Living Witness(152)

“What difference does it make if Catherine Marbledale won the lottery,” Henry asked. “These murders weren’t about money. They were about religion. And you know it. Those people are dangerous, Mr. Demarkian, and you know it. They’re one step away from being a mob with torches out to burn the heretics at the stake.”

“The difference it makes,” Gregor said, “is that Catherine Marbledale was the one suspect in this case who could not have killed Shelley Niederman under any circumstances and might have had a hard time killing Judy Cornish. But with Shelley Niederman, it’s just impossible. There’s been nothing but trouble up at the school for the last few days. There’s been a fight. There was a sit-in this morning. Miss Marbledale hasn’t been able to run out and get a cup of coffee, never mind set up a meeting with Shelley Niederman, plant delayedaction caps at the back of the Hadley house, and then commit a murder. Never mind the problem with the car. Somebody would have seen her car.”

“Maybe somebody did.”

“But you didn’t need a car,” Gregor said. “It took me a while to get geographically oriented, but you’re right at the bottom of the hill from the Hadley house. All you had to do was go out your back door and go up, on foot. And nobody would have seen you. The buildings would have shielded you from the sight of anyone on Main Street. You called Shelley Niederman and told her—what? That you had information about Judy’s death, but you needed her to confirm it? Or that you had proof of the conspiracy to kill all the supporters of evolution involved in the lawsuit? It doesn’t matter. You just had to get her up there. It didn’t even matter if the cops saw her there. The caps would go off and sound like gunshots. The officers would go investigate. All that mattered was that they didn’t see you, and you were sure that they wouldn’t, the way you had it set up. Are we going to find the caps in your office, in your car, or in your home?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Henry said.

“Sure I do,” Gregor said, “and it doesn’t even matter, because Annie-Vic is awake and she’s alert, and there’s a good chance she’ll be able to identify you as the person who beat her up. You left a living witness, and that’s always a bad mistake.”

It was one of those odd moments. Gregor had had a number of them in his career. The air seemed to become almost palpable. It rippled and warped. Henry Wackford had been standing next to his desk. The desk was still piled high with file folders. There were a pair of expensive pens in a brass pen holder. There was a wallet lying out on a green felt blotter.

Henry Wackford sat down.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said again. “You don’t know what it’s like, being stuck out here, living with these people. Welcome to Snow Hill, Pennsylvania. Stupidity is our business, and our passion. We’ve got so much of it, we’re giving it away cheap.”

“The women you killed weren’t stupid,” Gregor said, “and it wouldn’t be an excuse if they were. And you’re not nearly as intelligent as you think you are.”

“I’m intelligent enough to know that I’m not going to give you a confession,” Henry Wackford said. “And I’ve been around the law long enough to know that you’re going to have a Hell of a time proving any of this if I don’t. Reasonable doubt is a wonderful thing.”

“Ah,” Gregor said. “But you keep forgetting. You left that living witness.”

Henry Wackford smirked, and shrugged, and turned away, so that he was looking out his back windows.

There were two state policemen out there, armed.