truth. The man was Harch.
“What’s he here for?” McGee asked Thelma Baker.
“He’s having surgery tomorrow,” the nurse said. “Dr. Viteski’s going to remove two rather large cysts from his lower back.”
“Not spinal cysts?”
“No. Fatty tissue cysts. But they’re large ones.”
“Benign?” McGee asked.
“Yes. But I guess they’re deeply rooted, and they’re causing him some discomfort.”
“Admitted this morning?”
“That’s right.”
“And his name’s Richmond. You’re sure of that?”
“Yes.”
“But it used to be Harch,” Susan insisted.
Mrs. Baker took off her glasses and let them dangle on the beaded chain around her neck. She scratched the bridge of her nose, looked quizzically at Susan, and said, “How old was this Harch when he killed Jerry Stein?”
“He was a senior at Briarstead that year,” Susan said. “Twenty-one years old.”
“That settles it, then,” the nurse said.
“Why?” McGee asked.
Mrs. Baker put her glasses on again and said, “Bill Richmond is only in his early twenties.”
“He can’t be,” Susan said.
“In fact I’m pretty sure he’s just twenty-one himself. He’d have been about eight years old when Jerry Stein was killed.”
“He’s not twenty-one,” Susan said anxiously. “He’s thirty-four by now.”
“Well, he certainly doesn’t look any older than twenty-one,” Mrs. Baker said. “In fact he looks younger than that. A good deal younger than that. He’s hardly more than a kid. If he was lying about it one way or the other, I’d think he was actually adding on a few years, not taking them off.”
As the lights flickered again, and as thunder rolled across the hollow, sheet-metal sky, Dr. McGee looked at Susan and said, “How old did he look to you when he stepped out of the elevator?”
She thought about it for a moment, and she got a sinking feeling in her stomach. “Well ... he looked exactly like Ernest Harch.”
“Exactly like Harch looked back then?”
“Uh ... yeah.”
“Like a twenty-one-year-old college man?”
Susan nodded reluctantly.
McGee pressed the point. “Then you mean that he didn’t look thirty-four to you?”
“No. But maybe he’s aged well. Some thirty-four-year-olds could pass for ten years younger.” She was confused about the apparent age discrepancy, but she was not the least bit confused about the man’s identity: “He is Harch.”
“Perhaps it’s just a strong resemblance,” Mrs. Baker said.
“No,” Susan insisted. “It’s him, all right. I recognized him, and I saw him recognize me, too. And I don’t feel safe. It was my testimony that sent him to prison. If you’d have seen the way he glared at me in that courtroom ...”
McGee and Mrs. Baker stared at her, and there was something in their eyes that made her feel as if this were a courtroom, too, as if she were standing before a jury, awaiting judgment. She stared back at them for a moment, but then she lowered her eyes because she was made miserable by the doubt she saw in theirs.
“Listen,” McGee said, “I’ll go take a look at this guy’s records. Maybe I’ll even have a word or two with him. We’ll see if we can straighten this out.”
“Sure,” Susan said, knowing it was hopeless.
“If he’s really Harch, we’ll make sure he doesn’t get anywhere near you. And if he isn’t Harch, you’ll be able to rest easy.”
It’s him, dammit!
But she didn’t say anything; she merely nodded.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” McGee said.
Susan stared down at her pale, interlocked hands.
“Will you be okay?” McGee asked.
“Yeah. Sure.”
She sensed a meaningful look and an unspoken message passing between the doctor and the nurse. But she didn’t look up.
McGee left the room.
™We’llget this straightened out
“What’s he here for?” McGee asked Thelma Baker.
“He’s having surgery tomorrow,” the nurse said. “Dr. Viteski’s going to remove two rather large cysts from his lower back.”
“Not spinal cysts?”
“No. Fatty tissue cysts. But they’re large ones.”
“Benign?” McGee asked.
“Yes. But I guess they’re deeply rooted, and they’re causing him some discomfort.”
“Admitted this morning?”
“That’s right.”
“And his name’s Richmond. You’re sure of that?”
“Yes.”
“But it used to be Harch,” Susan insisted.
Mrs. Baker took off her glasses and let them dangle on the beaded chain around her neck. She scratched the bridge of her nose, looked quizzically at Susan, and said, “How old was this Harch when he killed Jerry Stein?”
“He was a senior at Briarstead that year,” Susan said. “Twenty-one years old.”
“That settles it, then,” the nurse said.
“Why?” McGee asked.
Mrs. Baker put her glasses on again and said, “Bill Richmond is only in his early twenties.”
“He can’t be,” Susan said.
“In fact I’m pretty sure he’s just twenty-one himself. He’d have been about eight years old when Jerry Stein was killed.”
“He’s not twenty-one,” Susan said anxiously. “He’s thirty-four by now.”
“Well, he certainly doesn’t look any older than twenty-one,” Mrs. Baker said. “In fact he looks younger than that. A good deal younger than that. He’s hardly more than a kid. If he was lying about it one way or the other, I’d think he was actually adding on a few years, not taking them off.”
As the lights flickered again, and as thunder rolled across the hollow, sheet-metal sky, Dr. McGee looked at Susan and said, “How old did he look to you when he stepped out of the elevator?”
She thought about it for a moment, and she got a sinking feeling in her stomach. “Well ... he looked exactly like Ernest Harch.”
“Exactly like Harch looked back then?”
“Uh ... yeah.”
“Like a twenty-one-year-old college man?”
Susan nodded reluctantly.
McGee pressed the point. “Then you mean that he didn’t look thirty-four to you?”
“No. But maybe he’s aged well. Some thirty-four-year-olds could pass for ten years younger.” She was confused about the apparent age discrepancy, but she was not the least bit confused about the man’s identity: “He is Harch.”
“Perhaps it’s just a strong resemblance,” Mrs. Baker said.
“No,” Susan insisted. “It’s him, all right. I recognized him, and I saw him recognize me, too. And I don’t feel safe. It was my testimony that sent him to prison. If you’d have seen the way he glared at me in that courtroom ...”
McGee and Mrs. Baker stared at her, and there was something in their eyes that made her feel as if this were a courtroom, too, as if she were standing before a jury, awaiting judgment. She stared back at them for a moment, but then she lowered her eyes because she was made miserable by the doubt she saw in theirs.
“Listen,” McGee said, “I’ll go take a look at this guy’s records. Maybe I’ll even have a word or two with him. We’ll see if we can straighten this out.”
“Sure,” Susan said, knowing it was hopeless.
“If he’s really Harch, we’ll make sure he doesn’t get anywhere near you. And if he isn’t Harch, you’ll be able to rest easy.”
It’s him, dammit!
But she didn’t say anything; she merely nodded.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” McGee said.
Susan stared down at her pale, interlocked hands.
“Will you be okay?” McGee asked.
“Yeah. Sure.”
She sensed a meaningful look and an unspoken message passing between the doctor and the nurse. But she didn’t look up.
McGee left the room.
™We’llget this straightened out
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