Chapter 1

She was pretty good looking, if you could ignore the streak of dried blood from one ear, and the nasty purple-black caved-in spot behind it. I couldn’t see her features, her head was turned away, and anyway, about half the time, their eyes are closed. Her hair was long and red. Her torso was covered as far down as I could see by a see-thru red gown with nothing artificial underneath. What I saw-thru to would have been well worth the look, though, if she’d have been alive.

I tossed the picture onto my desk next to the file card it had come with, and looked across at my prospective client, Mr. X. He’s Mr. X because he’s a big man in Knoxville, and that’s where I had, and intend to keep having, my office.

"Says a thirty pound rock," I said, indicating the file card. "That rules out anyone dainty, at least."

Mr. X was a mess. He was trying not to show it, but he was pulling his mustache all the time, and kept rubbing the head of his cane. Something was biting him bad.

"Terrible. It’s just terrible," he said with a shudder.

"Sure it’s terrible, every death’s terrible," I agreed, and leaned forward in my chair. "Just what makes this one so special?"

X opened his mouth, shut it, and actually looked around before he tried again. "I want you to find out who did it," he said.

"First I’ll have to ask you some questions. The first is the easiest. Did you kill her?"

He looked shocked, but nearly everyone does the first time. "Of course not."

I nodded. "That’s good. I really don’t think you did." I leaned back. "If you did, and came here to toss a red herring out, you’d have to have reason to believe you might be found out, unless you fooled me. If that were the case," I leaned forward again, "you’ve made a mistake. I will find out the killer, if I take the case." I leaned back again. "Then where would you be? Either I’d blackmail you, or I'd turn you over to the police." I spread my hands. "So you see, if you did it, you’d best not bother with me." I looked at him and counted a slow silent ten. He seemed nervous, but no more than before, and showed no sign of leaving.

"Okay," I said. "Next how did you get the picture?"

X smiled, if you can believe it. "Oh, I got a friend to hire an agency to talk to the sheriff’s office. My friend just gave them a sealed letter, and they sent that file back the same way. My friend doesn’t know anything. I was very careful."

"So you were. It wouldn't do to have anyone know about your interest, would it?" X shut his trap and bowed his head. I picked up the file card. "Whoever wrote this was kinder than I’d have been. ‘No known source of income. No known occupation.’ I can understand your reluctance to talk about it, but I have to know. If I take the job or not, nothing said here will leave the room. Was she a prostitute?" Sometimes the generic term calms them down: it did this time. X nodded. "Okay - and you were one of her johns." He looked startled, but nodded again. I didn’t want him too calm.

"Let’s understand each other. A prostitute, killed in the woods with a rock won’t be an easy case. I read the write-up in the newspaper. Less than an inch long. I’d say the sheriff there has already given up. Probably the only way to get enough evidence to convict would be to find out who was there with her last… wait a minute, let me finish… and that’s out for two reasons. The first is you. You don’t want anybody to know you were ever there is my guess, and that approach would almost certainly bring that fact up. People might not talk about themselves or their friends or their family having anything to do with her, but they’d have no desire to hush up a stranger in a big car. Now I’m not trying to run you off, but if you want to keep this quiet, or expect to convict somebody without getting your name in it, I’d just back away from it, if I were you."

X leaned forward on his cane and tried to meet my eyes. From his expression, half of him wanted to say fine and walk out, but the other half had the floor. "Mr. Stack, I won’t try to make you understand. No, I don’t want my name dragged through the mud, I want my name to stay out of it, but I want to know who killed her. I want to know." He looked away. "Fifty-three miles from the garage next to my office to her house. One hour and five minutes each way." He looked back at me. "I’d have driven twice as far." Suddenly he was on his feet, and he slammed his hand on my desk with more passion than I’d have thought possible. "I couldn’t care less about conviction by a jury," he said with scorn. "Find him for me, Mr. Stack. I’ll take care of the sentence."

I calmly tilted back. "I can’t make any guarantees. Two hundred a day, plus expenses. One thousand dollar retainer." He reached inside his coat, pulled out his check book and had it open before he though better of it and stopped.

"I’ll have it here by," he looked at his watch, "three this afternoon. Cash." He stepped to the door. "Call me at the office when you find him," he said, and was gone.