In the Heat of the Night

smart thing to tell that man that he was officially clear of any suspicion? He works for a very important company. If he reports that back to them, and he might do just that, then what are you going to do if you find out he knows more than he told us just now?” Gillespie leaned back in his chair. “Consider this if you haven’t already. This man drove south through town, by his own admission right past the place where Sam found the body—I mean where Mr. Wood found the body. And no other car was seen to go either way after that. Sure he doesn’t look guilty on the face of it, but he was at the scene of the crime at approximately the time of the crime. You remember, don’t you, what the doctor said about the time of Mantoli’s death. He fixed the time at just about the very moment that your friend Gottschalk was driving through. And you told him he was officially cleared of all suspicion.”
    If Tibbs was ruffled, he failed to show it. “Those are very reasonable points you raised, Chief Gillespie, and I would agree with you completely except for one thing.”
    “And what’s that, Virgil?”
    “The fact that Mantoli wasn’t killed where his body was found.”

- 8 -

    At four o’clock that afternoon, Sam Wood checked in at the station to see what was up. He caught a knowing look from Pete, now on day duty, as he walked in the door, so Sam headed for the washroom and in a few moments Pete joined him.
    “Your friend Virgil put Gillespie over the barrel for good this morning,” Pete confided.
    Sam bent over and made sure that the small toilet cubicles were empty. “What happened?” he asked.
    “As near as I can get it, Gillespie dug up another suspect and Virgil sent him down the chute, too.”
    “Another suspect?” Sam inquired.
    “Yeah; some guy who was driving through that night just as the murder was taking place. Ralph, the kid out at the diner, spotted him and Gillespie had him brought in. Then he turned it over to Virgil and Virgil let him loose.”
    “And Gillespie let him get away with it?”
    “Yep. Virgil and Gillespie had a little talk afterward____”
    “I’ll bet they did.”
    “No, you don’t get me—a real nice friendly talk. Virgil told Gillespie something; when Arnold went past the door, there was Gillespie, as meek as Moses, listening to Virgil explain it to him. Arnold didn’t get the drift, but it must have been something good.”
    “Maybe we could ask Virgil about it. Ask him if there are any developments. Show interest in his work.”
    “Is he here?”
    “No, he’s been out all day. Took that old car he’s got and left. No one knows where he is.”
    “Maybe he got lonesome and went down to find some nice black girl to shack up with him.” As soon as he had uttered the words, Sam was ashamed of himself. He wished he hadn’t said them.
    “I don’t know,” Pete answered slowly. “He’s awful smart for a black boy. I bet he’s working on the case somehow.”
    Sam made amends, and was glad he could. “I was just kiddin’. Virgil’s all right. It wouldn’t fool me if he came out on top on this thing.”
    “If he does, Gillespie’ll take it away from him.”
    “Well, anyway, he’s no dope.”
    “Smartest black I ever saw,” Pete concluded; then he added a remarkable tribute. “He oughta been a white man.”
    Sam nodded his agreement.

    Reverend Amos Whiteburn, despite the heat of the day and the presumed informality of his own home, wore clerical black. The parlor was poor and dingy; what furniture there was had not been new for decades. The cheap rug was threadbare and the window curtains totally disillusioned. Nevertheless the tiny room was clean and was as presentable as its furnishings would permit.
    "As long as I have been in this community,” Reverend Whiteburn said in a commanding bass voice, "this is the first time that I have ever been consulted by the police. I take it as an honor.”
    “Perhaps,” Virgil Tibbs suggested, “your spiritual leadership has been such that there has never been any need.”
    “Extremely kind of you, Mr. Tibbs, but I’m afraid I know to the contrary. Have you spent much time in the South?”
    “No more than I have to,” Tibbs admitted. “My mother lives here. I’m trying to persuade her to move to California, where I can give her a better home, but she is elderly and has other children on the East Coast.”
    “I understand,” the minister agreed, his big voice almost booming in the little room. “For