Pity Him Afterwards

Sondgard had arrived at the house with Larry Temple, having called Joyce to get in touch with Dave Rand and have him take over on the scene of the second murder. Doc Walsh was already there, and the ambulance would be arriving soon, and so would the state technical people. These last were a different proposition from Captain Garrett; since the town hardly had a crime lab of its own, state personnel and state facilities were automatically used for this facet of any local criminal investigation, whereas Captain Garrett of the state CID office couldn’t come in on the case unless requested by Sondgard. (It was unfortunate, Sondgard reflected, that the state technical assistance didn’t extend to the taking of fingerprints, but even a town the size of Cartier Isle could afford the powders and camera, and Mike Tompkins had received training in taking prints at the State Police Academy.)

At any rate, he and Larry Temple had come here direct from the Lowndes estate, both in the patrol car, leaving Sondgard’s Volvo back by the gate where the murder had taken place. Sondgard had seen the mess on the kitchen table, had questioned Mel Daniels and Mary Ann, got both their stories, and then had them rouse everybody else out of bed. They were all given time to wash and dress, and then they were assembled in the rehearsal room. They all knew about what was on the kitchen table, but none of them — except the killer — knew about the murder of Eddie Cranshaw.

Sondgard had made them wait in the rehearsal room, while he sat gazing gloomily at the kitchen table, not so much as a bit of tactical psychology but because he hadn’t been sure exactly what he would say to them or what he would ask of them. But now that they were in front of him, half-ideas and embryonic schemes were suddenly filling his head.

But one thing at a time. He began by saying, “You all know what’s happened. Someone last night smeared jam on the kitchen table and then wrote, ‘Bobby did it,’ in the mess he’d made. We can only assume that what was meant was that somebody named Bobby is the one who killed Cissie Walker. We’re also assuming that the same person was the one who left us that message. Are we wrong about that? Did the same person kill Cissie Walker and then leave us that message? Or is there someone here who knows who the killer is, or thinks he has evidence to prove who the killer is, and who left us that message because he or she is afraid to make an open accusation? If so, if whoever you are who left that message you are not the same person who killed Cissie Walker, you haven’t helped us. In fact, you’ve only served to confuse us. So I’ll ask you to come forward and straighten out the confusion. And if you’d rather not get up in front of everybody, I’ll be around here the rest of the day and you can come to me at any time.”

Only silence answered him, and an uneasy rustling and shuffling of feet. Sondgard took a deep breath, and went on to step number two. “In the meantime,” he said, “we’ve decided it’s necessary to make a thorough search of this house. That means, of course, a search of your rooms as well, and your possessions. If necessary, I can go to a judge and get a search warrant, but that would take time I’d rather not spend. I’d like your permission instead. Does anyone object to his room and possessions being searched? I promise you nothing will be disarranged, and certainly nothing will be stolen.”

Again, only silence.

“Then I have your permission, is that right? No one objects?”

Faces were turning, they were looking at one another, waiting to see if anyone would object, because who would object other than the killer? But no one spoke.

“All right,” said Sondgard. “Now, there’s one more point.” He hesitated, because what he was planning now was dangerous, could backfire badly if it didn’t work. And he hadn’t had time to think it out beforehand, since it hadn’t occurred to him until he was standing right here in front of these people.

Well, it was sink or swim.