The Resurrection File by Craig Parshall

that. They had the bank surrounded. A single gunman was holding some hostages. And somebody died, right?”
    â€œAn officer died in a shoot-out,” Will responded quietly. “The board of inquiry blamed him for giving the order to go in shooting rather thanwaiting for the hostage negotiators. They said his drinking was a contributing factor.”
    â€œSo how did the case end?” Jacki continued.
    â€œI got him his job back. There was a technical mistake in the way they fired him. We won on a procedural argument.”
    â€œWhatever happened to him—the police chief?”
    Will was silent.
    â€œWhat ever happened to that guy?” Jacki asked again.
    â€œHe died.”
    â€œOh, yeah?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œHow?”
    Will was silent again, but Jacki probed a little more. “So what was the deal with that guy? Did he stay on with the police department awhile, before he died?”
    Will didn’t respond at first. But when he did, his voice was almost inaudible.
    â€œAfter we won the case I tried to contact him. I called him at his house. He hadn’t showed up at the police station for a couple of days. He didn’t answer the phone. So I took a drive over to his house. His car was parked outside. The shades were drawn, so I couldn’t see in. I knocked on the door. No answer. I called the police.” Will paused for a few seconds. Then he concluded. “They broke down the door. They found him sitting in a chair with a glass of booze in his hand. Eyes wide open. His liver disintegrated—or he had a heart attack—something like that.”
    They were in the Virginia countryside now, and Jacki pulled the Corvette into the long driveway that led, through the arch of trees, up to Generals’ Hill.
    Jacki pulled the car to a stop near the front pillars of the old mansion, and then turned it off. She eased back in the seat for a moment. There was only the sound of the breeze rustling in the leaves, and a few birds up in the trees.
    â€œCan he pay? This MacCameron guy?” Will asked.
    â€œHe’s got funding from the magazine, so he may be able to pay a fairly substantial retainer. I really didn’t talk money with him. I figured you ought to do that. His daughter, Fiona, was with him. She’s some kind of Christian singer. A very classy-looking woman. I did notice she didn’t have a wedding ring, which is interesting. Especially with a face that looks like it belongs on a fashion magazine. I got the feeling she’s sort of looking after dear old Dad. But Dad says he won’t take a penny of his daughter’s money—he insists onfunding his defense himself. This guy MacCameron, he’s really a hoot. You know, a real ‘praise the Lord’ type, except I think he’s Scottish or something. And I read the article he wrote against this Dr. Reichstad; it’s something else. He brought the article with him. He really goes after Reichstad.”
    â€œOh. Like how?” Will asked, trying to act uninterested.
    â€œLike accusing him of fraudulent scholarship in interpreting this piece of ancient writing he found. And MacCameron even implicated Reichstad in the murder of an archaeologist friend of his in Jerusalem.”
    â€œBoy, that’s a bad start to the case. Accusations of professional incompetence, coupled with the imputation of the commission of a crime. Classic examples of defamation per se,” Will noted. “Tiny told me J-Fox is representing the plaintiff. Arguing a case against Sherman is like getting your teeth drilled.”
    â€œYeah. This Professor Reichstad must be really well-connected to snag the Sherman firm,” Jacki said, her voice trailing off. And then she added, with some genuine empathy, “Will, even if the money for your fees is there, maybe you need to let this case go. Sherman is going to try to bury you,” Jacki continued. “Once he finds out that you are on your