I Is for Innocent

mug shot. "No sign of him."
    For the money I'd given him, he could have feigned disappointment. "Could it be the camera angle?" I asked.
    "We got a wide and a close. You saw 'em come through the door alone. Nobody approached in the footage we caught. Like I said, the guy might have stepped up and spoken once the press conference was over."
    "Well. Thanks," I said. "I guess I'll have to rely on my other source."
    I went back to my car, not sure what to do next. If I got verification of Curtis McIntyre's incarceration, I intended to confront him, but I couldn't do that yet. In theory, I had numerous interviews to conduct, but David Barney's phone call had thrown me. I didn't want to spend time shoring up David Barney's alibi, but if what he said was true, we'd end up looking like a bunch of idiots.
    I took the winding road down the backside of the hill and turned right on Promontory Drive, following the road along the ocean and through the back entrance to Horton Ravine. I used the next hour and a half canvassing the old neighborhood to see if anybody had been out and about on the night Isabelle was murdered. It didn't thrill me to be in range of David Barney, but I couldn't see a way around it and still get the information I wanted. A canvass by telephone is the same as not doing it. It's too easy for people to hang up, tell fibs, or shine you on.
    One neighbor had moved and another had died. A woman on the adjacent property thought she'd heard a shot, but she hadn't paid much attention to the time and she'd later wondered if it hadn't been something else. Like what, I thought. I wasn't sure if it was my paranoia or not, but any time I heard what sounded like a gunshot, I checked the clock to see what time it was.
    Of the eight remaining homeowners variously peppered along that stretch of road, none had been out that night and none had seen a thing. I got the impression that it had all happened far too long ago to bear worrying about at this point. A six-year-old murder doesn't engage the imagination. They'd already told their versions of the story one too many times.
    I went home for lunch, stopping off at my apartment just long enough to check for messages. My machine was clear. I went next door to Henry's. I was looking forward to meeting William.
    I found Henry standing in his kitchen, this time up to his elbows in whole wheat flour, kneading bread. Pellets of dough clung to his fingers like wood putty. Usually, Henry's kneading has a meditative quality, methodical, practiced, soothing to the observer. Today, his manner seemed faintly manic and the look in his eyes was haunted. Beside him, at the counter, stood a man who looked enough like him to be a twin; tall and slim, with the same snowy white hair and blue eyes, the same aristocratic face. I took in the similarities in that first glance. The differences were profound and took longer to assimilate.
    Henry wore a Hawaiian shirt, white shorts, and thongs, his long limbs sinewy and tanned as a runner's. William wore a three-piece pinstriped suit, a starched white shirt, and a tie. His bearing was erect, nearly stiff, as if to compensate for the underlying feebleness I'd never known Henry to exhibit. William held a pamphlet in a slightly shaking hand and he pointed with a fork to a drawing of the heart. He paused for introductions and we went through the proper litany of inaugural sentiments. "Now where was I?" he asked.
    Henry gave me a bland look. "William's been detailing some of the medical procedures associated with his heart attack."
    "Quite right. You'll be interested in this," William said to me. "I'm assuming your knowledge of anatomy is as rudimentary as his."
    "I couldn't pass a test," I said.
    "Nor could I," William replied, "until this episode. Now Henry, you'll want to pay attention to this."
    "I doubt that," Henry said.
    "You see, the right side of the heart receives blood from the body and pumps it through the lungs, where carbon dioxide and other waste products are exchanged for oxygen. The left side receives the blood full of oxygen from the lungs and pumps it out into the body through the aorta...." The diagram he was using looked like the road map of a park with lots of one-way roads marked with black-and-white arrows. "Block these arteries and that's where you have a problem." William tapped on the diagram emphatically with the fork. "It's just like a rockslide coming down across a road. All the traffic begins to pile up in a nasty snarl." He