Frank and Joe Hardy left early the next morning.  Taking turns behind the wheel of their black van, the Hardy brothers drove from Bayport to Moundville, Alabama in about 20 hours, stopping only for brief periods.

“Do we head straight for the jail?” Joe asked, trying unsuccessfully to stretch his six-foot frame in the confines of the front passenger seat.

“I think it might be a good idea to check into a motel and grab a shower first,” Frank suggested as they entered the town of Moundsville.  “I feel grubby from being on the road so long.”

Frank pulled their customized van into the parking lot of the first decent-looking motel he came to on the outskirts of the town.  Frank parked and climbed out of the driver’s side door.

“I’ll check us in.”

Joe watched his brother walk toward the office, and then got out of the van to stretch and try to work a kink out of his back.  As he glanced around, Joe noticed a newspaper vending machine beside the office door.  Grabbing some change from his back pocket, Joe purchased a local newspaper.

Leaning against a rail, the blond Hardy boy began reading the cover story to himself.  It was all about Chet Morton and his cousin Lydia.  Joe felt frustrated as he read the biased report.

“They’ve already convicted Chet!” Joe whispered a little louder than he’d intended.

“He killed that girl and deserves to be punished!”

Joe turned towards the voice.  A man about forty years old stood on the curb, leaning against the Hardys’ van.  He was shorter than Joe, but a good twenty pounds heavier.

“But he didn’t do it,” Joe said, facing the stranger.

The man squinted as he looked Joe over from head to toe.  “Ain’t nobody found any evidence to the contrary…boy,” came the man’s reply. 

“You a friend of that killer?”

As Frank stepped out of the office with the room key, he saw Joe’s shoulder’s tense and his fists clench into tight balls.

 ‘Great,’ Frank thought, but called out, “Joe! I’ve got a room!”

Joe heard his brother and sighed.  He was ready to punch this guy’s lights out for calling Chet a killer.  His anger temporarily abated, Joe relaxed and faced his approaching brother.

Frank gave Joe a quick, reassuring glance before turning to the man leaning against their van.

“I’m Frank Hardy,” the eighteen-year old stated.  “I see you’ve already met my younger brother, Joe.”

“Thomas.  Job Thomas,” the man replied, ignoring Frank’s outstretched hand.

“He called Chet a killer,” Joe grumbled.

“Well,” Frank said in an even tone of voice, “that is yet to be proven, isn’t it sir?”  Frank kept one hand lightly on Joe’s shoulder.  He knew Joe’s hot temper was already simmering.

Job grunted, but moved away from the van.  “The police say your buddy killed that girl and I believe ‘em.”  The man turned and walked away from the Hardy brothers.

Frank tugged lightly on Joe’s elbow.  “Come on.  Let’s go check out our room.”  Joe pulled his eyes away from Job Thomas and met his brother’s gaze.  Frank smiled and said softly, “We’ll find the truth, Joe.”

Joe sighed, suddenly feeling very tired from their long trip.  “I call first dibs on the shower!”  He grabbed the key from Frank’s hand before the older boy could reply.  Frank just shook his head and watched Joe unlock the room door, just a few feet away from where their van was parked.

“Wonder what he plans to wear when he comes out of the shower?” Frank grinned as he grabbed both their duffle bags from the back of the van before locking the vehicle.

* * *

Brian Jackson and Morris Grafton lounged on the tattered sofa in their friend’s trailer.  Empty beer cans littered the dirty floor and the smell of cat urine reeked throughout the confines of the mobile home.

“You think they’s both dead?” Brian asked.

“Yeah,” Vernon Dixon replied, glancing at Brian.  “Nothin’ to worry ‘bout.”

* * *

“Jake, the press are making it sound like the police have already convicted this boy,” Fenton Hardy told the distinguished man that sat across the desk from him.  “I know your son is a criminal defense lawyer in Birmingham.  Would he be willing to look into this?”

Jacob Prescott rubbed a finger across his lower lip.  “You say you’ve known this Morton boy a long time?”

“He’s been a good friend of my boys since he was in pre-school with Frank.  Yes, I believe I know Chet Morton quite well and the kid is no killer.  If he’d accidentally hurt his cousin, I believe Chet would have admitted it.”

Jake leaned forward in his chair.  “I’ll call Sean.  I’m sure he’s already read about the case in the paper.  This is the sort of thing he loves.

“If the police are pressuring this kid, Sean will have a field day with that.  It’s a common practice with some of those ‘small town’ police.  They want their reputation as a great place to live and raise a family to stay intact.  A girl getting killed on a bridge in Hale County doesn’t fit their neat little image.

“They need a conviction right away and it is convenient that your friend is an outsider; that makes him the perfect scapegoat.”

“That’s what I suspected,” Fenton grimly nodded.  “I plan to take Chet’s father down to Alabama as soon as my partner locates the family and brings them back to Bayport.

“Meanwhile, my boys are already down there offering Chet moral support.”

“Who are you fooling, Fenton?”  Jake chuckled.  “I’ve known about your boys for several years now and there is no way they are going to sit around and just offer support!”

* * *

“Hey, Mr. Clean,” Frank rapped on the motel room’s bathroom door, “What did you plan to wear after you got out of the shower?”

Joe was toweling himself dry when he heard Frank’s voice through the door.  “Ah, I was kinda hoping you remembered to bring in our bags.”

Joe opened the door and poked his head out.  He gave Frank his best smile.

“Here,” Frank passed the blue duffle bag to his brother.  “You owe me, little brother.”

Minutes later, Joe emerged from the bathroom to find Frank sitting on the end of the bed, watching the morning news.

“Shower’s open,” Joe commented.

“Shh!” Frank hissed.  Joe sat down next to his brother to find out what was so fascinating on the television.

“So, Chief Struthers,” a reporter was saying as she faced a pot-bellied man in a grey uniform, “the suspect taken in for questioning has been arrested for killing Lydia Morton?”

“Not yet, Miss Schaffer,” the man replied.  “But we believe he is close to confessing.”

Joe and Frank Hardy looked from the television to face each other. 

“No way,” Joe stated, his eyes wide with shock at the words he’d just heard.

“Something’s wrong here, Joe,” Frank said, putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Chet didn’t kill his cousin and it looks like it’ll be up to us to prove it.”