Chapter 8

Cartier, September 1

September brought early frost, falling leaves, and alternating crisp, clear and warm, foggy mornings to the Lower Peninsula.  Saturday arrived misty.  Jill took dishes to the sink and came back to the table with a second cup of coffee.

"I called your uncle about the car," she announced.

"What about it?"

"I am buying it."

Richard was alarmed but quickly concluded that argument would be futile.  Mic had contacted neither of them for months.  When they had chanced to see him, he was invariably with the coed Jill had seen at the clothing store.  Richard was tempted to believe that he had lost interest in Jill, but he didn't believe it.

"Your uncle says I may make payments."

Jill had driven the car when they returned it after getting the Cougar back.  He remembered his surprise when she had told them that they were engaged.

"Is that why you told them we were engaged?" he asked.

"What?"

"It would help you to . . ."

"To make the deal?  That is insulting," she said.  "No.  I forgot to take the ring off, and your aunt asked about it.  What was I supposed to say?"

She got up from the table.

"I need my own car.  Unless I have some independence I might as well be your prisoner again."

Jill busied herself at the sink with abbreviated motions.  When she pulled the stopper to empty the sink, he came over to help put away the dishes.

"Can we at least talk it through?" he asked.

In icy silence, she dried her hands, folded the dishtowel, and placed it carefully on the counter before speaking.

"He has not contacted us since we came back from Indiana.  Maybe it is finally over.  I am not ready to live alone again, and you have been very solicitous of my privacy, but this constant . . . shepherding is . . . is confining.  I feel like a child."

"Jill, I don't know how to say this without it sounding condescending," he began.

"Then maybe it is condescending," she said irritably.  "Hear me, Richard.  I do not need your permission for this, so do not be unpleasant."

Since there was no dissuading her, he tried to salvage what he could.

"All right.  I know it looks like he may have lost interest.  It's natural to think that way, but dangerous to assume.  It's like routine patrol.  You go out so many times without anything happening and you start relaxing and---"

"I love these military analogies."

He chose to ignore her sarcasm.

"Then I'll continue.  If you go out without expecting the worst, you lose your edge.  And then when something does come down, you can't react in time.  Jill, the analogy fits.  He can play it any way he wants, choose his time and place.  You just have to remember that as long as he's here, so is the danger."

"I will buy the car and I will go where I want when I want.  Besides, I am buying a cell phone.  Will it reassure you if I call to inform you when I get to my destination and when I leave?"

"If you're careful where you park and remember to lock the car."

"It is settled then," she said, tiptoeing to put dishes into the old cupboard.

Suddenly he ached at the sight of her, ached for the house to be their home, not the minimum-security prison he knew she felt it to be.  But he could no more say that than he could encircle her small waist the way he felt like doing right now.  Ironically, now that she voluntarily shared his place, she was further from him than when she was his prisoner on Bonne Femme.

"Marta and I are going to the mall this afternoon," she announced without turning around.

"Okay."

She turned and stared at him earnestly.  "Richard, you are reluctant to consider it, but perhaps you are wrong about him.  I know that he is abusive to women.  Believe me, I know that he enjoys hurting people---like that boy he beat so badly.  But perhaps the rest is not true."

He was dismayed that she was beginning to doubt what she was once sure of.

"Maybe you are . . . "

"Imagining it?" he finished.

"Perhaps.  Or perhaps he only did things over in Somalia where there was no law.  I do not know.  Only nothing has happened since that day at the clothing store."

"Except that Rose Ford's nude, frozen body was dumped where it could be discovered as soon as we got back?  What do you make of that, Jill?"

She stared at him, white-faced.

"You think it was because of us?  Because we went away and he became angry?"

"I don't know," he said honestly.  "All I know is that he knew her and he's capable of it."

"I know that you think that, but---"

"Jill!  The girl in Missouri was strangled.  The one I found him with in Mogadishu was strangled.  Rose was strangled.  He told me he would . . .  He put his hands around your neck.  What more proof do you want need?"

"Yes," she said wearily.  "But you do not understand.  I cannot live my whole life in fear."

"Then you need to get the hell out of here!  If I get the money for you, will you go back to France to finish your degree there?"

"Stop cursing at me!  And no, I will not go back.  I will finish here."

"I'm sorry.  Listen.  I can get the money.  Please consider it."

"Doctor Russell says that after I get my Masters degree, he can get me into a doctorate program at Auburn University.  I have no one who can obtain me such a position in France."

"If you're determined to stay at Pere Marquette, you've got to cooperate with me so that I can make sure you're all right."

"Thank you," she said curtly.  "Now let us not argue about the car.  We can agree on procedures---with the phone, I mean."

"Okay, but you---"

"Stop!  I am not foolish.  I will be cautious---much more cautious than I was with you.  I will never again let a man isolate me like that."

"Jill, I'm sorry."

"So you have said.  Let's not speak of it further."

Her determination to be more independent was beyond his control but he couldn't let it go without one last word of warning.

"Senter told me that if he had killed the girl in Missouri and also killed Rose, then there are others."

"I have researched such things."

"You have?"

"Please.  Research is what I do."

"I'm not trying to scare you," he said.  "Just the opposite.  You see, he didn't really outsmart any of them.  He just took them unawares because they didn't know what he was.  But we know.  It's a different game now."

How much of a different game it was, they were soon to find out that is wasn't over.

September 3

Jill sat at an isolated table searching bound British Foreign Office documents for a telegram to the Foreign Office she thought she remembered originating in Cairo concerning Nazi contacts with the forerunner of the Muslim Brotherhood.  Immersed in her research, she took little notice as someone emerged from the stacks.

Suddenly hands clamped onto her shoulders.

"See how easy it would be, Baby?" Mic whispered.

When she tried to wrench away he pinched down on the tendons between leading to her neck.  He released her, but pushed the armchair toward the table imprisoning her.  Her eyes darted around the room, looking vainly for help.

"If what he's been telling you was true, I could take you any time I wanted," he said, placing a hand on the table and leaning down to look her in the face.  "And if I really wanted him out of the way . . . so that I could get at you---"  He paused to smile.  "Believe me it wouldn't be no problem."

"Then just leave us alone . . . and . . . and everyone can just forget about it," she managed.

"Just go away?" he said as if considering it.  "No.  I don't think I can do that.  There's too much unfinished business here---way too much."

"I will speak with him if you want.  I do not want any more trouble between you and Richard," she said, immediately wondering why she was falling into his game, trying to reason with him.

"I could snap his neck like a stick.  You know that?"

Jill's eyes flitted around the room again, but still no one was in sight.

"Of course you could make sure nothing happens to your fiancé."

He reached toward her cheek, and she flinched away.

"What do you say?  Want to find out what a real man's like?"

"You know nothing of being a real---"

The slap left her reeling.

"Hey.  Look at that," he mocked.  "Right in public."

Through blurred vision she saw two students walking toward them, lost in conversation.

Mic leaned in.

"Tell Ricky to call off Reeves," he whispered harshly.

As soon as he left, Jill fled to the bathroom without returning the books or taking her notes.  She locked herself in a stall and sat listening fearfully, sure that he would follow her.  The very silence of the room intensified her terror.  When the door opened she threw her hand to her mouth, but it was only two coeds who came in laughing.  She took a ragged breath of relief, but she still trembled.  After they were gone and her heart had slowed, she went to the mirror to examine her face.  Mic had hit her high on the side of the head.  She touched it and felt no pain.  Perhaps there would be no bruise.  She wanted to run away and hide, and was amazed to realize that the first place she thought of running to was not home to Aunt Mirabelle, but back to Bonne Femme with Richard, which was ridiculous.  She would never go there again.  The unexpected violence had taken away her ability to think clearly as well as her dignity.

She bit her lip and looked at her visage again.

"I cannot tell Richard," she murmured.

Then she cried.

Afterwards she collected herself, washed her face, reapplied her lipstick, and fixed her hair.  Then she called Richard.

"I finished my research earlier than I thought," she said hoarsely.  "Can you pick me up . . . for lunch?  I . . . there's something I'd like to speak with you about."

"Sure.  I'll be there in about maybe ten minutes.  Are you okay?"

"I'm fine.  Pick me up in front of the library," she said.  "I have to return some reference books to the desk."

"You sound funny.  Are you sure everything's okay?"

"I just have a headache.  Everything is fine."

"You saw him," he said.

Jill wondered how he knew.  She looked in the mirror again, tempted to tell him what Mic had done to her.  Then she remembered the boy beaten in parking lot.

"He is taking classes so it was inevitable that I see him eventually," she said, amazed at how easily the lie had come to her.

"I'll be there in a few minutes," he said.

Only after he hung up did she remember that she had driven her own car.

When Richard arrived he expected to see her waiting out front, didn't, and anxiously began scanning the street and parking lot for her car.  Then he saw her coming through the doors and down the sidewalk. 

"Where do you want to eat?" he asked as she got in.

"Perhaps Bartleby's.  They have good coffee and . . . we can talk."

He parked near the entrance to the bookstore and they went inside.  Richard tried not to wince overtly as he paid for the privilege of overheated, overpriced coffee and crumbly pastry.  They found seats at a three by three table in the reading lounge, and Jill sipped delicately at her espresso as she concentrated on breaking a blueberry scone into roughly equal halves.  She gathered the largest of the inevitable crumbs and chewed it somberly.  She had barely spoken a dozen words since he picked her up.

"So what's on you mind?" he asked.

"That town in Missouri," she said.  "I can be away for a few days, and I think I'd like to go there with you."

"Why now?"

"Seeing him today unnerved me I suppose," she said rearranging the napkin holding the remainder of the scone.

"Did he say anything to you?"

She continued to stare at the table rather than meet his eyes.

"Jill?"

"Oh . . . uh no, he . . . I just saw him and he . . . I do not think he has forgotten about us after all."

She exhaled audibly and raised her chin.  "I wish to research his past to either verify or disprove your theory."

He nodded, wondering what had really happened.

"I must know, Richard.  I must."

Marta called at eight-thirty, and Jill took her phone into the bedroom to talk.  He was just pulling a street map of Cassville, Missouri from the printer tray when she came out.

"Alberto, Marta's fiancé, is coming for a visit the day after tomorrow," she said.  "He will be here for three days.  We should be back in time to see him, should we not?"

"Seeing as how we don't have the money to stay very long, sure."

"Then I will pack, and we shall leave in the morning."

"How about in about five or six hours," he said as he shut down the computer.  "That's about all the sleep I usually get anyway."

Jill lay awake, trying not to think about Mic.  She hoped the trip would hasten the end of her nightmare but feared it might only intensify it.  Sleep came late and left early.

September 4

Jill gasped and sat up abruptly at the sound of the alarm.  Disconnected fragments of a dream beat a path back to the dark recesses from whence they had come, leaving behind only their disturbing aura.  She tried momentarily to gather the pieces, but decided that it was not a good idea.  Stripping off the oversized T-shirt she had slept in, she pulled on an equally loose-fitting sweatshirt, and a pair of walking shorts.  Richard was sitting fully clothed in the dark when she came into the living room.

"The suitcases are in the bedroom if you wish to take them to the car while I shower," she told him, stifling a yawn.

"Take your time.  I already shaved, so we're ahead of schedule."

Jill changed into jeans and a long sleeved shirt after showering, put on a denim jacket and grabbed a pillow, and went down where Richard sat in the idling car.  The starry night brought memories of Bonne Femme and the rite of passage Richard had unwittingly forced upon her by making her face her own mortality.

Yet, here I am still with him, she thought as she got into the car.

Richard's tension ebbed as the Cougar rolled through dark countryside skirting the lakeshore.  Why not?  Jill curled safely asleep next to him, and they were leaving Mic behind at least for a while.  He had no illusions as to his investigative abilities.  He was a rank amateur, but he knew that she would find any paper trail that existed.  Interviews worried him the most.  He had seen JR question people, but it had always concerned minor stuff like, "What was the fight all about?" or "Who was in the car with you?"

"I haven't even had interrogation 101," he muttered softly.

When he hit I-80 west the clear, fogless dawn brought the sun directly into his mirror, so he stopped at a waffle house to let the sun rise a few degrees before continuing.  Jill awoke as he turned off the ignition.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"Calumet City."

Inside, the place proved to be as packed as the parking lot, but a harried waitresses bustled about efficiently and soon they had coffee in hand and breakfast on the way.

"It'll be kind of touchy talking with people who knew the girl down there," he said.  "Country people are pretty reticent with outsiders.  Maybe you'd have better luck talking with them than I would."

"American men take women no more seriously than do Frenchmen."

"No man alive could resist talking to you."

"Yes.  They would think I'm cute," she said dryly.  "You speak with the men.  Perhaps I will speak with the women."

"You can gather the public information, right?"

"It is only time consuming," she said.  "We begin at the local government offices."

"The courthouse."

"Yes.  They will have all the Boyd family documents for the time they lived there:  births, deaths, marriages, divorces, adoptions, and other court proceedings, also the land transactions.  From newspaper files we must get the articles concerning the murder of the girl, and all the police reports involving him.  Of course we need a more complete criminal history if we can obtain one."

"That should take care of the documentary part then," he said.

"It is only the first step.  After we analyze it we will know what else to look for."

"We'll need a victim profile too," he said.  "We'll have to talk to people who knew her so that we can find out what she was like---the same with him.  And, of course, we need to see how many times their paths crossed.  I'd like to see the case file and evidence, but they won't let me near that because I'm a civilian."

He noticed a dark spot at the corner of left eye.

"I think you smudged your mascara or something," he said.

Jill frowned.  She had applied no makeup since showering.  In her hurried preparation this morning she had failed to notice any discoloration.

"I bumped into the door when I went into the bathroom last night," she improvised.  "I did not want awaken you so I failed to turn on the light.  Does it look bad?"

"It looks like it hurts."

She touched it gently.  "Could you go to the car for my sunglasses while I go to the restroom to see how bad it looks?  I placed them in the storage compartment in the control panel---the glove compartment."

After splashing water on her face, she studied the bruise in the mirror. 

"That bastard actually gave me a black eye," she murmured.

She slipped on the sunglasses as Richard sat down.

"I do not have correct makeup to cover it.  I must buy some.  I am a vain woman."

"You are the least vain woman I know," he said.

The waitress who had come with refills heard only his comment and at the comment, raised an eyebrow.

"I want to find out about his childhood," said Richard when she was out of earshot.  "I want to see of he fits the stereotype Senter talked about."

Although Richard hadn't used a specific term like "predator" or "sexual sadist," Jill felt the small hairs tingle at the nape of her neck.

What could he have done to me? she wondered.  How close was he to doing it?

"Even now it is difficult to believe that he is one of those . . . monsters," she said.

"When Kevin and I found him that day, he seemed pretty comfortable hanging around the that woman's body.  I think those guys like to hang around sometimes---even go back to visit bodies."

"Yes.  Well that makes one's skin crawl, and does nothing useful."

She stirred her coffee distractedly.  He decided that she didn't want to talk about it, but then she continued.

"Richard, he is smart.  So why does he not do better research?  If he killed Rose Ford then why did he not leave the body near a more credible sex offender, one whose . . . method is more consistent with the crime?"

"Instead of near a pedophile with no history of violence against adult women?  Maybe there weren't any in the area."

"There are two excellent candidates in the county:  a paroled rapist who attempted to strangle one of his victims, and another who also attacks women.  I discovered this in a matter of minutes.  Why could he not?  If he is what we think, then he obsesses about these things continually.  Also if he has a history of this then one would think that he is quite accomplished at disposing of bodies."

She saw his surprise.

"Knowing about one's fears is the best way to deal with them I think," she said with a shrug.  "Since I . . . first began to believe you about what is happening, I have researched this topic extensively.  I have spent more time at it than my studies."

"There is something else I do not understand," she continued.  "There is one very important thing about him that does not fit."

Richard thought that Mic's behavior was a perfect fit.

"What doesn't fit?" he asked.

"These men never let people know what they are really like until it is too late.  Why does he make threats instead of trying to keep what he is thinking a secret?"

"Senter says that they might not all be alike except that they all want to get their victims alone and under control."

Alone and under control, she repeated to herself, remembering Mic's fingers twisted into her hair, her head held against the headrest, his breath on her face, and his hand enclosing her exposed neck.  Then she remembered how she felt on the way to the island.

I was certain that Richard would use me as his plaything and then kill me.

She tried to shake away the thought.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly.

"I was replaying things that have happened," she said before sipping at her coffee.  "I should stop it."

Instinctively, she sought to turn the conversation theoretical.

"There are several theories as to the dynamics.  What mechanism do you think produces the sadistic personality?"

"I think it's male instinct somehow perverted.  Maybe it's something left over from our distant, savage past."

"Male reproductive dominance leads to killing women?  That makes no sense within a biological frame of reference.  It is counter survival."

"I have no idea why a man would be tempted to substitute violence for---"

"I changed my mind.  I do not want to think about the theoretical causes," she said, forcing an end to the repulsive strand of conversation.  "There is something more tangible that bothers me.  He told you of this something he did as a teenager.  Why would he reveal this?"

"His anger overrode his good sense," he said with a shrug.  "Remember, he was drunk at the time."

"Maybe he wanted you to know about this murdered girl."

"Why?"

"Because fear is a way to control people.

Suddenly he saw that she was right.  It would also explain his threats and the intimidation.

"You're a lot smarter than I am," he said.

By the time route 57 turned south angling toward I-70 and St. Louis, Jill was asleep again.  Without makeup, she looked even younger than she was, innocent and vulnerable.  When the NPR. station that had been helping him eat up the miles began to break up as they crossed the Mississippi, she stirred.

"Where are we now?" she asked as she stretched and tilted her seat back upright.

"Just coming into St. Louis."

She looked at the dash.  "It is two thirty.  How much further must we go?"

"Almost three hundred miles.  If we drive without stopping to eat again we'll hit Springfield by seven or so."

They stopped at a large truck stop on the western outskirts of St. Louis.  After filling the tank, they walked to the edge of the lot overlooking a sapling-choked pasture being reclaimed by second growth forest.  If the sign planted in it was more than hope, it was soon to become Meadow Brook Estates.  The city was spreading like ink on blotter paper.

"The highway takes us into the Ozark country," he said.  "Silver Dollar City and Branson are just beyond Springfield down there.  Branson is a sort of hillbilly Las Vegas without the gambling.  Cassville is a bit east of there."

"How large is Cassville?"

"Too small for us to go unnoticed asking about the murder," he said.  "I wonder how touchy they'll be about that after all this time."

Forty-four barreled straight from St. Louis to Springfield in the southwest corner of the state.  Richard held the speedometer just past seventy, occasionally maneuvering around semis and slower local traffic while Jill gazed out the window.  She was quiet for so long that he knew that she had been contemplating something besides the scenery.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked.

"Aunt Mirabelle.  There are not many people like her anymore.  She has virtues that are uncommon today."

"You said that she raised you, but you never mentioned a husband.  She never married?"

"No.  She was too formidable," she said, giving the word its French pronunciation and inflection.  "She is very strong willed.  French men say they like that in a woman, but I think they do not."

He could think of nothing to say that wouldn't sound self-serving.

"Perhaps she intimidated her suitors.  I think no man could get close enough to appreciate her, which is sad.  She would have made the right man a wonderful wife.  Beneath all her severity, there is such tenderness.  It makes me weep to think that it went wasted."

"Not exactly.  She produced you."

Jill's eyes were turned toward the window, but focused on another place and time.

"She never gave birth, but she was a wonderful mother."  She turned to look at him.  "Your Uncle Bill seems such a jovial man.  You were close?"

"Great guy, and kind of a hero for me.  I always wanted to be like him.  When I was a kid I used to pester him for war stories from Vietnam.  I never understood why he never told any until I saw a little of it myself.  Of course it wasn't the same for me.  I didn't go through anything like he did."

Jill knew that Somalia had wounded him deeply, yet he refused to put his experiences on a par with those of his uncle.  She doubted that his uncle carried baggage comparable to Richard's boy soldier.

"Aunt Wanda and Uncle Bill never had kids of their own, but when I was little I spent as much time over there as I did at home.  Mom and Dad worked, and they looked after me in the summer time because my aunt was a cook at the high school and had summers off.  Uncle Bill worked part time as a deckhand on the lake, and he ran a guide service out of his home.  He used to take me with him when he took the fishermen out.  When business was slow we went fishing ourselves, sometimes out to . . . Bonne Femme."

"Anyway," he continued.  "I used to practically live out at their place, but like I told you, I'm staying away from them until this mess is over."

It was the way she felt about Marta, only it was too late to prevent her from being drawn into the "mess," as Richard called it.

"I'll take you out and show you where I spent a good part of my childhood when this is all over.  That is if you want to."

"Will it ever be over, Richard?"

"It will," he said.  "I promise you it will be."

Richard hadn't yet learned not to make hasty promises.

Although late in the day, it was still warm when they stopped for gas and sodas at Rolla, a college town located on the edge of a section of the Ozark Plateau known as the "lead belt."  A bank of low clouds in the west promised eye relief from the sinking sun as they continued southwestward.  As the last leg of their journey began, Jill scanned the radio, finally settling on the student-run station of the University of Missouri at Columbia.  Like a benevolent ghost from a more innocent time came the voice of Neil Sedaka's I'm Living Right Next Door to an Angel.  The signal held for an hour before fades and skips forced her to turn it off.

Like most modern roads, I-44 had been laid out by connecting the dots and "landscraping," straight-line gouges through the terrain with no effort to minimize the violence and no thought of the economic impact on smaller towns, many of which were dying or had already become mere named places.  It was the old story of changing trade routes.

At seven-thirty Springfield passed to the northwest and they turned through Republic back east onto the two-lane highway leading to Cassville.  After a winding half hour they hit a turn-off traversing a newer residential area and then descended to the valley where the old downtown lay.  A main street ran through a single block of false-front brick buildings before sweeping right and back uphill to intersect with the bypass where they found a moderately priced motel, an older, but well maintained complex consisting of a two story L-shaped string of about fifty apartments.

Jill waited in the car while a small featured woman with a Pakistani accent signed them in and slid keys across the counter, giving him clear and polite directions to a ground floor room three doors from the office.  After carrying in the luggage, he parked the Cougar at the far edge of the lot, concealed from the highway by a fence surrounding the winterized pool on the off chance that Mic had followed them.

"There's a restaurant next door, if you feel like splurging a little," he said.

Jill looked up from her unpacking.  "That would be nice, but I must change first."

"You look fine.  I'm sure they won't throw us out."

"One dresses for a restaurant," she said.  "If you wish to go the way we are, then a drive through would be appropriate.  It is all the same to me."

"I'd like to take you to a restaurant," he said.

Richard scraped away the last of his beard and examined his face in the steamy mirror over the lavatory.  As he pulled on a sweatshirt, Jill came from the shower room, barefooted, but dressed in a light green dress.  Looking into the mirror, she put on small, hoop earrings.

"Thank you, Richard," she said as she sat on the bed to slip on heels.  "It will be nice to feel normal."

He looked from her back to his own image in the mirror.  Contrasted to her elegance, his casual dress seemed slovenly.  He took a button-down shirt from the suitcase and went into the bathroom to change.

"This is the best I can do," he said when he came out.  "I only brought jeans."

"You look nice," she said, ignoring the wrinkles caused by his careless packing.

As they were about to leave, she paused.  "Richard," she said in a serious voice as she snapped closed her small purse.  "That sweatshirt you had on reminded me.  Did you hear they are changing the name of our university?"

"From Pere Marquette to what?  Something like ‘West Central Michigan State?'"

"To ‘Pere Marquette State University.'  Is that not awful?"

"It's not that bad."

"Really?  You would enjoy it if every time you were in a bad mood, someone would say, ‘What do you expect?  He has a PMS degree.'"

Jill deadpanned as she delivered the punch line of the joke she had heard earlier in the week.  At the same time she grabbed his arm playfully and leaned against him.  He laughed, and taken aback by something so out of character for her, he threw his arm around her waist.  She stiffened and pulled away slightly---looked up at him, blinking and unsmiling.

When he removed his arm to free her, instead of stepping back as he expected, Jill dropped her purse and reached up with both hands to pulled him down to her lips.  And suddenly it was not just a kiss.  She molded herself to him with an urgency that surprised them both.  As he felt her breasts against his chest, he became aroused, and pulled her closer.  His hand came up almost of its own accord lightly brushing the side of her breast.  She melted, leaning to his touch.

"Don't," she said as she grabbed his wrist.

She put her other hand on his chest, and pushed.  The she sat heavily on the bed.

"Oh no," she murmured, covering her face with her hands.  "Oh no."

"I'm sorry," he stammered.  "I guess I misunderstood what was . . ."

He was afraid to move, but wanted to take her in his arms again, to somehow explain what had happened.  But he didn't know.  All he did know was that he wanted more than anything to salvage whatever had happened.

"Do not apologize," she said wearily.  "I did this.  It was my fault, not yours."

Now he was at a complete loss.  All he knew was that his sudden elation had turned to utter confusion.

"I don't know what to do," he said.

She looked up at him, started to speak, and then looked away.

"We cannot . . . afford this," she said.  "It is . . . it was . . . the last thing I wanted to let happen."

"Just tell me what it meant, Jill."

"Maybe something, and maybe nothing." she said enigmatically.  "It cannot happen again."

She looked up at him and pursed her lips.  Then she squared her shoulders.

"It was my fault and I apologize.  I have never been a . . . I am just sorry."

"Let's talk about it," he said softly.

"Not now," she said as she picked her purse from the floor and stood.  "Let us go to the restaurant now."

Because of the spacious interior they had relative privacy while they dined.  The food was excellent and the service good, but the awkwardness turned the meal into an ordeal for both.

"So, what do we do tomorrow?" asked Jill as she pushed salad around her plate.

"Like you said, we'll start at the courthouse."

They finished the meal in virtual silence, each pretending to ignore while at the same time trying to come to terms with what had happened.  Afterwards they walked back to the motel side by side, but not close.  Richard wondered if they would ever be closer, or if they were just destined to walk parallel paths for a time, sharing nothing but Mic.  On the way back to the motel he reminded himself of something he had allowed himself to forget:  Jill would probably have had nothing to do with him if not for Mic.  He unlocked and opened the door and then reached in to turn on the light rather than entering.

"I'll rent a second room," he said.

"There are two beds," she said.  "It would be a foolish waste of money."

She rubbed her fingers over the engagement ring, studied it.

"Richard, nothing has changed.  Nothing can change until this is over."

Of course something had changed.  He was smart enough to know that, just not smart enough to know how it had changed or even what exactly had happened.

"I just don't want to do anything wrong, Jill."

"You do not have to walk on eggs----I mean on egg shells with me," she said as she stepped in ahead of him.  "We will continue doing what we have been doing.  We have a plan . . . and we will stick to it.  We will . . . "

She suddenly fled to the bathroom and closed the door.

He stood near the entrance, debating whether to ask if she was all right.

"I'm going out for a walk," he called out.  "I'll lock the door when I leave."

Then he realized that there was nowhere to walk but the parking lot unless he went down the highway.  Walking on the almost non-existent shoulder at night could be dangerous, and treading residential streets might alarm someone and get him stopped by the police, which was not the way he wanted to contact them.  Instead, he took the Cougar, and drove aimlessly, thinking of the way she had looked and how he had felt in his arms.  He could smell her perfume, feel her lips.

That wasn't a nothing kiss, he told himself.  It's got to mean something.

What it meant, of course, was that she had rekindled hope---Pandora's last gift.

Jill sat in the dim light feeling like a fool, still unable to understand why she had allowed herself to do what she had done.  The kiss had been a terrible mistake---but not a lie.  Now, he was out there somewhere trying to sort through her mixed messages.

"I cannot afford this," she muttered.

A knock at the door caused her to jerk in alarm.

"It's me," he called instead of unlocking the door.

She opened the door to find him holding ice cream cones.

"We didn't have time for desert before we left the restaurant."

"Come inside," she said as she took the one of the cones.

"I need to say something first," he said.  "I get it.  Things are already complicated enough, and . . . you don't want to do anything that could confuse it more.  So, I was thinking that we should just try to forget that anything happened because---it didn't really.  You were just being spontaneous and I got carried away . . . and . . . well, it just . . ."

"It is only the situation, Richard.  We have been alone together since May, and in such . . . an emotionally charged situation, something like that . . . could just happen.  It was bound to happen, I think.  That is all it was.  It just happened and now it is over.  You agree, do you not?"

"I don't guess I'm smart enough to think through my emotions like that."

"Do not put pressure on me."

"No pressure.  You just . . . well, here," he said, handing her a cone.  "Let's eat our desert before it melts."

Cassville, September 5

The next morning he got up early, shaved, dressed, and went to the motel office for coffee and the local paper.  He took them to the car to kill time until Jill was up and ready to go out for breakfast.  At seven he heard a door shut and looked up to see her walking toward him.  The restaurant next to the motel didn't open until afternoon, so they drove south on Highway 86 until they found the appropriately, if not imaginatively, named 86 Cafe.  A middle-aged waitress wended through the half filled room dispensing refills and menus on her way to their table.

"Do you have rye toast?" he asked.

"White and wheat," she replied as she snatched a pen from her hair.

"I'll have an order of the whole wheat and coffee then."

"And I want the biscuits," said Jill.  "Do you have tea?"

"Iced."

"Then coffee.  Do you have honey?"

"That we have, Sugar.  Anything else?"

"I think we're good to go," Richard told her.

Their meager order drew a dour smile, but no comment.

"The Barry County courthouse opens at nine," said Richard when the waitress left to refill cups at a table where a gaggle of old men were holding forth on the upcoming election.  It sounded like an argument except that they all seemed to be in agreement.

"Preaching to the choir," he said sotto voce after a particularly raucous outburst.

Jill's brow furrowed a moment and then she nodded.  "Loudly declaiming to the already convinced," she said.  "I have not heard that idiom."

"You're remarkable.  You don't have an accent, so it's easy to forget that English is not your native language.  How many do you speak anyway?"

"Only French and Spanish well," she said seriously.  "Dialect English gives me difficulty.  As you have noticed, I use inappropriate words at times.  Have you studied another language?"

"I'm your typical American," he said with a smile.  "I don't have the smarts enough speak anything but dialect English."

"It is not intelligence," she said as she opened her purse.  "There is a newspaper vending machine outside.  I wish to read a metropolitan paper."

"I'll get it for you.  I got a local one earlier.  It's in the car and I'll bring it in too.  We still have some time to kill before things open."

They continued to pretend that nothing had happened the previous evening, but awkward silences and clumsy conversation betrayed the fiction.  Richard paid early and gave a large tip to assure frequent refills while they read the Cassville and Springfield papers as they waited for offices to open.

At the Cassville Democrat they were told that back issues were available on microfiche at the library down the street.  They walked two blocks north where a solicitous old lady retrieved the archives and showed them how to use an ancient microfiche viewer.

"Let me," said Jill.  "I am familiar with this old technology, and I scan quickly.  The murder was in May of 1989, was it not?"

"Yeah, and afterward check the police reports to see if ‘Boyd' pops up.  He was a juvie at the time, so his name won't be listed, but maybe other members of the family will be."

"If there is anything here I will find it," she said confidently.

"Then I'll leave you to it.  Will you be okay here while I go to the courthouse?"

"Libraries are not dangerous, Richard."

Richard walked to the courthouse, arriving at nine-thirty.  The directory just inside the entrance directed him to the third floor.  Ghostly footsteps and indistinct voices echoed eerily from the polished granite interior as he ascended the worn stone staircase.  The second door from the landing had Barry County Sheriff stenciled on its translucent window.  Door glass rattled as he went in, drawing the attention of a grandmotherly woman behind a teller's window.

"Can I help you?" she asked, looking over her bifocals.

"I'd like to talk to the sheriff," he said, suddenly unsure as to what he would say to the man.

"And the nature of your visit?"

"I need information about a crime that took place here several years ago."  She eyed his clothes.  "I assume you're not here in any official capacity?"

"No, ma'am.  This is a personal matter."

"I see.  Then perhaps you should tell me what you want instead of bothering the sheriff.  I warn you though.  You may be wasting your time here.  All the information that we have released can be found in back issues of the newspaper."

"A friend of mine is at the library doing that right now.  I thought perhaps there might be something the sheriff or someone here could tell me that didn't make it into the paper."

"In general things that weren't released won't be."

"What about case files?"

"Those are unavailable to the public."

"Well this is old.  You might even consider it more history than anything else.  There was this crime that happened here some time ago, a high school girl about eleven years ago---"

"Why can't you people just leave it be?," she interrupted indignantly.  "You keep dredging up all that sadness.  Let the poor child rest in peace and leave her family alone.  The last time a reporter came here it---"

"No, ma'am.  I'm not a reporter.  I 'm here because I think an acquaintance of mine may have had something to do with the Williams girl's murder.  That's who you're referring too, isn't it?"

She pulled a face and then picked up the phone and punched a button.

"Show me some ID," said the decidedly unamused sheriff.  "A driver's license will do."

Richard handed it over and watched as the man alternately punched a keyboard and manipulated a mouse.

"Okay, so you're clean," said the sheriff, swiveling around to hand back his license.  "Now tell me where you're staying while you're doing your ‘research.'"

"At the motel on the south end of town," said Richard.  "But I registered under a false name."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because I don't want this guy I told your secretary about knowing that I'm here."

The sheriff's disbelief was evident.

"Wait.  I know someone who can sort of vouch for me," said Richard.  "JR Reeves.  He's a deputy sheriff up in Breton County, Michigan.  His number is---"

"Easy enough.  I'll just call the sheriff's department up there," said the sheriff without making a move to pick up the phone.

He was obviously watching to see Richard's reaction.  The only thing Richard worried about was that JR might not be on duty."

"Well go ahead.  The number is---"

The sheriff forestalled him with a raised hand.  He did a quick search on the computer, and then punched in a number.

"Yes.  This is Sheriff Stonecipher in Barry County, Missouri.  Do you have a deputy there by the name of Reeves---JR, think it is.  You do?  Let me talk to him if he's available."

He gave Richard the fish eye again while waiting.

"Yes.  Deputy Reeves, do you know a Richard Carter?"

He listened without taking his eyes off Richard.

"What kind of nut is he?"

He nodded slowly, apparently listening to a lengthy reply.

"I see.  Well, you could have fooled me.  He says he's down here looking into a cold case of ours.  Do you know anything about that?"

He listened again to a lengthy reply, thanked JR perfunctorily, and hung up with a mild look of disgust.

"Okay, Mike Hammer, tell me how you think you can find out what we overlooked?"

"I don't.  I just have a suspect that you might not have considered at the time.  A guy named Boyd.  He told me something that makes me believe that he killed Carly Williams."

"What did he tell you?  And why would he tell you or anyone else if did kill her?"

Richard told him first about the fight and the ambiguous remark Mic had made that led him to discover the murder of Carly Williams.  Then he told him about the disappearance of Rose Ford and the subsequent discovery of her body.  Finally, he backtracked to his suspicions about Mic in Somalia.  The sheriff listened impatiently but without interrupting.

"That's it?" he asked as soon as Richard had finished.

"Yes sir."

"Not worth a damn as evidence.  And I still don't understand why he would tip you off like that.  You know what I think?  I think he was yanking your chain and you fell for it.  He's probably back there right now laughing his ass off and telling your buddies how you ran down here to check him out."

Richard could easily see how the sheriff had come to his conclusion, but he was still disappointed that he didn't show even the slightest inclination to investigate Mic.

"Can you spare some time to just talk about the case?  Maybe you could tell me some things that didn't make it into the paper?"

"The case is cold, not closed.  You know how that works, you being a genuine auxiliary deputy and all."

Richard ignored the sarcasm.  "I'm not asking you to give me details only the perp would know.  You'd need those to validate a confession or trip up a suspect during interrogation.  I get that."

"Well, you get an ‘A' in Crime Fighting 101."

"At least check back on the guy I think killed her.  It's William McCulloch Boyd."

Richard's plea only drew a sour look.

"Look, Sheriff.  Let me tell you exactly where I'm coming from.  I'm not in the department right now as you know.  And when I was, I was never involved in any kind of investigation.  I only worked rural patrol for about a year after I got out of the Marines.  Right now I'm in college working on a degree in criminology.  I'm telling you all this because I want you to know I have absolutely nothing to hide."

The Sheriff got up from his creaking swivel chair and poured a cup of what smelled like two-day-old coffee.  He spoke to Richard over his shoulder.

"Is that why you registered under a fake name at the motel?"

"I told you.  That was so that it would be harder for him to find us if he followed us down here."

"I can't keep you from poking around, but I sure as hell won't appreciate it if you bother that girl's family."

"I won't bother the Williams family, Sheriff.  I promise," said Richard, rising to leave.  "By the way, were you on the force when it happened?"

"Yeah.  We talked to half the people in the county and came up dry.  So what do you think your chances are of finding something after all this time?  We're talking evidence, Mr. Hammer.  Unless you actually have some, don't waste any more of my time."

"Could you tell me anything---"

"I can't put a stop to your nonsense, but I don't have to help you with it."

"Can you at least tell me if you ever questioned William Boyd?"

"Don't remember," he said with disinterest as he went to the door and held it open as an invitation for Richard to leave.

Jill waited until they were seated at a storefront café before handing him a folder with a half dozen sheets of neatly handwritten excerpts from the microfiche files.

"I didn't find much that we didn't already know," she said as soon as the waitress had taken their order.  "That first article tells of the crime, the next two about the investigation, and the rest are just summaries and pleas for people to contact the police if they know anything.  They continue for almost a year like that, but get shorter and less informative as time progresses."

"Summarize how they think it happened," he said.

"She went to the dance, but left after having a fight with her boyfriend---whether she left alone or by herself, no one knows.  That was around nine or nine fifteen.  No one saw her after that.  Her boyfriend and her other friends stayed at the dance until the coronation of the prom queen at ten-thirty.  A patrolling deputy found her body early the next morning in a mobile home near that highway we took to the café this morning---I have the name of the road.  The home belonged to a divorced man whose wife moved out two months before it happened."

"Was he a suspect?"

"No.  He was out of town.  They think someone broke into the trailer and took her there.  That suggests that whoever killed her knew that the man would not be coming back.  That in turn indicates that he is from here and may have lived near the trailer."

"The newspaper said that---I mean the part about living nearby?"

"No.  That was my assumption," she said.  "I may be wrong."

"But it was almost certainly someone who lives here.  We need to find where the Boyd's were living at the time."

"I did all right then?"

"You did great---a lot better than me.  The only thing I managed to do was convince the sheriff that I'm a bumbling jackass---which seems to be pretty much the case."

"But you told him about Mic?"

"Yes, but he didn't give it a second thought.  He already had his mind made up about me.  The problem is that there are details about the crime that he could have shared, things that haven't been released yet."

"So he will be of no help?"

"The most I can hope is that he doesn't arrest me for impersonating Mike Hammer.  That's what he calls me.  Hammer is a fictional detective."

"Yes.  Mickey Spillane.  I am familiar with him and the genre," she said.  "The name was applied to you as a pejorative.  That means that we must find the information some other way.  We can do this."

"What can we find that hasn't been in the paper?"

"Much, Richard.  His background, what people thought of him, perhaps why he left here.  One never knows the value of information until later.  At least that is the way historical research works.  And do not forget that this is a small town.  This was surely a cause celebre.  Whatever the police know other will know also."

After lunch Jill scanned police and sheriff's reports on the microfiche while he roamed the stacks and atrium looking for local material.  He was beginning to feel totally useless when he happened upon something one would only find in a small town library:  a collection of high school annuals.  On the dedication page of the '89-90 volume he found a full-page picture over the caption, In memory of Carly Williams.  We will miss you.  From across the years she looked out with confident dark blue eyes.  Shoulder length coal black hair framed her pale pretty face.

A beautiful girl, he thought.  A real person, not just something that happened.

He sat down and leafed through the yearbook, finding other pictures:  Carly as Treasurer of the Beta Club, as Editor of the school newspaper, as a member of the yearbook staff, and various other group pictures.

A small black and white of a lanky teenager with close-cropped hair in the sophomore class pictures was the only one he found of Mic.  He looked altogether unremarkable except for the familiar cocky smile.  Either too young, or too insignificant for the small clique that produced the yearbook, he had not been immortalized with a special place in the annual.  It wasn't unusual.  A small circle of athletes and other activists comprised the bulk of all yearbook photos.  Obviously Mic had not been in that group, at least not in his sophomore year.

Scanning later yearbooks, he decided that Mic had never become a member of one of the important groups.  That didn't mean that he had been isolated or resentful, he reminded himself.  Many groups into which one might fit in high school didn't find their way into the yearbook or receive recognition at the awards assembly.  Richard photocopied the names of Mic's ninety-four sophomore classmates and returned the annual to its place.

At three Jill finished the microfiche files.  Richard carried the box of cards back to the desk.  An elderly lady took it with slightly shaky hands, the librarian who had greeted them having gone for the day.

"Have you two just moved to town?" the old lady asked in a perky voice.

"No, we're just visiting," he said.

"Well, I hope you found what you're looking for.  Are you doing genealogical research?  A lot of people are nowadays.  If so, we have several local histories:  Barry County, of course, and most of the surrounding counties too.  They're poorly written, but have a lot of the names of the early settlers.  There are also cemetery registries."

"We're interested in the family of William Boyd," said Richard.  "Do you happen to know if they still live here?"

"William Boyd?  Now that name sounds familiar.  Yes, it is familiar, but I can't place it.  Was he an old settler?"

"No.  He's about my age.  There's a picture of him in one of the annuals.  Let me get it."

Richard brought the yearbook to the circulation desk and turned to the sophomore portraits.  "There," he said, indicating the picture.

The old lady squinted through her thick glasses.  "Yes, of course.  I remember young William.  An unusual one.  Most children that age don't come to the library much, but that shy little fellow checked out a lot of books."

"Are you sure it is William Boyd you remember?" he asked as Jill joined them at the front desk.

"You think maybe this old woman has a few too many jokers in her deck?"  She smiled tolerantly at him.  "No.  I remember young Master Boyd.  He was a handsome lad, but somewhat sullen.  He never wanted any help.  He would go directly to the section he needed, and took no time at all to pick the book he wanted."

"Do you remember the sort of things he read?" asked Jill.

"That's why I remember him so well.  Philosophy.  Can you imagine?  He checked out books on philosophy.  I imagine that if you checked some of those books back when we still used the sign out cards, his name would be the only one on many of them.  We switched over to scanning about six years ago."

"Mind if we look through the stacks for awhile?" asked Jill.

"Non-residents can't check books out, but you're welcome to read anything you wish while you are here.  Only don't put anything back in the stacks.  Drop them off here.  And call me if you need assistance."

As Jill suspected, many of the books still retained their now unused sign out cards.  Mic's name was on cards in volumes of Hegel, Kant, Nietzsche, and Sartre.

"Pretty heavy reading for a teenager," said Richard.  "Look at this.  He checked out Kierkegaard!  Do you know anybody who's ever read Kierkegaard?"

Jill raised an eyebrow, more surprised that Richard knew of the Danish philosopher than that the young Mic Boyd had read him.

Cassville, September 6

On their way back to the 86 Cafe the next morning, Richard saw flashing lights in his rearview.

"I didn't miss a stop sign, did I?" he asked as he looked for a place to pull over.

"I saw none," replied Jill.

"Well I wasn't speeding," he said in irritation as he pulled onto the grass of the shoulder with a sheriff's department cruiser directly behind him.  A uniformed man got stiffly out and approached slowly, taking a pad from his shirt pocket as he approached.

"License and registration, please," rasped the man in a gravely voice.

He was a short man with khaki clothes and a complexion to match, a little stocky with age, yet retaining the faded image of a once powerful trim body.  His deeply lined face, earned with a lifetime of smiles and frowns, spoke of too many hours in the sun.  With short thick fingers he took Richard's drivers license.  Liver spots overlay the faded tan on the backs of his callused hands.

"What did I do officer?"

"Deputy," said the man distractedly as he read the license.  "You didn't do anything Mr. Carter."

"Then something's wrong with the car?"

"No.  The Sheriff didn't want to talk to you about Carly Williams, but if you'll meet me at Kenner's Café around seven this evening I'll talk to you."

Richard was wary, but he sensed no danger from the old man.

"What's this all about, Mr. . . . ?"

"John Spence.  Bring your lady along if you like---that is, if you're as interested as you seemed to be at the office."

"We'll be there."

The deputy handed back his license, nodded silently toward Jill with a hint of a shy smile, and then walked back to the cruiser.

"What was that about?" asked Richard as the deputy pulled back onto the road and passed them.

"We will discover that tonight," she said.

Cartier, 9:55 AM

Mic focused the binoculars as the taxi pulled up, centering them on the door.  Marta came outside, closed the door, and then shifted her books and purse to her left arm before inserting the key to slide home the deadbolt.  His initial recon revealed an absence of cover nearby, ruling out a daylight rush despite the time and distraction necessitated by the target having to deal with separate keys for the locks.  The street light was back on the corner, however, so darkness, especially if accompanied by rain, would turn the time consuming routine into a fatal flaw.  The upscale construction of the houses meant six-inch, sound damping, insulated walls that, along with the wide spacing of the houses, would ensure the necessary privacy once he was inside with her.

Mic hadn't initially come to stalk Marta back in May.  His only interest in her at that time was to find them.  Even now, his interest was only as a contingency.  But he was warming to it.

Ricky ran instead of facing me like a man, he thought as he studied the house and neighborhood again.  No surprise there.  Rabbits run---but they always circled back.

Richard's failure to confront him irritated him at first.  But then it became challenging and fun.  Mic didn't consider him a worthy adversary; he considered him a canny prey.  Inevitably he would hunt them both down.  The thrill was in the chase, but the satisfaction was in the kill.

His tension was building to the point where he was considering Marta, but the time wasn't right.  Denise wouldn't do obviously.  But something had to happen---and soon.  He started the car and drove back downtown where he bought a pair of cheap jersey gloves at a convenience store.  At the Walmart he bought a braided cotton clothesline.  When he filled up he bought a small roll of duct tape at the gas station.  Then he took the highway southeast toward Grand Rapids, giving no thought as to where he was going.  His destination wasn't a place, only an opportunity.  He would recognize it when he found it.

Cassville, 12:30 

"Out of all those names only fourteen are in the phone directory," said Jill.  "And twelve are men."

"I told you," he said.  "Everyone gets married in places like this.  None of the girls still have their maiden names, and most people leave when they grow up.  Small towns wouldn't stay small if they didn't."

"Let's check the women we have," he said as he dialed a number and handed her the phone.  "Maybe you can get the married names of others who live here or nearby."

Jill got an answer and began by explaining that she had come to Cassville for research purposes.  She got a quick refusal for an interview.  The second call ended abruptly when she mentioned Mic.

"Talk to Leona Morgan.  She was one of his druggie friends," said the irate woman before hanging up.

Richard saw Jill's reaction.

"What was that?"

"How do you say it?  I think I touched a nerve.  But she gave me another name."

"Don't mention Mic right off," he suggested.

Leona Morgan ran a day-care out of her home.  She smiled warmly when Jill and Richard introduced themselves, obviously welcoming the unexpected interruption of her routine.  Perhaps she just appreciated the adult company.  She was a sharp-featured woman with short, frosted hair and more earrings than customary for her generation.

"When you told me you were doing research, I had this picture of a frumpy woman in horn-rimmed glasses," she said to Jill.  "Just shows to go you.  What kind of research are you doing in Cassville?  Nothing ever happens here."

"It's a little more recent than what most people consider history," said Richard.

She looked speculatively at him.

"So, your man's not just along for decoration.  You two are writers, right?"

"We're doing background research on a man who used to live here," said Jill, evasively.  "A classmate of yours, William Boyd?"

"You want to know about William?" she asked in an amused voice.  "But you won't tell me what you're up to.  Well you're not police, so what---government?  Is this a security check of some kind?"

"No, it's a private matter," said Richard.

"What you say will be kept confidential," Jill assured her.  "You won't be quoted or identified.

"Oh heck.  I'm not worried about that.  Maybe it's payback time---but let's not go into that.  Drop dead looks, eyes to melt your heart.  That boy was handsome and knew it.  Bad boy image---a real turn-on for a little girl with too many hormones," she said, giggling as she recalled it.

It took no prompting after that.  As she spun out her story, Richard had visions of her as an old woman telling anyone who would sit still long enough the stories of her life.

"He cost me a semester of credit and almost kept me from graduating.  You see my older sister had this surgery on her knee, and he talked me into bringing some of her painkiller to school.  I didn't take any, and neither did he, but two guys that hung out with him and my best friend got high and they got caught.  They narced on me---not him, and all four of us got suspended for the rest of the semester.  I ended up flunking all my classes.  William didn't get suspended.  He was too slick---and he didn't take any of the stuff."

"Everyone knew he put me up to it, but they couldn't prove anything.  That's the way it goes," she said philosophically.  "I didn't even feel betrayed or angry.  I was so stupid.  He like bragged on how tough and brave I was, and that made me feel like all grown up and desirable---you know, worthy of him, and I would have done anything for that boy."

She laughed.

"What an idiot I was!  But you see, he was just so handsome, and it was really cool that he liked me.  But then it like faded.  It was like I didn't exist.  So I decided to quit hanging around him because he had like used me and then threw me away."

"And that was the end of it?" asked Richard

"I think so, but maybe not.  I started going with Jeremy Cross after that, and William beat the hell out of him one day in gym.  I thought at the time that was about me, but I don't know."  She squinted at Jill.  "I bet you know what it's like having boys fight over you, don't you?"

"It is sickening," replied Jill.

"Did you know Carly Williams?" asked Richard.

"Everyone knew Carly---Oh.  That's what this is about!" she said.  "I knew it!  You guys are reporters.  You're investigating the murder again.  Oh no!  You think William did it!"

She shook her head, obviously amused by the idea.

"You don't think he could have?" asked Richard.

"Of course not.  He took advantage of girls, and he enjoyed getting them to do stuff like he did with me, but he could get any girl he wanted.  He didn't have to force himself on any girl.  He was tough on guys who crossed him, but I don't think he'd ever hurt a girl---not physically, that is."