasn't even close. And, as I expected, someone came in to clean up after all the pictures were taken and the evidence gathered. The landlord, who let us in, told me that it was done the moment they had the go-ahead from the police, and then complained that no one had yet come to take out Ms. Limb's things. I could tell he was eager to rent the place out despite the address still being pretty fresh on people's minds. That's pretty much why he bought my story about needing a place of my own and wanting to take a look around. He even consented to letting us look around in private, which helped a lot. I didn't have him asking stupid questions and wasting my time. I found what I was looking for, and then some, and after Googling some stuff, I had my answers.

All the while, Prettyboy was gabbling about something or other, but I generally ignored him as the investigation proceeded. He'd finally had enough, though, because he very loudly asked, "Did he do it, or didn't he?"

I looked at him, surprised at the outburst, and he fumed, "Don't pretend I haven't been asking you all this time! You wandered around like you were lost, looking at everything, touching stuff, and reading book covers, and ignoring everything I had to say! And, when I asked you if you'd solved it, you don't even answer! And now that I finally have your attention, I'll ask again! Did you -?"

"Don't bother," I told him. "I know who killed Ms. Limb."

"Who?" he avidly demanded.

"She killed herself?" the suit dubiously repeated when I'd told him my theory.

"Thrust the knife into her own belly," I told him. "I guess she really wanted revenge."

"But, to kill herself?" the suit replied doubtfully. "Just to frame her ex-husband?"

"It wouldn't be hard to do," I told him. "There were books about ancient feudal Japan and the practice of sepuku on the table, too. Those pages opened quite naturally when I dropped them on their spines."

"So, that's why you did that!" Prettyboy gasped in revelation.

"But to kill herself?" the man exclaimed incredulously.

"Who knows what was going through her mind at the time," I replied.

"But that's psychotic!" he lawyer exclaimed. "No one does that!"

"Ms. Limb might have," I told him.

"Might have?" The lawyer slipped back into dubious mode.

"All I have are educated guesses," I told him.

"I can't take educated guesses to court!" he told me.

"That's what every case is, anyway, isn't it?" I replied.

He scowled, then told me, "The prosecution would tear it apart! Besides, there's the DNA evidence!"

"You forget the argument the day before," I reminded him.

"Are you saying that's where she got the skin and blood under her nail?" he asked doubtfully.

I nodded, and said, before he could bring it up himself, "There was a bloody handkerchief clutched in her hand, covering the wound. Investigators thought she'd used it to try staunching the blood so she could call the police, and she died before she could reach the phone. But what if she used it to make sure she left none of her own prints on the murder weapon, and clutched it there to cover up its real intent. If she followed the instructions in the book, there was nothing to stop her from bleeding to death."

"The knife was found several feet away from the body," the lawyer pointed out.

"Where she had undoubtedly tossed it," I told him.

"And, you think I could use any of this in court?" he demanded. "Where's the evidence?"

"Well," I told him. "It might not prove Mr. Beaux innocent, but it might cast doubt on the prosecution's case."

"It'll get me laughed out of court!" the lawyer moaned. Then, brightening a little, he avidly asked, "Unless you have something I could use? Like an expert testimony? Or a witness placing Mr. Beaux at home during the murder?"

I shook my head, and the man's face fell. Then, angrily, he turned to Prettyboy and snapped, "Your agency promised results! This is NOT what I call results! And, I'm not going to pay for this!"

"You promised to," I reminded him, "No matter the results."

"I paid for professionalism!" the man fumed. "Not this...this...whatever you call it! It sounds like you made it all up off the top of your head! I can't take whatever you pull out of your ass to court! I need facts! Not conjecture! Now, get out! You've wasted enough of my time!"

Prettyboy didn't even try to argue, but he gave me a sheepish glance as we turned to leave. As we were going out his office door, the lawyer peevishly told us, "I hope you're satisfied, gentlemen! You've just condemned an innocent man to prison with your foolishness!"

Out in the waiting room, Prettyboy turned to me, looking very guilty, and asked, "Did we? Did we just condemn an innocent man?"

I looked at him, but I didn't have anything to say. I knew I was right, but I had no way of proving it.

Prettyboy didn't visit for a few days afterward, so I figured he'd finally given up on the detective agency foolishness, given the circumstances. To be honest, I was glad for the rest, but mostly, I was feeling pretty guilty, myself. The suit was right. I hadn't found any concrete evidence. Just conjecture. And, I had nothing that would convince a jury. But still, I knew I was right. The only thing was, I still couldn't prove it.

There was a picture in the paper of the trial, and an accompanying article, but I didn't read it. My focus was on the picture, and on someone in particular. I had to dust off my old magnifier to get a better look, and what I saw amazed me. I wasn't sure what to make of it, though. Should I tell someone, or check it out for myself? I finally decided to make a phone call.

"Hello?" Prettyboy asked drowsily on the other end.

"How would you like to solve this case?" I asked him, putting some excitement in my voice to rev him up.

"It's," he yawned, paused for a while, then added, "Four in the morning!"

"And?" I asked. Wasn't everyone up by then?

"Can it wait 'til ten?" he sleepily asked.

"He might get away by then," I told him.

An extended yawn came through the phone, then he said, breathlessly, "Okay. Give me a minute!" But before he hung up, he suddenly demanded, "How did you get this number?"

I smiled at the thought of him glaring at his phone in wonder. Then, I told him, "See you in twenty minutes!"

"How do you know how long it takes -?" he asked before I hung up on him. I had to leave some mystery for him, didn't I?

He followed instructions, and by the time we'd gotten there, he'd asked me the same question a dozen times. Even as he parked, he asked it again. "Why are we at Mr. Beaux's house?"

"To see if he's still home," I replied, and a glance out the window told me he was. I got out and stepped into the yard, with Prettyboy following close behind.

"What are you talking about?" he demanded. "The guy's in jail!"

I looked at the immaculate hedges, all missing their pale new growths, and at the perfectly level, weed-free grass, and I said, "Looks like he's here."

A flutter of the front window curtain confirmed my hypothesis, so I headed for the door. Prettyboy was backing me up, though he didn't know it, as I knocked. The curtain fluttered a little, like there was a draft inside, but I knew who it was.

"Might as well open the door," I called through the aluminum. "I saw your picture in the paper!"

And he did. And, to Prettyboy's astonishment, there stood Mr. Justin Beaux. He was older and fatter, with ashen hair and a salt-and-pepper beard, and crows feet at the corners of his eyes, but there was no mistaking him. As the poor young man gawked at the older one, I asked Mr. Beaux, "May we come in?"

"You don't look surprised to see me," he said when we had moved to the family room to chat.

"I am!" Prettyboy boistrously admitted.

"I have a pretty open mind," I told him. Then, I was all business as I asked, "You mind telling us why you went to observe your own trial?"

"You don't want to know how I went back through time?" he countered in astonishment.

"I'm sure that can come later," I told him. Back on the subject, I remarked, to prompt him to talk, "It's pretty risky, isn't it? Aren't you afraid someone else might recognize you?"

"They won't," he told me. "All they'll think is I'm my older brother or something."

"But why go at all?" I asked, really wanting to know.

He didn't reply, and I could tell he was hiding something. I had a hunch what it was, so I took a stab in the dark, so to speak, and said, "You tried to prevent the murder."

He was strangely quiet for a long time, and thank goodness Prettyboy didn't spoil it by saying something stupid. Then, he suddenly opened up and said, "I saw her stab herself! Why would she do that?"

"Did she show any signs of psychosis before?" I asked him as gently as I could.

He was quiet for a while, then he reluctantly said, "We didn't want anyone to know. She had fits of violent anger, and she would make up things in her head.Sometimes, she even did things to make those things come real."

"Like take out an insurance policy on herself in your name?" I pointedly asked him.

He looked shocked at the memory. "Why would she do that?" he muttered to himself.

"Why didn't you mention any of this at your arrest?" I asked him. "It would have saved yourself a lot of trouble."

He didn't answer, but Prettyboy did for him. "You loved her that much?"

"I didn't know!" Mr. Beaux loudly protested. Then, he sullenly added, "How could I know she would do that? I probably should have, though. But her fits were our secret, and I promised to take them to my grave!"

"So, you didn't know about the policy," I reiterated. "And, you didn't tell the police about the scratch or the argument because you thought it was just another of her fits?"

He hung his head in reply.

"You can still put this right," I told him. He looked up at me and I told him, "You can still testify."

He looked miserable when he said, "I can't. I only have a little longer here before the device drags me back to the present."

I leaned closer to him and said, "There is a way."

An hour later, after the man had faded away before my eyes, I called the lawyer and told him, "I've got something on my cell that you need to watch."