then?”
“No.”
“In the middle of the afternoon? Were you not feeling well, Mr. Parsons?”
“What I do in my own house is my business. I can wear a kangaroo suit in here if I want to. Why aren’t you out looking for the killer? Probably because it’s cool in here.”
“I understand you’re retired, Mr. Parsons, so I guess it doesn’t matter if you put on your clothes every day or not. A lot of days you just don’t get dressed at all, am I right?”
Veins stood out in Parsons’s temples. “Just because I’m retired doesn’t mean I don’t put my clothes on and get busy every day. I just got hot and I came in and took a shower. I was working. I was mulching, and I had done a day’s work by afternoon, which is more than you’ll do today.”
“You were what?”
“Mulching.”
“What day did you mulch?”
“Friday. It was last Friday. They delivered it in the morning, a big load, and I had . . . I had it all spread by afternoon. You can ask at the Garden Center how much it was.”
“And you got hot and came in and took a shower. What were you doing in the kitchen?”
“Fixing a glass of iced tea.”
“And you got out some ice? But the refrigerator is over there, away from the window.”
Parsons looked from the window to the refrigerator, lost and confused. His eyes were dull, like the eyes of a fish in the market toward the end of the day. Then they brightened in triumph. He went to the cabinet by the sink.
“I was right here, getting some Sweet ’N Low when I saw him. That’s it. That’s all. Now, if you’re through prying . . .”
“I think he saw Hoyt Lewis,” Graham said.
“So do I,” Springfield said.
“It was not Hoyt Lewis. It was not .” Parsons’s eyes were watering.
“How do you know?” Springfield said. “It might have been Hoyt Lewis, and you just thought —”
“Lewis is brown from the sun. He’s got old greasy hair and those peckerwood sideburns.” Parsons’s voice had risen and he was talking so fast it was hard to understand him. “That’s how I knew. Of course it wasn’t Lewis. This fellow was paler and his hair was blond. He turned to write on his clipboard and I could see under the back of his hat. Blond. Cut off square on the back of his neck.”
Springfield stood absolutely still and when he spoke his voice was still skeptical. “What about his face?”
“I don’t know. He may have had a mustache.”
“Like Lewis?”
“Lewis doesn’t have a mustache.”
“Oh,” Springfield said. “Was he at eye level with the meter? Did he have to look up at it?”
“Eye level, I guess.”
“Would you know him if you saw him again?”
“No.”
“What age was he?”
“Not old. I don’t know.”
“Did you see the Leedses’ dog anywhere around him?”
“No.”
“Look, Mr. Parsons, I can see I was wrong,” Springfield said. “You’re a real big help to us. If you don’t mind, I’m going to send our artist out here, and if you’d just let him sit right here at your kitchen table, maybe you could give him an idea of what this fellow looked like. It sure wasn’t Lewis.”
“I don’t want my name in any newspapers.”
“It won’t be.”
Parsons followed them outside.
“You’ve done a hell of a fine job on this yard, Mr. Parsons,” Springfield said. “It ought to win some kind of a prize.”
Parsons said nothing. His face was red and working, his eyes wet. He stood there in his baggy shorts and sandals and glared at them. As they left the yard, he grabbed his fork and began to grub furiously in the ground, hacking blindly through the flowers, scattering mulch on the grass.
Springfield checked in on his car radio. None of the utilities or city agencies could account for the man in the alley on the day before the murders. Springfield reported Parsons’s description and gave instructions for the artist. “Tell him to draw the pole and the meter first and go from there. He’ll have to ease the witness
“No.”
“In the middle of the afternoon? Were you not feeling well, Mr. Parsons?”
“What I do in my own house is my business. I can wear a kangaroo suit in here if I want to. Why aren’t you out looking for the killer? Probably because it’s cool in here.”
“I understand you’re retired, Mr. Parsons, so I guess it doesn’t matter if you put on your clothes every day or not. A lot of days you just don’t get dressed at all, am I right?”
Veins stood out in Parsons’s temples. “Just because I’m retired doesn’t mean I don’t put my clothes on and get busy every day. I just got hot and I came in and took a shower. I was working. I was mulching, and I had done a day’s work by afternoon, which is more than you’ll do today.”
“You were what?”
“Mulching.”
“What day did you mulch?”
“Friday. It was last Friday. They delivered it in the morning, a big load, and I had . . . I had it all spread by afternoon. You can ask at the Garden Center how much it was.”
“And you got hot and came in and took a shower. What were you doing in the kitchen?”
“Fixing a glass of iced tea.”
“And you got out some ice? But the refrigerator is over there, away from the window.”
Parsons looked from the window to the refrigerator, lost and confused. His eyes were dull, like the eyes of a fish in the market toward the end of the day. Then they brightened in triumph. He went to the cabinet by the sink.
“I was right here, getting some Sweet ’N Low when I saw him. That’s it. That’s all. Now, if you’re through prying . . .”
“I think he saw Hoyt Lewis,” Graham said.
“So do I,” Springfield said.
“It was not Hoyt Lewis. It was not .” Parsons’s eyes were watering.
“How do you know?” Springfield said. “It might have been Hoyt Lewis, and you just thought —”
“Lewis is brown from the sun. He’s got old greasy hair and those peckerwood sideburns.” Parsons’s voice had risen and he was talking so fast it was hard to understand him. “That’s how I knew. Of course it wasn’t Lewis. This fellow was paler and his hair was blond. He turned to write on his clipboard and I could see under the back of his hat. Blond. Cut off square on the back of his neck.”
Springfield stood absolutely still and when he spoke his voice was still skeptical. “What about his face?”
“I don’t know. He may have had a mustache.”
“Like Lewis?”
“Lewis doesn’t have a mustache.”
“Oh,” Springfield said. “Was he at eye level with the meter? Did he have to look up at it?”
“Eye level, I guess.”
“Would you know him if you saw him again?”
“No.”
“What age was he?”
“Not old. I don’t know.”
“Did you see the Leedses’ dog anywhere around him?”
“No.”
“Look, Mr. Parsons, I can see I was wrong,” Springfield said. “You’re a real big help to us. If you don’t mind, I’m going to send our artist out here, and if you’d just let him sit right here at your kitchen table, maybe you could give him an idea of what this fellow looked like. It sure wasn’t Lewis.”
“I don’t want my name in any newspapers.”
“It won’t be.”
Parsons followed them outside.
“You’ve done a hell of a fine job on this yard, Mr. Parsons,” Springfield said. “It ought to win some kind of a prize.”
Parsons said nothing. His face was red and working, his eyes wet. He stood there in his baggy shorts and sandals and glared at them. As they left the yard, he grabbed his fork and began to grub furiously in the ground, hacking blindly through the flowers, scattering mulch on the grass.
Springfield checked in on his car radio. None of the utilities or city agencies could account for the man in the alley on the day before the murders. Springfield reported Parsons’s description and gave instructions for the artist. “Tell him to draw the pole and the meter first and go from there. He’ll have to ease the witness
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