Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Vol. 110, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 673 & 674, September/October 1997

The Mystery That Wouldn’t Stay Solved by Edward D. Hoch

© 1997 by Edward D. Hoch

With only two stories to go until the Leopold adventures number 100, Edward D. Hoch is still going strong with the series. The retired police-captain sleuth has been freelancing in investigative work for his lawyer wife Molly for the past couple of years, hut in the following adventure he’s sought out once again for his own expertise as a cop. Although it means revisiting an old case, Leopold is glad to be back in the saddle.

The winter after Leopold’s second retirement as captain of the Violent Crimes Squad had been long and cold, with more snow than usual on the north shore of Long Island Sound. While his wife Molly went off to work every morning he stayed behind, puttering around the house and trying to get his notes in order for a book he knew he’d never write.

Perhaps that was why he’d welcomed the phone call from a deep-voiced man named Zach Brewster, who introduced himself as a writer of true-crime books. “I understand you’re retired now.”

“That’s right, Mr. Brewster,” Leopold said. “What can I do for you?”

“I have a contract to write a book on the Clemmins case. I thought I might interview you about it.”

The Clemmins case. Leopold’s memory raced back nine years. “I haven’t thought about that one in a long time, though of course it’s back in the news right now.”

“It certainly is! Look, I’m calling from in town. I’ve already been to police headquarters and Captain Fletcher gave me your name. He said it was your case. I’d like to talk to you about it this afternoon, if that’s convenient.”

“Sure, come ahead. I don’t know how much I can tell you. That was a terrible case. Now that the execution is less than a week away the press is onto it again.”

“Suppose I come right after lunch, around two o’clock.”

“That’ll be good, Mr. Brewster. I’ll look forward to seeing you.”

When Brewster arrived, on schedule, Leopold faced a slim man with bushy black eyebrows. He was a few inches taller than Leopold, and probably twenty years younger. He carried an expensive briefcase, and when he came inside he removed his coat and produced a small tape recorder from the briefcase.

“I hope you don’t mind if I tape this,” he said, turning it on.

“Go ahead. Since my retirement, my wife Molly’s been after me to write a book about my experiences, but I haven’t gotten around to it.”

Zach Brewster smiled. “This won’t interfere with anything you might be writing, Captain. I’m only interested in the Clemmins case. Some papers say there could be new evidence implicating someone else.”

“I know there’s renewed interest now that the appeals process has been exhausted. But I don’t know a thing about new evidence. That’s tabloid talk.”

“You think they’ll go through with the execution?”

Leopold shrugged. “It’s been decades since we’ve had one in this state, but the killing of children is a terrible crime.”

Brewster nodded agreement. “The political climate is changing in the country, even in the more liberal Northeast.”

“The Clemmins case never satisfied everyone, even after the jury brought in its verdict. People have been arguing about it ever since.”

The writer leaned forward in his chair. “Suppose you tell me how it began, nine years ago.”

That had been a snowy winter too, Leopold remembered, though by early March the snow on lawns and parking lots had retreated to little gray mounds which would soon be gone. It was a Monday morning and he’d gone into the squadroom early to clear up some paperwork when the first report of the bombing came in.

Lieutenant Fletcher took the call. “Car explosion on Irving Circle, Captain. You want to come with me?”

Leopold shook his head. “Not unless I have to. Phone in if you need me.”

Fletcher did just that some twenty minutes later. “Captain, you’d better get out here. It looks like a car bomb. Woman and two children dead at the scene.”

Car bombs suggested one thing to most city police. “Any mob connections?”

Fletcher hesitated. “I don’t know. There might be. The husband’s in a state of shock. I haven’t been able to question him yet.”

“I’ll be there.”

Irving Circle was a nice street of middle-class homes looping around a grassy area at the center. A patrol car with its lights flashing was blocking the only access when Leopold arrived. He maneuvered around it and waved to the officer, pulling up to park across from an open-doored ambulance and two fire trucks. Virtually every home on the street must have been represented in the crowd of neighbors huddled together and talking among themselves in low voices.

Leopold nodded to the assistant medical examiner and others he knew among the team of investigators. “What have you got, Fletcher?” he asked, staring at the three body bags and the ruined car still leaking water from the fire hoses. The garage door, windowless and steel-clad, was undamaged, as was the minivan inside, but a side door into the garage had its window shattered by the blast. The windows of the house itself seemed intact.

“The woman is Frances Clemmins, the children are Kerry and Ben, ages seven and nine. All killed instantly. The boys from the bomb squad tell me it was under the driver’s seat, attached to the ignition.”

Leopold glanced at the minivan in the garage. Next to it was a small boat with an outboard motor attached. “Husband at home?”

“Alex Clemmins. He’s in the kitchen, in pretty bad shape.”

One of the detectives held the door open for him and Leopold stepped inside with Fletcher following. The house was brightly decorated, showing a woman’s touch, and the sight of it immediately saddened him. He could see the man in the gray business suit seated at the kitchen table, his head buried in his hands as an older woman — a neighbor? — tried to comfort him.

“Mr. Clemmins?” This was the part of the job he’d always hated. “I’m Captain Leopold from the Violent Crimes Squad. I’m sorry to intrude on your grief at a time like this, but it’s important to the investigation that we follow up any possible leads at once.”

Clemmins lifted his head, revealing tear-streaked eyes and an expression of utter despair. He had a thin moustache and a receding hairline. “How can I go on after this? Who could have—?”

“Did your wife have any enemies?”

“No one! Everyone loved her.”

The woman, around fifty with graying hair, introduced herself as Midge Proud, a neighbor from the next house. “Fran was wonderful,” she confirmed. “And those dear children—”

“Did you notice any prowlers during the night, Mrs. Proud?”

She hesitated an instant. “No, but then my husband and I turned in early, before eleven. He has to be off to work by seven.”

Because the undamaged car in the garage seemed to be the larger of the two, Leopold asked the obvious question. “Did Mrs. Clemmins usually drive the car she used this morning?”

Alex Clemmins gave a quick shake of his head, as if to clear it, then answered, “Not usually. It was mine, but I was blocking her and she had to take the children to school because they overslept and missed the bus. It often happens on Monday mornings. So I told her to take it. God, it’s my fault they’re dead!”

“It’s no one’s fault except the person who planted that bomb. Don’t worry, we’ll get him. What I need to know from you now is who might have done it. Are there personal or business associates who might want you dead?”

The shattered husband shook his head, still barely able to speak. “No one,” he managed to say. “No one who’d do anything like this.”

“Your wife’s car is in the garage. Was it routine to leave yours in the driveway?”

“It depended. If she was out somewhere and I got home first, I took the garage. Usually mine was in the driveway.”

“It’s a two-car garage,” Leopold pointed out.

“We keep a small boat there in the winter.”

“Ever have trouble with prowlers damaging the car?”

“Never.” Clemmins’s voice was stronger and he seemed to have better control of his emotions. “This is a quiet, law-abiding neighborhood. Even the kids behave themselves.”

“This wasn’t the work of kids,” Leopold pointed out. “What business are you in, Mr. Clemmins?”

“Real estate. I own a movie theater, a couple of bookstores, and some rental property.”

“Any disgruntled employees you know about?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Write down the addresses of your businesses for Lieutenant Fletcher here. And let us know if you think of anyone at all who might have a grudge against you.”

“Is there anything else?” he asked softly.

“Not right now, Mr. Clemmins. This is a terrible thing. You have our sympathy.”

Later that afternoon Fletcher came into Leopold’s office and sat down. “I’ve been checking on those addresses Alex Clemmins gave us, Captain.”

Leopold caught the tightness in his voice. “What about it?”

“The movie theater is TorridTown, that porno house on Adams Avenue the city’s been trying to shut down. The bookstores are pretty much the same thing. Sex books and videos.”

“Why didn’t we recognize the name? TorridTown’s been in the news enough. I thought there was a man named Rockson involved.”

“Rockson’s been making the court appearances, but he only leases the property. Clemmins owns it.”

“With a car bomb and ties to pornography, there could be a mob connection. See what you can find out. Meantime, I’ll take a ride out to TorridTown.”

The theater had once been a neighborhood picture palace, in the long-ago era when such things existed. Over the decades every other movie house within the city limits had been torn down but somehow this one survived, its name changed from the Odeum to TorridTown. Leopold remembered visiting it once around 1965 to see The Sound of Music, but he hadn’t been back since they switched to fare like Deep Throat and The Green Door in the 1970s. Now the titles weren’t even listed on the marquee outside.

A slim, brown-bearded man in a turtleneck was selling tickets to occasional customers when Leopold walked up. “Is Mr. Rockson in?”

“He’s busy,” the man responded without looking up.

Leopold flashed his badge and ID. “Police matter. Is Mr. Rockson in?”

The head came up, the eyes sleepy and sad. “What is this, more harassment?”

“Are you Mr. Rockson?”

“Yeah.”

“Could I have a few words with you?”

“About the theater?”

“About three homicides.”

That got his attention. “I’ll close the ticket window. The show’s started anyway. We can talk in my office.”

Leopold followed him inside, with only a quick glance at the screen. Rockson’s office was a tiny room behind the refreshment stand, cluttered with posters going back twenty years. He sat down in a worn swivel chair and asked, “Who’s dead?”

“Frances Clemmins and her two children.”

“Christ!” He pawed at the desktop for a cigarette. “Who did it?”

“It was a car bomb rigged to her husband’s vehicle. We believe he was the intended victim.”

“And you came here because he owns the place?”

“That’s right. Car bombs require a certain amount of skill. It seems more the work of a professional killer — a mob hit. Are there any mob ties to this theater or the other places Clemmins owns?”

Rockson shook his head. “Nothing that I know about.”

“It was all Clemmins’s own money in these businesses? He never had visits from partners in New York?”

“Lately I’ve been busy with court appearances. I don’t know what he’s been doing.”

The bearded man seemed to be avoiding a direct reply. “If you want to stay clear of trouble, you’d better tell me what you know,” Leopold warned.

“Well, sure, he might have had a partner. I just lease the place.”

“Do you book the films or does he?”

Rockson laughed. “This isn’t exactly the Loew’s circuit, you know. Someone phones me and says he has a block of films available, maybe a dozen or more. If they sound good and I’m familiar with the actors or the director I say sure, send them along. It doesn’t take much to please the sort of audiences I get.”

“Does Alex Clemmins ever suggest films or book them for you?”

“No.”

His answer was so short that Leopold pursued it. “You’re sure of that? Never?”

“He never books films. Once in a while someone calls me and says they got my name from him.”

“So he does have some contact with the pornography business, and it’s possible someone in that business might have had a motive for trying to kill him.”

“Hey, anything’s possible.” He glanced at his watch. “I gotta go now, if you’re finished.”

“For the moment.”

“Stay for the show if you want to. On the house.”

“Thanks anyway.”

Fletcher came back to the office around five. “Clemmins has mob connections, Captain. There’s no doubt of it.”

“Then he probably knows who tried to kill him. What did you find?”

“The Manhattan office of the FBI notified us last year that he made regular calls to a mob boss who controls porno houses and sex clubs in the Northeast. They had a tap on the guy’s phone. From the conversations it seems likely this boss, Billy Cosetti, also known as Billy Goat Cosetti, was some sort of silent partner of Clemmins’s.”

Leopold sighed. “It looks as if we’ll have to get back to Mr. Clemmins.”

“Mrs. Proud is here too, if you want to speak to her. She came down to make a statement.”

Leopold drew a blank. “Refresh my memory, Fletcher.”

“Clemmins’s neighbor, the woman we met at his house this morning.”

“Of course! Where is she, in the interview room?”

Fletcher nodded. “Connie’s with her.”

Sergeant Connie Trent rose as Leopold entered the room. “I was just going to buzz you, Captain. I think you should hear what Mrs. Proud has to say.”

Midge Proud appeared more attractive than she had at the Clemmins house that morning. The explosion had brought her running from her house during breakfast, but now she’d had time for makeup and grooming. She was still a gray-haired woman around fifty, but now she would be worth a second look.

“Nice to see you again, Mrs. Proud.” He shook hands and sat down opposite her.

“Tell the captain what you just told me,” Connie urged.

Midge Proud bit nervously at her lip. “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble, but I keep thinking about Fran and those poor children.”

“It was a terrible crime,” Leopold agreed.

“I was telling the sergeant here that I couldn’t sleep last night. I got up around one to take a pill and out my bathroom window I noticed Alex just closing the door of the sedan on the driver’s side.”

Leopold came alert. “Are you sure it was Alex Clemmins you saw?”

“Oh yes. They keep an outside light on at night. I didn’t think much of it. I figured he’d left something in the car and come out to get it.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“They’re usually up late. One o’clock wasn’t the middle of the night for him.”

Leopold had visions of Clemmins checking out the sex films on late-night cable. “Did he have anything in his hand when he left the car?”

“I didn’t notice anything.”

“Mrs. Proud, do you think Alex Clemmins could have been responsible for the death of his wife and children?”

“No. I can’t believe that.”

“And yet—”

“I just felt I should tell you what I saw.”

“And thank you for doing so. Connie will take down your statement and have you sign it.”

Leopold and Fletcher waited until late the following morning to pay another call on Alex Clemmins. By that time Fletcher had come up with information from Clemmins’s bank and insurance company. The bereaved man answered the door himself, looking pale and drawn.

“Does this have to be today, Captain?” he pleaded. “I’m due at the funeral parlor in an hour.”

“I’m afraid it can’t wait, sir. We’re at a crucial stage in the homicide investigation.” They followed him inside.

“Your men were poking around the place all day yesterday—”

“Mr. Clemmins, I have to ask you about your dealings with a man named Billy Cosetti, sometimes called Billy Goat.”

“I—” He shook his head, suddenly at a loss for words.

“He controls most of the pornography outlets in the Northeast, including your little operation in this city.”

“I barely know the man,” Clemmins insisted, recovering somewhat.

“Two weeks ago you tried to borrow three hundred thousand dollars from your bank here in town. They turned you down. Would you mind telling me what that money was for?”

“It was a business venture. I wanted to expand my theater holdings. Fran was urging me to get out of the sex business and buy into a first-run movie house in the suburbs, one of those with two or three screens. I agreed to try but the bank wouldn’t go along.”

Fletcher interrupted at this point. “You told your banker you needed the money to pay off some loans.”

“Well, that too.”

“Were these loans from Billy Goat Cosetti?” Leopold asked.

“Some of them,” he admitted reluctantly.

“Mr. Clemmins, how much insurance did you carry on the lives of your wife and children?”

“Insurance? I don’t remember exactly. The usual amount.”

“One hundred thousand dollars on each of them. That’s the exact amount you tried to borrow from the bank.”

Clemmins’s face twisted with sudden rage. “What are you trying to say — that I killed them for the insurance?”

“We’re just investigating all the possibilities,” Leopold said quietly.

“You’re out of your minds, both of you!”

“Mr. Clemmins, we have a witness who saw you out at your car around one o’clock yesterday morning. You told us it was your idea that your wife and children take your car.”

Alex Clemmins moistened his lips. “I want a lawyer.”

Fletcher produced a folded document from his pocket. “We have a search warrant here for your house and garage.”

“I want a lawyer,” he repeated.

The bomb that killed Frances Clemmins and her two children had contained several sticks of dynamite and a detonator attached to the ignition. In the garage, wrapped in a dirty rag and inside an old tire, Fletcher found two additional sticks of dynamite and some electrical wire of the type used in the bombing. Alex Clemmins denied any knowledge of them.

Two days later, following the funerals of his wife and children, Clemmins was formally charged with their murder and the district attorney began building a case for presentation to the grand jury the following week. That was what took Leopold to New York City, to question Billy Goat Cosetti.

The Northeast’s King of Porn wasn’t in a topless bar or a bordello. Leopold found him in a Brooklyn warehouse, frowning over a clipboard of invoices while a forklift hoisted a pallet loaded with shrink-wrapped videotapes. He was a squat man with almost no hair, probably well past fifty. “You’re the one who called me,” he said, keeping the frown as he studied Leopold. “What can I do for you, Captain?”

“We’re investigating the murder of Frances Clemmins and her two children. As I told you on the phone, we’ve arrested her husband.”

“Alex Clemmins. Yeah, I’ve had some dealings with him. Come into the office and we’ll talk.”

The office was larger than Rockson’s tiny room at the TorridTown theater but no neater. Leopold had to move a pile of paper-bound books off a chair so he could sit down. “Mr. Cosetti, I’ll come right to the point. We have a report that Alex Clemmins owed you a considerable amount of money. Is that accurate?”

The squat man lit a cigar and shrugged. “Depends what you mean by a considerable amount. His operations there haven’t been doing well. You got a very conservative town, Captain.”

“Let’s cut the games. How much is he into you for?”

“I don’t even know. That’s the truth.”

“Take a guess.”

Billy Goat shrugged. “A hundred grand, maybe. It’s a lot of money.”

“Could it be three hundred grand?”

“I doubt if it’s that high.” He shifted uneasily, not enjoying the conversation. “But, see, I put up the money for theater renovations, and then I did the same thing for the bookstores. Nothing’s cheap these days.”

“You supplied him with the films?”

“There’s a fellow named Rockson who leases the place. My guy contacts him. Maybe he’s been ripping Clemmins off. I’m not involved in that. I just know I got money coming.”

“Would you kill him if you didn’t get it?”

“You got the wrong idea about me, pal.” He stood up, brushing some cigar ash from his pants. “You’ll have to excuse me now.”

Leopold took the train back home, wondering if the trip had been worth it.

Alex Clemmins was indicted and brought to trial amidst a media frenzy that ran on for months. The case against him was based upon three factors: He had the motive of needing money to pay off a loan from Billy Cosetti; he had the means, as shown by the two extra sticks of dynamite and wire hidden in his locked garage; and he had the opportunity, as sworn to by Midge Proud, who’d seen him by the car at one in the morning. Furthermore, he knew the children were often late on Monday mornings and he could urge his wife to take them to school in his car.

The murder of children, especially by a parent, always brought forth a public outcry. When the D.A. announced he would seek the death penalty only a few voices were raised against him. Presenting the state’s case in court, he showed that the wire and the sticks of dynamite were the same type used in the bomb. The overhead door and the side door to the garage had both been locked, making it unlikely an outsider could have planted them there. And Clemmins’s neighbor had no reason to lie about seeing him. They’d always been on good terms.

Defense attorneys argued that Clemmins was being prosecuted because of links to the pornography industry, and that could well have been a factor against him in the public’s mind. The defense put him on the stand, where he vehemently denied all charges. The dynamite was not his and he had never hidden it in the garage. Midge Proud had seen him at one in the morning because he’d gone out to the car to have a smoke before bedtime. Fran hadn’t liked him smoking in the house. The fact that he’d been denied a bank loan in the exact amount of his wife and children’s insurance was nothing but a coincidence. He hadn’t owed Cosetti that much but had tried to borrow a little extra so he could open another store. He told the jury he was convinced the mob boss had ordered him killed because of the unpaid debt.

The jury debated for three days before returning a verdict of Guilty against Alex Clemmins. That had been almost nine years ago.

Leopold was surprised to realize he’d been talking for nearly two hours when he finally reached the end of his story. Through it all Zach Brewster had sat spellbound on the sofa without moving except to ask the spelling of names and enter them on the yellow notepad on his lap. Now he said, “That’s quite a story, Captain.”

“I can hardly credit it to good police work,” Leopold told him. “If the neighbor hadn’t come forward we might never have gotten the break we needed.”

“There was the dynamite in the garage.”

“We had no reason to search for it. I still find it hard to believe he killed them just for the insurance.”

Brewster put his pad and tape recorder into the briefcase. He took out a handful of newspaper reports, clipped together, and passed them over. Leopold saw again the press photos of the scene, the shell of the blackened car, the garage with its broken window in the side door. “Are these accounts fairly accurate, Captain?”

He glanced through a couple. “As accurate as the press usually is. The first reports usually need correcting as more facts come in.” He handed back the clippings.

Brewster showed Leopold a folded cellular phone he carried in his jacket pocket. “I expect to be in town until tomorrow. If you think of anything else, you might give me a call on my cell phone.”

Leopold nodded. “They’re handy gadgets. My wife gave me one for Christmas.”

He jotted down the number and handed it to Leopold. “Thanks for your time, Captain,” he said, closing his briefcase.

“These days I’ve got nothing but time, Mr. Brewster.”

The rest of the afternoon was free so Leopold took a ride down to headquarters. He rarely visited it these days, though he and Molly continued to see Fletcher and his wife socially every month or so. The place seemed to be running just as well without him and he was happy for Fletcher’s success.

It was Connie Trent who greeted him as he walked in. “I thought you’d forgotten how to get here, Captain! How’ve you been?”

“Can’t complain, at my age.”

She grinned at him. “Thinking about coming back again?”

“I think I already came back once too often. Where’s the captain?”

“You’ll always be the captain around here, but if you mean Fletcher he’s back in his office.”

“Thanks, Connie.”

Fletcher had recognized his voice and was already coming out to meet him. “Don’t tell me! You’re here about the Clemmins case.”

It was Leopold’s turn to smile. “You’ve been talking to Zach Brewster.”

“Hell, sometimes I feel like I spend my whole day talking to writers and journalists. How’ve you been? How’s Molly?”

“She’s great. I’m just trying to keep busy.”

“I told Brewster there was nothing new in the case but he wanted to interview the detective in charge of the investigation. I said you were retired and he asked for your phone number. I figured you could say no if you didn’t want to see him, but I gave you a great buildup. Said you were like a bulldog in pursuing old cases, even though you’re retired.”

“I talked for about two hours,” Leopold admitted. He frowned at a sudden thought.

“What’s the matter, Captain?”

“Nothing. It was just that— Are the files on the Clemmins case still in the back room or have they gone off to the warehouse?”

“I’ve been keeping them here through all the appeals, just in case they were needed again. What are you looking for?”

“Didn’t we have a diagram of the Clemmins house and its neighbors, showing the sight line from Midge Proud’s window to the Clemmins car?”

“We sure did. As it turned out, they didn’t need it in court because he admitted being out there around one o’clock for a smoke.”

“Let’s see if we can find it.”

Leopold had always avoided trips to the warehouse at any cost, and the records room at headquarters wasn’t much better. After they brushed off the dust, they were left with a thick cardboard file folder secured with a broken rubber band and a discolored ribbon. “We must get organized,” Fletcher muttered.

“Ask the city fathers for more money so you can hire a couple of clerks.”

“Sure! What do you think our chances are?” He carried the bulging folder to a work table and let the files and reports slide out of it.

Leopold recognized his handwriting on a number of documents and felt the years fall away. He was remembering the scene again, and Alex Clemmins’s protestations of innocence. “Here it is!” He unfolded a diagram of the houses.

Fletcher squinted at it. “I remember now. This dotted line indicates the line of sight from Mrs. Proud’s window. Is that what you wanted to check?”

“Not exactly. Look, Fletcher — this door on the side of the garage, where the window was broken. It’s not visible to someone coming out the front door of the house and walking straight to a car in the driveway.”

“What difference does that make?”

“None of the windows in the house were broken by the explosion. Why should that one at the side of the garage have broken?”

Fletcher shrugged. “I never thought about it. Shock waves can do funny things sometimes. What other explanation could there be?”

“Suppose the killer was a professional hit man hired by Billy Goat Cosetti. Suppose once he was on the scene he realized he had too much dynamite for the job. His target was one man, Alex Clemmins, and he didn’t want to harm the family. He might have removed two sticks of dynamite to better limit the area of the blast, then hidden them and the extra electrical wire at the scene to avoid being caught with these items in his possession. He broke the window after planting the bomb, muffling the sound with a cloth, reached in and turned the bolt from inside the door. Then he hid the dynamite in that old tire and left the same way, locking the door behind him.”

Fletcher’s eyes narrowed. “It wouldn’t have to be a hit man. Maybe that neighbor Mrs. Proud planted the bomb herself and didn’t want her house to be damaged.”

“Somehow I don’t see Midge Proud or most women as bombers, Fletcher. It’s a man’s weapon. Besides, she was only a few steps from her own house. She could have hidden the dynamite there, or even buried it in the garden temporarily. And she’d be aware that Alex and Fran Clemmins sometimes switched cars, something the killer apparently didn’t know.”

“What’s the bottom line on this, Captain?”

“It didn’t have to be Alex Clemmins who hid that dynamite, and probably wasn’t. Fran and the kids would have needed their coats in March, and hers at least was probably kept in a closet by the front door. If they came out that way they wouldn’t have seen the broken garage window. If the dynamite was planted, one of the three cornerstones of the case is flawed. And how about the other two? He had an explanation for being in the car at one in the morning, and the amount of the insurance could have been a coincidence, as he claimed.”

“After nine years you’re telling me you don’t think Clemmins is guilty?”

“I’m saying the evidence that convicted him might be flawed.”

“The execution is only six days away, Captain.”

“I know that. Is Rockson still running TorridTown?”

“You haven’t been following the papers. After all these years the city finally got a restraining order against him. The theater has been closed for a month, though I guess he still has an office there.”

Leopold glanced at his watch. “I guess I might take a drive over there.”

“Don’t get involved,” Fletcher cautioned. “It’s not your job anymore. I’ll go see him in the morning.”

Leopold drove home for dinner but the house was empty and he remembered that Molly had a meeting of her women lawyers’ group that night. He was already planning to ignore Fletcher’s advice and that decided him. He went upstairs to the bedroom and dug out the .38-caliber revolver he was licensed to carry as a private citizen. If he was going to seek out Rockson he had to be prepared for anything. As he was leaving the house he remembered the cell phone Molly had given him and that went into his pocket too, just in case he needed help in a hurry.

The area around the TorridTown theater and bookstore had deteriorated badly since his visit nine years earlier. Though Rockson still kept the marquee lit in promise of some future reopening, the place seemed deserted. Leopold was a bit surprised to find the lobby door unlocked. He entered and walked past the deserted box office, across the small lobby to the empty refreshment stand and the office beyond it. The office was empty, but one of Rockson’s cigarettes still burned in the ashtray.

Leopold stepped out of the office and glanced around. If he was still in the building he could only have gone into the theater auditorium itself. Passing through the swinging doors, Leopold suddenly found himself in total darkness. “Rockson!” he shouted.

The place seemed deserted and he shouted the name again. “Rockson! I want to talk to you. It’s Captain Leopold.” Just for the moment, he thought, back from retirement.

Still silence.

He called the name once more and there was the flash and crack of a gunshot from the direction of the side aisle. He heard the thump of a bullet hitting one of the seat arms, and dropped to the floor in a sudden reflex action. He rolled over on his side and pulled his own weapon free.

Crawling along in the dark behind the seats he called out, “I know the truth. Throw down your gun!”

Another shot cracked out, from somewhere up near the screen. The gunman was circling, trying to get around the other side. Leopold wished the exit lights were on, but right now violations of the fire code were the least of his worries. He thought he heard a sound and stood up in a crouch. There was nothing but darkness around him.

He felt the cell phone in his pocket and found the key pad in the dark, keeping it in there to muffle the beeps as he pressed the numbers. Now if he could just remember it correctly—

First the power button, then the numbers. “Police! Throw down your gun,” Leopold shouted again to further cover the muffled beeps. This time there was no answering shot. His assailant was moving closer in the dark, saving his bullets till there was a clear target.

Leopold raised his own gun and pressed the final button on his cell phone. Suddenly there was a muffled ring not twenty feet behind him. He whirled and fired a single shot at the sound.

Ten minutes later the lights in the theater were up, and the place was far from empty. Two patrol cars and an ambulance had responded to Leopold’s 911 call, and now Captain Fletcher was hurrying down the center aisle. “What in hell happened here?” he wanted to know.

“I got him in the hip,” Leopold explained, motioning toward the man being gently slid onto the ambulance gurney. “It was a shot in the dark, in more ways than one.”

“It’s Zach Brewster, that writer!”

Leopold nodded. “I believe he’s the man who planted the bomb in Clemmins’s car nine years ago.”

They were interrupted by an officer calling from the back of the theater. “We’ve got a body here, Captain!”

It was Rockson, the TorridTown manager, and he’d been shot in the head at close range. Leopold stared down at the body. “So that’s what he was doing here. If I’d arrived five minutes earlier I might have prevented this.”

“You’d better explain,” Fletcher said.

“All this recent publicity about next week’s execution and possible new evidence must have worried Brewster — and maybe his boss, Billy Goat Cosetti. Brewster posed as an author working on a book and called on you for information. You gave me a big buildup and almost got me killed.”

“Sorry about that,” Fletcher said.

“He gave me his cellular phone number so I could call him if I remembered anything else. When someone shot at me here in the dark I took a chance that it was him and punched in his number on my own cell phone. His phone rang and I fired at the sound.”

“You took a chance it was him?” Fletcher repeated. “Why would you even suspect him?”

“He was supposedly recording the interview with me on a small tape recorder, as writers often do. Those tapes only record about forty-five minutes per side. I talked for two hours and he hardly moved at all during that time, never changed tapes and didn’t even turn it over. If he wasn’t a writer, I got to wondering what he really was. They must have thought Rockson was getting ready to tell what he knew, so Brewster came here to ask some questions and then silence Rockson, just in case.”

Fletcher watched them wheeling the wounded man out to the ambulance. “Do you think he’s ready to implicate Cosetti?”

“I’d bet on it. And I’d bet the governor is ready to delay Clemmins’s execution too!”