I Is for Innocent

truth, it's always bothered me. The gentleman's name was Noah McKell.
    His son, Hartford, lives here in town. I can have Mrs. Rudolph look up his number if you'd like to speak to him."
    He went on in this manner, direct, soft-spoken, and matter-of-fact, managing in our ten-minute conversation to give me all the information I needed in a carefully articulated format. According to Mr. Hugo's account of the night in question, Noah McKell had removed his IV, disconnected himself from a catheter, dressed himself in his street clothes, and left his private room by the window.
    I was surprised by that. "Aren't the windows kept locked?"
    "This is a hospital, Miss Millhone, not a prison. Bars would constitute a danger if a fire ever broke out. Aside from that, we feel our patients benefit from the fresh air and a view of some greenery. He'd left the premises on two other occasions, which was a matter of great concern to us, given his condition. We considered the use of restraints for his protection, but we were reluctant to do so and his son was adamant. We kept the bed rails up and we had one of the aides look in on him every thirty minutes or so. The floor nurse went in at one-fifteen and discovered the empty bed.
    "Of course, we moved very quickly once we realized he was gone. The police were alerted and the security people here began an immediate search. I received a call at home and came right over. I live up on Tecolote Road so it didn't take me long. By the time I got here, we'd heard about the hit-and-run. We went to the scene and identified the body."
    "Were there any witnesses?"
    "A desk clerk at the Gypsy Motel heard the impact," he said. "She ran out to help, but the old man was dead. She was the one who called the police."
    "You remember her name?"
    "Not offhand. Mr. McKell would be able to tell you, I'm sure. It's possible she's still there."
    "I think I better talk to him in any event. If the driver was found, I won't need to take any more time with the questions."
    "I'd like to think he would have told us if that were the case. Please give me a call and let me know what you find. I'd feel better about it."
    "I'll do that, Mr. Hugo, and thanks for your help."
    I called Hartford McKell from a public telephone booth that was located near a hamburger stand on upper State. There was no point in going back to the office when the accident site was only two blocks away. I pulled out a pen and a notepad, prepared to take notes.
    The man who answered the phone identified himself as Hartford McKell. I explained who I was and the information I needed. He sounded like a man without humor – direct, impatient, with a tendency to interrupt. In the matter of his father's death, he made it clear he wasn't interested in commiseration of any sort. The story seemed to spill out, his anger unabated by the passage of time. I refrained from comment except for an occasional question. The driver of the vehicle had never been found. The Santa Teresa Police had conducted an intense investigation, but aside from the skid marks, there hadn't been much in the way of evidence at the scene. The only witness – the motel desk clerk, whose name was Regina Turner – had given them a sketchy description of the truck, but she hadn't seen the license plate. It was one of those traffic fatalities that outraged the community and he'd offered a twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the driver. "I brought Pop down here from San Francisco. He'd had a stroke and I wanted him close. You know where he was headed every time he left? He thought he was still up there, just a few blocks from his place. He was trying to get home because he was worried about his cat. Animal's been dead now for fifteen years, but Pop wanted to make sure his cat was okay. It makes me crazy to think someone's gotten away with murder."
    "I can understand –"
    He cut me off. "No one can understand, but I'll tell you one thing: You don't run over an old man and then drive on without a backward glance."
    "People panic," I said. "One in the morning, the streets are virtually empty. The driver must have figured no one would ever know the difference."
    "I don't really care what the reasoning was. I want to nail the son of a bitch. That's all I care about. Do you have a line on this guy or not?"
    "I'm working on it."
    "You find the driver and that twenty-five thousand is yours."
    "I appreciate that, Mr. McKell, but that's not my