The Maze

kicker. It was Savich's turn not to change expression. He said, bland as chicken broth, "Actually, no, ma'am."

    "Well, you should. I guess you're not as smart as you are handsome. He tried to run me down. No reason why he wouldn't kill Belinda. He didn't like her, hated her, in fact, since her father is in San Quentin. He said Belinda would be as crazy as her father and me. That's an awful thing to say, isn't it, Mr. Savich?"

    "It's certainly not what I'd say, Mrs. Sherlock, but every-one is different. Now," he continued, turning back to Judge Sherlock, "I wonder, sir, if you would mind telling us if you ever had Marlin Jones in your courtroom."

    "No."

    "You're very certain?"

    "Yes, naturally. I remember every man and woman who's ever stood before my bench. Marlin Jones wasn't one of them."

    "Before you became a judge, did you ever prosecute him?"

    "I would have remembered, Mr. Savich. The answer is still no."

    Savich opened his briefcase and pulled out a black-and-white five-by-seven photo. "You've never seen this man?"

    He handed Judge Sherlock Marlin's photograph, taken just last week.

    "No, I've never seen him in my courtroom. It's Marlin Jones, of course. Lacey, you're right. He does look like a classic psychopath, which is to say, he looks perfectly normal."

    Savich handed him another photo.

    "I'll be damned. It's Marlin Jones but you've doctored this photo, haven't you?"

    "The FBI labs are the very best. I asked them to render me photos with various disguises a man could use effectively."

    "It's just a mustache, the sideburns longer, the hair combed over as if the guy wants to cover a bald spot-it's amazing. Sorry, but I've never seen this man either."

    Savich gave him a third photograph.

    Judge Sherlock sucked in his breath. "I don't believe this. I prosecuted this guy years ago, but I remember him. He was a hippie sort, up on marijuana charges. Look at that bushy beard and the thick bottle-cap glasses. Hunched shoulders, but he was still tall, as tall as I am. I remember that he looked at me as if he wanted to spit on me. What was his name, anyway?"

    He fell silent, staring down at the photo, tapping his fingers on the arm of the leather chair. Then he sighed and said, "I'll have to look it up. I guess I'm getting old. No, wait a minute. It was a weird name. Erasmus. That's it. His name was Erasmus something, I don't remember his last name, but it was a common name. It was ten years ago. I managed to plea-bargain him into three years even though it was his first of-fense. He himself was so offensive I didn't even hesitate to push the public defender. He had no respect. Yes, it was three years. This is Marlin Jones?"

    Lacey took the photo from her father. Dillon hadn't told her about this. She stared at the photo, then at her father. "It's possible, then, that because you gave him that three-year sentence, he wanted revenge. It's possible when he got out, then, that he killed Belinda, to get his revenge on you."

    "There's a problem here," Savich said.

    Both Judge Sherlock and his daughter looked at him, their left eyebrows arched in an identical way.

    "Look again at the photo, Judge Sherlock."

    "Yes, all right. What?"

    "Marlin Jones would have been twenty-eight years old ten years ago. This man is older, maybe fifty-five or sixty."

    "Well, yes, you're right, he is. It's hard to tell with all that hair and the glasses. Oh, I see what you mean. It isn't Marlin, is it?"

    "It's his father," Lacey said slowly. "This man, Erasmus, the man Dad prosecuted, is Marlin's father. And this is an old picture of him, isn't it?"

    "Yes. The FBI in Phoenix got hold of this photo of him from an old driver's license. Our lab people worked on it. I didn't tell you about it, Sherlock, because I didn't really think it would lead to anything."

    "Is the man still alive?"

    "He is as far as we know. He hasn't been back to Yuma in years. That's where he raised Marlin. Marlin left at eighteen. Erasmus drifted in and out for a few years, then just disappeared. He'd be about sixty-four now. Where is he? No one knows."

    "Let me see the man," said Mrs. Sherlock.

    Lacey handed her mother the photo.

    "He's scruffy. I remember his sort, they were all over San Francisco back in the sixties. But he was in court in the eighties, Corman?"

    "Yes, some ten years ago."

    "I think he would be handsome without those glasses and all that hair and beard."

    "His son is handsome, Mother, very handsome. Here's his photo. But