“So boys, what did you find at the bridge?” Fenton Hardy asked, looking from Frank’s warm brown eyes to Joe’s deep blue ones.

Frank and Joe exchanged a quick glance.  Fenton raised his eyebrows and folded his arms.  “Boys?”

“We did find out a couple of things out on the County Line Bridge,” Frank offered.  Fenton smiled proudly and Sean leaned forward expectantly.

“We, ah, did some measuring,” Joe said, licking his lips.  “We found out that the Black Warrior River is running over 30 feet higher than the police reported.”

“Explain,” Sean ordered.

Joe looked anxiously at Frank.  Frank shrugged and said, “It was your idea little brother.”

“Thanks,” Joe mumbled, but then faced Sean and his father.  Joe gave his father a sheepish grin.  “Don’t get mad, Dad.”

“Do I have reason to be?” Fenton asked, suddenly standing and moving closer to the boys.

Joe took a deep breath, then as quickly as he could, he gave a condensed version of their measuring technique on the bridge.  “I-went-over-the-edge-with-a-rope-around-my-waist-and-measured-the-distance-from-the-bridge-to-the-river.”

Fenton stared at his younger son in disbelief.  “You did what?”

“We had no way of measuring the rope, so it seemed like a good idea at the time,” Joe offered weakly.

“That’s Joe for you!” Chet Morton grinned at his friend.

“Joe, that was extremely dangerous! How could you…” Fenton cried.

“Dad, the point is, there is a major discrepancy in the police report,” Frank interrupted.  “And, because of it, Joe found another important clue.”

Joe bit his lip and waited for his father to say something.

Fenton sighed.  “Joe, I’m sorry.  What you did required guts, and I suppose you did what you had to do to get some answers.”

“Dad,” Joe handed his father the plastic bag containing the lighter, “if I hadn’t climbed down the side of the bridge, I never would have seen this lighter.”

“A-a lighter?  Did you say, a lighter?” Chet asked, his eyes wide.

“Chet? Son?” Chester Morton turned worriedly toward his son.

“The three guys on the bridge,” Chet explained, his face pale, “one of them said he’d lost his lighter.”

* * *

“Vern, this is serious,” Brian Jackson said urgently as he paced across the threadbare carpet in Vernon Dixon’s trailer.  “Those kids were snooping ‘round that bridge a long time and the blond kid even crawled under the bridge.  They was up to somethin’.”

“I gotta find out who they are,” Vernon said, rubbing his finger across the stubble on his chin. 

He suddenly smiled.  “I know exactly who can help us, Jackson.”

“Who?”

“My good buddy, Job Thomas!”

* * *

The holding cell that had been most recently occupied by Chester Morton, Jr. was now thoroughly scrubbed down and ready for a new occupant.

Job Thomas pushed the metal bucket on its wheeled dolly toward the janitorial room at the end of the cell block.  He unlocked the door and heard voices carrying from the small employee lunchroom next door to the janitor’s room.

Job stood quietly and eaves-dropped on the police officers’ conversation.

“With the famous Fenton Hardy and his boys helping that hot-shot lawyer, the Morton kid is bound to walk.”

“I’m not sure that kid did anything out there on the bridge.  Just ‘cause Calhoun didn’t find any evidence to back up the boy’s story, doesn’t mean he wasn’t telling the truth,” offered a second voice.

“And we all know how Everett Calhoun likes to cut corners,” came a third and deeper voice.  “Knowing ‘ole Everett, he probably sent some rookie to investigate the bridge, if he sent anyone at all.”

Low laughter could be heard inside the room.

“Fenton Hardy is a top investigator and I’ve read that his boys are pretty good detectives, too,” the first voice stated.  “I’d be willing to bet they’ll find the truth.”

Job put the bucket away and locked the door.  He’d heard quite enough.  As he made his way to the employee locker room to put away his janitorial overalls, he thought about the two young men he’d met a couple days ago.

As he left the police station for the day, he knew that he’d already met Fenton Hardy’s two sons and he already knew he didn’t like them.

* * *

Joyce Morton picked up the phone for the third time.  Again she tried to dial the number her sister-in-law had left on their answering machine. 

“I can’t,” she sobbed.

Chuck understood his wife’s distress, but he also knew in his heart that Betty Morton understood their pain.  It wasn’t all that long ago that Chester and Betty thought their beautiful daughter Iola was dead.

“I think you should,” Chuck said gently, “but I won’t do it for you.  Betty has been like a sister to you, Joyce.”

“What if it’s true?  What if the news is right and Chet pushed my baby off that bridge?”

“Do you really believe that, Joyce?” Chuck questioned.  “Chet lived here with us.  He ate at our table.  You saw him with Lydia every day.  Do you really think he’d ever do anything to hurt her?”

Joyce looked into her husband’s warm brown eyes, marred by the pain of losing their only child.  She picked up the telephone again, only this time she completed the dialing.

Many miles away in Bayport, the telephone on the wall rang and Laura Hardy answered it.

“Hello, this is Joyce Morton.  May I speak to Betty, please?”