Ellery Queen. The Best of Suspense

Edward D. Hoch Captain Leopold Plays a Hunch

The day was sunny, with an August warmth that hung in the air like an unseen cloud. It was the sort of day when children’s voices carried far in the muggy atmosphere, when the slamming of a screen door or the barking of a dog could be heard throughout the quiet suburban neighborhood of Maple Street.

Out back, beyond the trees that marked the boundary of developed land, a group of boys barely into their teens stood watching while one of them fired a .22 rifle at a row of beer cans they had set up on a log. Presently the mother of the boy with the rifle appeared at the line of trees and shouted for him to stop. He did so, reluctantly, and the other youths drifted away. The boy with the rifle walked slowly back to his mother, his head hanging.

The afternoon settled into a routine of humid stillness, broken only by the rumble of an occasional delivery truck or the crying of a baby. It was nearly an hour later that the screaming started in a house on the next street, beyond the trees and across the open field.

Though the houses were some distance away, the screaming was heard quite clearly on Maple Street.

Lieutenant Fletcher took the call on Captain Leopold’s phone, interrupting a department meeting on a recent wave of midtown muggings. Leopold, watching Fletcher’s face from the corner of one eye, saw the blood drain from it.

“I’ll be right home,” Fletcher said and hung up. He turned to Leopold and explained. “I’ve got to get home, Captain. They think my kid might have killed somebody with his rifle.”

“Go ahead,” Leopold said. “Call me when you find out what happened.”

He went on with the meeting, accepting suggestions from the other detectives and from policewoman Connie Trent, but his mind was on Fletcher. He hoped the news wasn’t quite as bad as it had sounded on the phone. He and Fletcher had worked together for so many years that the troubles of one often became the worries of the other.

As soon as the meeting broke up he motioned Connie aside. “Try to find out what happened with Fletcher’s son, will you? Let me know as soon as you hear anything.”

“Right, Captain.” Connie was tall and dark-haired, the brightest addition to Leopold’s squad since Fletcher had joined it eleven years earlier. She had beauty and brains, along with a superior arrest record that she had achieved while acting as an undercover narcotics agent. Leopold enjoyed talking to her, enjoyed looking at her deep green eyes and easy smile.

Within fifteen minutes Connie was back in his office. “It’s not good, Captain. A man named Chester Vogel, a highschool teacher, was found shot to death in his living room. He was killed by a single .22 bullet that came through a back window of his house. The window faces a vacant lot where Fletcher’s son was firing a .22 rifle at just about the time Vogel was killed.”

“Damn!” Leopold frowned at his desk. “All right,” he said finally. “I’d better get out there.”

“Want me to come along?”

“No, Connie. I’m going as a friend, not as a detective.” But he smiled and added, “Thanks for offering.”

“I’ll be here if you need me.”

A police car was parked in front of Fletcher’s white ranch home on Maple Street. Captain Leopold had been there a few times before — once for a summer cookout in the back yard when he’d felt oddly out of place as the only outsider in a close-knit family group. But he’d always liked Fletcher’s wife Carol, a charming intelligent woman whose only fault was her heavy smoking.

Carol saw him coming up the walk now and opened the screen door to greet him. She was short and small-boned, looking far younger than her thirty-seven years. At that moment she might have been someone’s kid sister rather than the mother of a fourteen-year-old boy. “Thank you for coming, Captain,” she said simply.

“How are you, Carol? Is it young Mike?” He knew it was, because their other child was eight-year-old Lisa.

She nodded and pointed to the family room. Leopold went in, edging by the patrolman who stood in the doorway. Young Mike Fletcher was slumped in an armchair, staring at the floor. He did not look up as Leopold entered.

“Hello, Captain,” Lieutenant Fletcher said quietly.

“What’s the story?”

“I got Mike a .22 rifle last Christmas. I think I told you about it. He wasn’t supposed to use it around here. This afternoon Carol caught him out in back with some other kids, shooting at beer cans. She made him come in, and then a while later she heard this screaming. Woman over on Oak Street came home to find her husband shot dead. Some of the neighbors remembered hearing the kids shooting, and the patrolman came over to find out about it.”

Leopold looked questioningly at the officer in charge. “What do you think?”

“We’ll run a check on the rifle, Captain, but there’s not much doubt. Discharging a firearm out here is a violation. We’ll have to book him for something or the guy’s widow will be on our necks.”

Leopold grunted. The man was a deputy sheriff, independent of the city police. He knew Leopold, of course, but there outside the city limits he wasn’t impressed by detective captains. Leopold wished Fletcher had kept his family in the city, where he’d been obliged to live until the regulations for municipal employees were relaxed a few years back.

“It was an accident,” Leopold pointed out. “And there were other boys involved.”

“I did all the shooting,” Mike said without looking up. “They were just watching. Don’t bring them into it.”

Leopold glanced at Lieutenant Fletcher’s face and saw the torment in it. “Come on,” he said to the boy. “Let’s go for a walk out back. You can show me where it happened.”

Mike nodded reluctantly and stood up. He was a good-looking boy with fashionably long hair and sideburns, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Leopold knew him only casually, but had always liked him. They went out through the kitchen, walking across the wide back yard like casual strollers on a summer afternoon. Leopold admired the close-cropped lawn and blooming rosebushes as only an apartment dweller could. He’d never owned a home of his own, even during his brief years of marriage. Now, passing uncomfortably through middle age, he often contemplated the simple joys of life that he had missed.

“Where were you standing when you shot at the cans, Mike?”

“Beyond those trees, Captain Leopold. Our yard ends at the trees, but we all go into the empty lots to shoot and stuff.”

“Didn’t you know discharging a firearm out here is against the law?”

“Yeah, I guess I knew it.”

Leopold followed him between trees and found himself in a great open field overgrown with weeds and scrub brush. Had it not been for the line of houses some 300 yards away on the next street, he might have imagined himself suddenly transported to the countryside.

“Someday they’ll build all this up,” Mike said, “put a couple of streets through, build lots of houses. It won’t be the same.”

“Nothing stays the same, Mike.” He stooped to pick up a punctured beer can. “Was this where the cans were?”

Mike nodded. “On the log.”

Leopold turned and saw Fletcher walking out to join them. In that moment he was not a detective lieutenant or even a close friend. He was only a troubled father. “Find anything?” he asked.

“Beer cans. Bullet holes. What sort of rifle was it?”

“A pump-action .22. He wasn’t supposed to fire it around here. I told him, his mother told him.”

Leopold stared at the distant line of houses. “That’s a long way for a .22 to carry and still have the impact to kill a man.” Something was gnawing at him. It was only a hunch, but it was growing. He turned to the boy. “Did you fire toward that house, Mike?”

“No. I didn’t even know which was Mr. Vogel’s house till the policeman pointed it out.”

“You can see the patrol car in the driveway,” Fletcher said, pointing out a white ranch home in the middle of the row of houses.

“Did you fire in that direction, Mike?” Leopold asked again.

“No. At least, I don’t think so.”

“If you were standing here, you would have had to fire a good two feet to the left of your row of cans, and above them, to come anywhere near that house.”

“I might have been wide on a few shots. I don’t know.”

“Let’s just walk over there.”

“I don’t want to,” Mike said.

“All of us do things we don’t want to do. Come on.”

Mike looked up at his father who nodded. But Fletcher stood back as the two started across the field. Perhaps he felt that his place was with his wife.

“Nice house,” Leopold commented when they were almost there.

“Yeah. Oak Street is classier than Maple. I guess that’s why they like that big empty lot separating us.”

Leopold nodded to the pair of detectives in the living room of the sprawling home. His eyes went to the single hole where the bullet had passed through the window at the rear of the house. “A thousand-to-one chance,” a detective said. “It was just bad luck, Captain.”

“Seems so. Is Mrs. Vogel home?”

“I’m right here,” a hoarse-voiced woman said from the kitchen. She was pale, a little overweight, and perhaps fifty years old. Once she might have been pretty, but today she was only sad-looking and alone.

“I’m Captain Leopold, Lieutenant Fletcher’s superior in the city police. This is Mike Fletcher.”

Mike stepped forward and tried to speak, but his voice broke when he saw the spots of blood on the white shag carpet at his feet. “No,” he managed. “I didn’t mean to—”

Mrs. Vogel stared at him with hard unyielding eyes. “You killed my husband,” she said quietly. “I hope you rot in prison for it!” Then, turning to Leopold, she added, “Or will being a cop’s son get him off?”

Before Leopold could reply, a much younger woman appeared from the kitchen and took Mrs. Vogel’s arm. “Come on, Katherine. You’ve got to lie down. The doctor will be here soon with something to calm you.”

“I am calm,” Katherine Vogel replied, and indeed she seemed so. Bitter and accusing, but calm. She even glanced down at the watch on her left wrist as if to see what time it was. Nevertheless she allowed the younger woman to lead her off to the bedroom. One of the detectives looked at Leopold and shrugged.

When the young woman returned Leopold thanked her. She acknowledged the words with a nod and said, “I’m Linda Pearson from across the street. Just trying to help.”

“She was the first one here after Mrs. Vogel found her husband,” a detective explained.

Leopold nodded. “You heard her screams?”

“Yes. It was terrible. She’d been down the street talking to a neighbor and when she returned she found him dead.”

“She seems to have calmed down quite a bit now.”

“It’s all inside. I’m afraid she’ll burst with it.” Linda Pearson was an attractive young woman, not more than thirty, who wore her long blonde hair in twin pigtails that made her seem even younger.

“You knew Mrs. Vogel and her husband well?”

She looked away. “Just as neighbors. I didn’t see much of her.” She seemed reluctant to say more.

Leopold walked to the rear window and examined the bullet hole. The shot had come from outside, all right, but somehow the whole thing still bothered him. His nagging hunch was back again. “Was Mr. Vogel seated in that chair?”

“I think so,” she answered. “He’d fallen onto the rug by the time I got here.”

Leopold bent to examine some indentations in the shag rug. The chair seemed to have been moved several inches from its usual position. “Come on, Mike,” he said, straightening up. “We’d better be getting back.”

In the morning Leopold was restless and irritable. He missed Fletcher, who’d taken the day off to be with Carol and the boy. More than that, he wanted to help, but he didn’t really know how. When Connie Trent, filling in for Fletcher, brought his coffee, he looked at her and said, “Damn it, Connie, I want to help Mike!”

She sat down, crossing her legs with a whisper of nylon. “What can you do?”

“That’s the trouble. I keep looking for something that isn’t there, trying to find proof that he didn’t do it. I was awake half the night dreaming up nice neat theories. Vogel having an affair with the girl across the street, his wife finding out, seeing Mike out shooting, and doing a little shooting herself.”

“It’s an idea,” she admitted.

“But there’s not a trace of evidence to back it up.”

“What about the bullet?”

“Too mashed for a ballistics check. But it was a .22 Long Rifle, the same type Mike was using.”

“What will they do to him?”

“He’s a juvenile, never in trouble before, and it surely was an accident. He’ll probably get off with a lecture from the judge unless Mrs. Vogel raises a stink about his being a detective’s son. He did break the law by just firing the rifle. But the thing that bothers me most is the effect on the boy, and on Fletcher and Carol. The bad publicity, the civil suit for damages that Mrs. Vogel is bound to file.”

“You can’t do anything about that, Captain. You can’t invent a murder where none exists.”

“I know that, Connie.”

“Not even for Fletcher.”

He sighed and turned toward the window. “And yet, I have a hunch about Vogel’s death — a feeling that the whole thing is just too pat. The chair he was sitting in looked as if it had been moved. Katherine Vogel glanced at her watch once while I was there. Why would a woman whose husband has just been killed be so interested in what time it was?” He paused a moment. “More important, is there substance to any of this or am I merely concerned about Fletcher and his son?”

Connie had no answer, and she gave none.

Leopold parked his car at the corner of Oak Street and walked across to a yard where a man was mowing his lawn. It was late afternoon, almost dinnertime, and in some yards families were preparing to eat outdoors. The odor of charcoal cooking hung heavy in the air.

“You’re Bob Aarons?” Leopold asked the man with the power mower.

“That’s right.” He switched off the mower and frowned.

“I wonder if you could answer a few questions. I’m Captain Leopold, investigating the death of Chester Vogel.”

“Terrible thing,” the man said, his face relaxing a bit. “I’ve been a friend of theirs for years.” He was tall and middle-aged, with a ready smile when he cared to use it.

“I understand Mrs. Vogel was up here talking with you when it happened.”

“About that time, I guess, though the shooting might have stopped before she arrived. We chatted a few minutes and then she went on home. A few minutes later I heard her screams. I reached the house just after Mrs. Pearson.”

Leopold nodded. “Tell me, how did Vogel get along with his wife? Any trouble there?”

“Not that I know of.” The smile vanished. “It was the kid on Maple Street that shot him, you know. It wasn’t Katherine Vogel.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“Just because the kid’s father is a cop is no reason to let him off the hook.”

“Certainly not.” Leopold could see he’d get nowhere here. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Aarons. I’ll be going now.”

He turned to leave, but Aarons called him back. “Look, you might talk to Linda Pearson about it.”

“What could she tell me?”

The man’s face was blank. “Ask her.”

“Come on, Mr. Aarons.”

The man stared down at the grass. “In the house, right after I got there, Mrs. Pearson said Katherine had killed him. That was before we knew what really happened, of course.”

“Of course. Thanks, Mr. Aarons. I’ll talk to her.”

Linda Pearson came to the door at his first ring. He identified himself and reminded her of their meeting the previous afternoon, but she still seemed reluctant to let him in. “My husband’s at the funeral parlor with Katherine Vogel. I’m alone with the baby.”

“I’ll only take a few minutes.”

“Oh, very well!” She unlatched the screen door. “A woman can’t be too careful these days.”

Her house was a duplicate of the Vogel place across the street, though the décor carried out a more contemporary theme. “You were the first one over there after Katherine Vogel screamed, I believe.”

“That’s right. Mr. Aarons was right behind me.”

“I was just talking to him. He said when you first saw the body you thought Mrs. Vogel had killed him.”

“I — that was in the heat of the moment. It didn’t mean anything.”

“Sometimes the truth comes out in the heat of the moment.”

“That wasn’t the truth. The boy on the next street killed him.”

“Why did you think it might have been Katherine Vogel?”

“I don’t know.” She glanced away, searching for the right words.

“Mrs. Pearson, forgive me, but were you having an affair with Chester Vogel?”

“Certainly not!” Her eyes blazed with fury. “You’re sounding just like her!”

“Yes?” He smiled slightly. “More words in the heat of the moment?”

She started to turn away, then faced him again. “All right, I’ll tell you. Katherine Vogel thought we were having an affair. She accused him of it and warned me to stay away from him. But I swear to you, there wasn’t a word of truth in it! She’s a suspicious old bitch who minds everybody else’s business. He told me once that she threatened to kill him if she caught him fooling around.”

The fury of her attack surprised Leopold. “Do you know if Vogel owned a gun of any kind?” he asked.

She nodded. “A target pistol. I saw it once. He kept it in the basement.”

“A .22?”

“I don’t know that much about guns.”

Maybe, Leopold thought. Just maybe his hunch was beginning to pay off. “Thank you, Mrs. Pearson. You’ve been a big help.”

Upstairs the baby started to cry.

Leopold stopped for a sandwich and then drove over to the funeral parlor in the early evening. It was an imposing colonial structure in keeping with middle-class suburban architecture. Leopold was surprised to find Fletcher lingering near the doorway as if awaiting some call.

“I thought I should come over,” he explained. “I tried to get Mike to come, too, but he wouldn’t.”

“It’s a terrible thing for him,” Leopold said. His eyes were scanning the assembled mourners. “Is Linda Pearson’s husband still around?”

“Dark blue suit. Straight ahead.”

Harry Pearson was tall and virile, if somewhat older than his youthful wife. When Leopold motioned him aside to ask about Katherine Vogel, he drew in his breath and answered with some anger, “This is hardly the place for it, Captain.”

Leopold glanced at the flower-draped coffin and agreed. “All right, let’s go outside.”

It was still daylight as they strolled across the blacktopped parking area behind the building. Harry Pearson swatted at a mosquito and asked, “Now, what was it you wanted?”

“What were Mrs. Vogel’s relations with her husband?”

“Good, as far as I know.”

“I’ve heard differently. I’ve heard she was suspicious of him, jealous of other women, and that she even threatened to kill him.”

He squinted at Leopold. “Have you been talking to my wife?”

“Among others.”

“Well, there’s no truth in it. Katherine Vogel is a fine woman. A detective’s son killed Chester, and there’s nothing else you can make out of it.”

Lieutenant Fletcher came out the back door at that moment, and Leopold knew he’d heard Pearson s last sentence. Fletcher merely nodded and kept going to his car. Leopold watched him in silence and then said, “All right, Mr. Pearson. Sorry to have taken your time.”

He turned and followed Fletcher, catching him at the car. “Want to stop for a beer?”

Fletcher turned to him, his eyes pained. “Captain, I know what you’re trying to do, believe me. But it’s no good. We can’t make a murder case out of this. Mike killed him, that’s all there is to it.”

“Mike says he didn’t fire any shots in that direction. I believe him, Fletcher.”

“Then what happened?”

“She heard the shooting, got her husband’s target pistol out of the basement, and shot him through the window herself.”

“Without any neighbors seeing her?”

Leopold knew he was being unreasonable. “All right,” he agreed finally. “Let me talk to ballistics again in the morning.”

Fletcher managed a weak smile. “Sure, Captain. I appreciate everything you’re trying to do. So does Carol.”

Leopold nodded. They shook hands like two old friends who had just encountered each other briefly. Then Fletcher got into his car and drove away.

In the morning Leopold went down to ballistics and talked to Sergeant Wolfer, a grumpy little man who was an expert at what he did. “No chance for identification, Captain,” he said immediately. “The slug was too badly mashed.”

“But it was a .22, the same as Mike Fletcher was firing?”

“That’s right — a .22 Long Rifle.”

“A rifle bullet?”

The little man sighed. “Come on, Captain! Do I need to lecture you on ballistics this morning? Most .22 rifles and target pistols use the same ammunition. The majority of target pistols made today can fire .22 Long Rifle slugs.”

Leopold persisted. “What about penetration? Mike’s bullet would have traveled nearly three hundred yards.”

“The bullet in Vogel’s head penetrated only about an inch — just far enough to get mashed and drive some bone splinters into his brain. I’m reading from the autopsy report now.”

“Is that consistent with a shot from Mike’s gun?”

“Within reasonable limits. Maybe there was a little extra powder in the cartridge.”

“A .22 target pistol fired at close range would have penetrated deeper?”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Damn it, Wolfer, I’m trying to conduct an investigation!”

“And I’m trying to help you. Many things can cause a bullet to lose penetrating power. The cartridges might have been old and damp, for one thing. Or the bullet could have been fired through something.”

“Like a pillow, to deaden the sound of the shot?”

Wolfer nodded. “Like that.”

“If somebody had a target pistol down in the basement for a long time, with old ammunition, and brought it up and fired it through a pillow, would it penetrate about the same distance as a bullet from a .22 rifle fired nearly three hundred yards away?”

Sergeant Wolfer thought about it. “Maybe, maybe not.”

Leopold sighed and went back upstairs to his office. It was going to be that sort of day. Perhaps Fletcher was right. Perhaps he should forget the whole thing.

Young Mike Fletcher was waiting with his father in Leopold’s office. “Captain, my dad wanted me to come see you,” he said with hesitation.

“Sure, Mike. What is it?”

“He told me what you’re trying to do for me and all that and I sure appreciate it, but—”

“But what?”

Mike hesitated, and Leopold repeated his question.

“Well, I told you I didn’t remember shooting in that direction.”

“Yes?”

“It wasn’t true, Captain. I do remember. I remember the exact shot that did it. One of the kids accidentally hit my arm, and my aim went way off. I remember praying that it wouldn’t hit anyone. It was high and to the left, right toward Vogel’s house.”

“I see,” Leopold said.

Fletcher cleared his throat. “I thought you should know, Captain.”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Thanks again for what you tried to do for me,” Mike said.

Leopold nodded. He waited until the boy left and then he said, “Get me some coffee, will you, Fletcher? I missed you yesterday. Connie had to do my running for me.”

“Sure, Captain.”

When they were settled over coffee Leopold asked. “When’s Vogel’s funeral?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Leopold sipped his coffee. It should have been over, but it wasn’t. “Why did Mrs. Vogel glance at her wrist watch when I was there?”

“You’re still on it, aren’t you? Even after talking to Mike?”

“I just want to know why the time interested her so much at that moment, with her husband dead.”

“Maybe the time didn’t interest her.”

“Why else does someone look at their watch?”

Fletcher thought about that. “To see if it’s going?”

Leopold sat up straight. “Of course! Why didn’t I think of that? I forgot to take my watch off on the pistol range one day, and when I was firing left-handed the shock of the recoil stopped it.”

“But why would a right-handed person fire a gun left-handed?”

“If she was holding something else in her right hand, Fletcher — something like a pillow to muffle the shot!”

“Captain—”

Leopold got to his feet. “I’d better talk to Mrs. Vogel once more.”

She answered the door dressed in black and looking as grim and defensive as he remembered her. “Captain Leopold, isn’t it? I understand you’ve been questioning my neighbors.”

“Only routine,” he said. “May I come in?”

“Routine when a detective’s son shoots somebody?”

“May I come in?” he repeated.

“For a moment. I have to be leaving for the funeral parlor.”

He followed her into the living room, carefully avoiding the stains on the white rug. He noticed that the window had been repaired, with the fresh pane of glass still bearing the window company’s sticker. He walked close enough to see the name: Empire Glass Company.

“They fixed it this morning, if that’s what you’re looking at.”

“Fast work.” His eyes had gone to the wall opposite the window, to a spot that had been hidden behind the chair on his previous visit. He could see a mark as if something had chipped the paint.

“Since when are city police concerned with a suburban crime, Captain Leopold?”

He ignored her question as he examined the wall. “Mrs. Vogel, I’ll admit this started out only as a hunch, but it’s getting to be more than that now. Mike Fletcher’s bullet could have broken your window and hit the wall right here, leaving this mark before it fell, spent of all power, to the rug.”

“That mark was caused a month ago when I tipped over a table while cleaning.”

“I think you saw your opportunity, Mrs. Vogel, and you took it. Perhaps your husband even kidded about how the bullet could have killed him if he’d been sitting in his favorite chair. Somehow you kept him from phoning the police right away, maybe saying you’d call the boy’s parents first. Then you went down to the basement and got out his old .22 target pistol.”

“Chester got rid of that long ago.”

He ignored the interruption and went on. “You shot him through the head with it, muffling the sound with a pillow held in your right hand. Later, while I was here, you glanced at the wrist watch on your left hand to make sure the pistol’s recoil hadn’t stopped it.”

“Captain, if you repeat those charges I’ll sue you for every cent you own!”

“That isn’t much,” Leopold said with a grim smile. “I’m only concerned about the boy, Mrs. Vogel. I don’t want him going through life thinking he killed a man.”

“Get out of my house. I’ve listened to you long enough.”

Leopold felt a wave of helplessness wash over him. There was no way to prove it, no way even to prove to himself that his hunch was the truth. “What about the chair? You moved it to line up with the bullet hole in the wall, now you’ve moved it back.”

“Is it a crime to move one’s furniture around?”

“Where’s the broken window?”

“The glass company took it. There’s no plot, Captain. It’s all in your mind — every bit of it!”

And perhaps it was. That was the damnable part of it — perhaps she was right. “All right,” he said finally. “I’ll be going.”

She followed him to the door and slammed it behind him. He stood on the stoop for a moment, feeling old, and then started down the walk to his car. At least he could check on the glass. If he was going to do anything about Katherine Vogel, he’d need the windowpane to line up the bullet hole with the mark on the wall.

He drove over to the Empire Glass Company, a low cinderblock building in a nearby shopping plaza. The man at the counter remembered the Vogel job. “Sure, I replaced it just this morning.”

“She said you took the old window,” Leopold told the man.

“Yeah, it’s in the back. Heck, the bullet hole was just in one corner. We can cut it up for small panes.”

“I think I’ll want that window,” Leopold said. Then another thought struck him. “When did Mrs. Vogel call you to fix it? She didn’t waste any time, did she?”

“No, the call came in day before yesterday, just after it happened, I guess. Only it was the guy that called, not her.”

Something churned in Leopold’s stomach. “Guy? What guy?”

“The husband, Mr. Vogel. The one that died. I talked to him myself.”

“You’re telling me it was Chester Vogel who called to report the broken window?”

“Sure.”

Leopold spoke very quietly. “But how could he have done that if he was killed by the same bullet that broke the window?”

The man shrugged. “I didn’t read the details. I just knew he was dead.”

“I think you’d better come with me,” Leopold said. “Right now.”

When Katherine Vogel opened the door Leopold said simply, “I just found out what your husband was doing while you were in the basement looking for his target pistol.”

Her eyes went from Leopold to the repairman. Leopold could see from her sagging face that it was all over.