A powerful alibi can unravel with a single, thumb-sized smudge of ink. Before dawn, in a damp parking garage, an investigator holds a crumpled stub. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. The air is thick with the smell of wet metal and rain. And on the stub’s edge, a faint purple mark—the ghost of a wheel stamp—waits to be seen.
When paired with the attendant’s routine log, the official timeline sh...
