Trial By Fury

"I don't know if it was halftime or not. They play a whole bunch of games each day during the tournament. Let's see. Wait a minute, I had only two cups of coffee that night. That was all that was left in the pot when I filled the thermos. When he almost knocked me down, I remember thinking it's a good thing it's almost time to go home, 'cause there isn't any coffee left."

I could see Peters was losing patience with trying to pull usable information out of the old man's ramblings. "What time did you get off work?" I asked.

"Nine o'clock," he said. "Isn't that right, Francie? I was home by ten, wasn't I?"

She nodded. "That's right. We watched the early late movie together before we went to bed. The old one with Gary Cooper in it."

"And how close was that second cup of coffee to the time you came home?"

"It was just before. Sure, that's right. Must have been right around eight." Rimbaugh looked at us triumphantly.

"You're sure you didn't see him after that?" Peters asked.

"Nope. Not that I remember."

Peters sighed and rose. I followed.

"Does that help?" Rimbaugh asked.

"I hope so," Peters replied. "We'll be back in touch."

Once outside, we held a quick conference. "What do you think?" Peters asked.

I shrugged. "Eight o'clock sounds like halftime to me."

"But he could have come back later, without Rimbaugh seeing him."

That, too, was a distinct possibility. As distinct a possibility as anything I'd come up with. There was no way to tell for sure.

So much for being the Grand Old Man of Homicide.

CHAPTER 21

Peters went back to the Public Safety Building. During my lunch hour, I took the Porsche and drove down to Sea-Tac to pick up Ralph Ames.

Ralph was a dapper-looking guy, an attorney's attorney. He had a low-key look about him that said he knew what he was doing. I probably never would have gotten to know him if I hadn't inherited him from A

At the airport that day, when I went to pick him up, he had an uncharacteristic shit-eating grin on his face that worried me some, but not enough for me to do anything about it.

There was just time to grab him from the arriving-passenger level, hightail it back to town, and have him drop me at the department. He took my Porsche back to my place while Peters and I drove to Mercer Island High School, where we pla

Ned Browning was most reluctant to call Molly out of class so we could talk to her. I have to admit that knowing the principal's name appeared not once but twice in the trophy list in the girls' locker room gave me a whole new perspective on his outward show of high principles and middle-class morality.

"Detective Beaumont, I'm not at all sure I should let you talk to one of my students without her parents' express knowledge and permission."

I wasn't feeling particularly tolerant toward that officious little worm. In fact, I became downright belligerent. "We don't have time to screw around, Mr. Browning. We need to see that girl today. Now."

"Certainly, you don't think one of my students had something to do with the murder!" There was just the right tone of shocked consternation in Ned Browning's voice. He should have been an actor instead of a high school principal. He gave an award-wi

"Your students know a hell of a lot about a lot of things they shouldn't."

I let it go at that. There was no outward, visible sign that he understood the ramifications of what I said, yet I knew my seemingly casual remark had hit home. Finally, he reached for his phone and called for a student page to bring Molly Blackburn to his office.

Molly waltzed into the room like she owned the place. I recognized her as the blonde who had been pitching such a fit, literally bawling her eyes out, the day Peters and I had interviewed all those kids. Talk about acting!

"You wanted to see me, Mr. Browning?" she asked brightly.

"These gentlemen do," he replied. "You remember them, don't you, Molly?"

Molly looked at Peters and me. When she recognized us, she stepped back a full step. "Y-yes," she stammered uncertainly.

"Good. They've asked to speak to you. Mr. Howell is out today, so you may use his office. I have scheduled a parent conference in just a few minutes. Unfortunately, I won't be able to join you. This way, please."

Unfortunately? Hell! It was a good thing he had another meeting. No way would I have let that son of a bitch join us for Molly Blackburn's interview.

He led us to an adjoining office. Molly's entrance into that room was far different from the one she had made into the principal's office. She lagged behind us like an errant puppy who's just crapped all over the new rug and who knows he's going to get it.

We knew, and she knew we knew. As soon as the door closed behind Ned Browning, I whirled on her and let Molly Blackburn have it with both barrels.

"What's the matter? Did Bambi call to warn you?"

Her eyes widened. She was still standing in the doorway. She groped blindly for a chair and eased her way into it. "Yes," she whispered.

"So you know why we're here?"

She shook her head. "No, not really." Her face was white. She was scared to death, and I wanted her to stay that way.

"Are you the one who was trying to blackmail the Ridley's and the Barkers?"

"Wh-what?" she stammered. Under pressure, she seemed to be having a great deal of trouble making her voice and mouth work in unison.

"You're the one with the fancy camera, aren't you? The one who took the "proof" shot of your friend Bambi and Darwin Ridley?"

She licked her lip nervously, swallowed, and nodded. Barely. Almost imperceptibly.

"So where's the negative?"

"I don't know," she whispered.

"Don't know! What do you mean, you don't know?"

"It's gone. Someone took it."

"When?" I demanded. "Where was it?"

"I had it with me. I had all the negatives from that roll of film in my book bag. I didn't dare leave them at home. Sometimes my parents go through my things."

"So you carried them around with you. When did you notice they were gone?"

"Friday afternoon. After Mr. Barker came to school to get Bambi. I looked for them then, but they weren't there."

"And how long had the negatives been in your purse?"

"Not my purse. My book bag. I brought the picture to school on Monday. That was the day…" She broke off.

"Let me guess. That's the day you scratched Darwin Ridley's name in the locker."

"How did you know that?"

"It doesn't take a Philadelphia lawyer to figure it out," I told her. "So sometime between Monday and Friday, the negatives disappeared," I continued. "What happened to the original picture? Where is it?"

"It's gone, too. We burned it when we wrote down the name."

"Too bad you didn't burn the negative as well."

"Why? I don't understand."

I wanted her to understand. I wanted her to feel the responsibility for Darwin Ridley's death right down to the soles of her feet. "Because," I growled, "it found its way into the wrong hands. That's why Darwin Ridley was murdered."

Molly's eyes flooded with tears. "No! It's not true. It can't be!" She glanced in Peters' direction as if seeking help, reassurance. None was forthcoming. Peters had remained absolutely silent throughout the proceedings.

Now he folded his arms uncompromisingly across his chest. "It's true," he said quietly.

Molly doubled over, sobbing hysterically into her lap. Neither Peters nor I offered her the smallest bit of comfort. I felt nothing but profound disgust. Finally, she quit crying on her own.