I put all the evidence in storage unit 108, in Phoenix. Do not confront Reagan until you’ve seen it first. Do not trust anyone in that house.

The letter ended with: They made you take the blame for something you didn’t do. I love you, son. Dad.

The gardener, Thomas, lent me some money so I could catch a bus to the industrial side of town.

“Your dad used to come to the cemetery when he was very sick,” Thomas told me quietly. “He said you needed to leave prison with the truth in your hands.”

The storage place sat in the middle of a sketchy area full of auto shops and warehouses. The key worked perfectly on lock 108. I pulled up the metal door, and a huge cloud of dust hit my face.

Inside, there wasn’t any old furniture or junk. It looked like a crime lab.