Later that evening, Vernon Dixon sat in a lawn chair held together with duct tape and large safety pins.  He sucked on a cigarette and slurped a warm beer as he leaned back against the outside wall of his dingy yellow trailer.

He let the aluminum chair fall forward as he watched Job Thomas pull his truck into the parking space for the trailer next door.

“Hey, Job!” Vernon called out with false cheerfulness.

The older man frowned and glanced over at his younger neighbor.  He didn’t like Vernon Dixon and his rowdy group of friends.  He suspected that Vernon was responsible for his missing lawn rake, cement blocks and several other items Job once had around his modest trailer.  Since he couldn’t prove it, he stayed a casually friendly neighbor to the man.

“Vernon,” Job nodded in his neighbor’s direction.

Vernon jumped up quickly, causing his rickety chair to fall over with a clatter, but he caught up with Job half way up the man’s sidewalk.

“What you want?” Job asked, his eyes taking in Vernon’s tobacco stained grin.

“I know you work down at the police station, so I s’pect you heard ‘bout that fat kid gettin’ let go,” Vernon stated, knowing he’d get a reaction from Job.

“Ain’t my business,” Job responded, but Vernon noticed the venom in his voice. “’Sides, in a few more months, I’ll be free from that place.”

“I’ll bet that fancy, big city lawyer had somethin’ to do with it,” Vernon suggested.

“No doubt,” Job answered, but tried to move around the younger man.

“Can’t help but wonder if that lawyer ain’t got somebody workin’ for him,” Vernon continued, “You know, he don’t look the type to be doin’ any more than pushin’ paper around.”  Vernon smiled to himself as he saw Job’s jaw muscle tighten.

Job had wanted the Yankee kid to be guilty of killing Lydia Morton.  He didn’t like ‘Yanks’ and he felt sure they had the kid, dead to right.

“He’s got some detective workin’ for him,” Job heard himself say, “Name of Hardy; this guy’s got a couple smart mouth kids that work with him, too.”  Job turned abruptly and went into his trailer, slamming the door behind him.

Vernon didn’t mind, though.  He was pretty sure he knew who Brian Jackson had seen snooping around the bridge.  “Too bad old Job’s retirin’.  He always knows what’s happenin’ down at the police station.”

* * *

“Chet, I have the descriptions you gave me of the three men on the bridge,” Sean Prescott said, rummaging through his briefcase.  “Here it is.”

Sean looked intently at Chet.  “You told me that one man was dark-skinned with dreadlocks; a second had curly black hair and a small mustache; the third was tall and had a fair complexion with long, blondish hair.  Which one asked about the lighter?”

Chet Morton bit his lip and his brow furrowed in concentration.  “I’m pretty sure it was the blond guy.”

“We need to turn the lighter over to the police and…” Sean started.

“No!” Joe Hardy quickly jumped to his feet in protest.  “They have no intention of proving Chet’s innocence!  They should have found that lighter! We can’t just…”

“Joe,” Frank quietly stood and placed his hands on his short-tempered brother’s shoulders.  “I think we need to let Sean finish.”

Sean shook his head slightly and walked up to Joe.  “I’ll bet you were a ton of fun to raise.”  Joe blushed as he heard his father and brother chuckling softly behind him.

“As I was saying,” Sean smiled at the younger boy, “we have to turn the evidence over to the police, like it or not.  But, we need to take a few detailed pictures before we do that.”

Joe glanced up and met Sean’s eyes.  “Sorry.  I’m a little…ah, impulsive…sometimes.”

“A little?” Fenton Hardy added with a smirk.

“We’ve got our digital camera in the van,” Frank offered.  “I’ll get it.”

“Wait, I’ll come too. We can bring in your laptop and portable printer,” Joe suggested.  “I can download the pictures and get the prints right here.”

“Good idea,” Fenton clapped both his boys on the shoulders.  “We can make as many prints as we need.

“We may not have the guy from the bridge, but I’d be willing to bet that someone in town will recognize the lighter,” Fenton continued.

“And if someone recognizes the lighter, they’ll know who it belongs to!” Chet exclaimed, catching Mr. Hardy’s line of thought.

“We can split up and show the pictures around town,” Chester Morton added, anxious to help.

“Let’s get busy then,” Frank said as he made his way toward the motel room door.

* * *

“Those boys on the bridge,” Vernon Dixon began as he faced Brian Jackson, “were some detective’s kids.”  The two men stood on Brian’s back porch.  They could hear the rushing water of the Black Warrior River several yards away.

“Detective’s kids! Man, Vern, we’re gonna be in major trouble here!” Brian cried, tugging nervously on his dark dreadlocks.

“Chill! I already called Morris,” Vernon hissed.  “He knows how to handle problems like this.”

* * *

“I’m going up to visit the D.A. again,” Sean Prescott said as he shook hands with Fenton Hardy.  “I’ll leave you all to search out the owner of the lighter.”

“Works for me,” Fenton told the young attorney.  He handed Sean the lighter.  “You’ll see that this gets to the police, right?”

“Yes,” Sean replied, rolling his eyes, “and I’m overjoyed about visiting the local police again.”

After Sean left, Fenton turned to face his sons and the Mortons.  “I’m going to check in with Sam and then pay a visit to David Neel, the man that found Chet along the river.  I’m hoping he saw more than he told the police.

“Meanwhile, I’d like the four of you to hit the streets with the pictures of that lighter and see what you turn up.”

“We’ll get right on it,” Joe said, exchanging a grin with his brother.

“We’ll split up,” Frank stated and glanced at Chet Morton and his father, sitting on the edge of the bed.  “Joe and Chet, you guys head south along the main street while Mr. Morton and I check out the side streets.”

“All right!” Joe and Chet said together, giving each other a quick ‘high-five’.