First degree - By David Rosenfelt Page 0,76

actually introduces himself as "Larry from Lansing." My immediate mental connection is to a sports talk-radio show: "Hi, this is Larry from Lansing ... I'm a first-time caller ... uhhhh ... how do you think the Mets are gonna do this year?"

I tell Larry I want to get right out to see Murdoch, but he says, "The warden sent me out to tell you there's a problem with that."

Uh-oh. "What kind of problem?"

"He killed himself last night. Slit his throat in his cell," says Larry from Lansing with the kind of passion normally reserved for readings of the telephone directory.

The news is simultaneously devastating, frustrating, and yet further confirmation that we are on the right track. I have Larry from Lansing take me to the prison, a collection of gray buildings surrounded by barbed wire in the middle of nowhere.

The warden is Craig Grissom, who looks and sounds just like Eddie Albert in The Longest Yard. When I meet him, it's immediately obvious that he isn't grieving too much over Murdoch's death; nor do I get the feeling he stayed up agonizing over the eulogy. The closest he comes to serious reflection is, "Things like this happen. You try to prevent them, but they happen."

I coax the particulars out of Grissom. The guard found Murdoch in his locked cell while making his midnight rounds last night. The doctor's estimate was that he had been dead at least an hour.

"How did he get the knife?" I ask.

He seems surprised. "Who?"

"Murdoch."

"You think he got the knife?"

"Larry said it was a suicide. That he slit his own throat," I say.

Grissom shakes his head sadly. "Larry's not exactly the sharpest tool in our shed. How many suicides slit their own throat from ear to ear, then still have the knife tucked in their hand after they bleed to death and fall to the floor?"

"So somebody got into his locked cell in the middle of the night and killed him? Warden, this is a maximum security prison."

He nods. "That's why they didn't hang him in the mess hall during dinner." He can see me getting more and more frustrated. "Look, this is not the Boy Scouts. We've got murderers in here, so we've got murders. We do our best, but it is what it is."

"Had he been told I was coming?"

Grissom nods. "I told him myself. He seemed to like the idea. Maybe somebody else didn't."

"Did he make any phone calls?"

"Hard to tell," he says. "We monitor the pay phones, but they can get access to cell phones."

"Cell phones in the prison?"

He shrugs. "They got money or things to trade, they can get whatever they want in here. Think of it as the old economy--a return to the barter system."

Grissom gets Murdoch's file at my request and tells me that he was serving a lengthy term for counterfeiting. It was only incredibly bad luck on his part that got him arrested. There was a fire in his house while he was out, and when the fire department broke in, among the things they saved were plates with American presidents on them. His lawyer had claimed that the evidence should be suppressed since the firemen had no warrant, but the judge correctly ruled that they had good reason to enter the burning building.

Referring to Murdoch's murder, I ask, "Are you going to investigate this?"

He laughs a short laugh, then nods. I've got a hunch the investigation is not going to be relentless, nor is it going to get anywhere. Just like I'm not going to get anywhere with Warden Grissom. I hope Burt Reynolds comes here, puts a football team together, and kicks his ass.

I have Larry from Lansing take me back to Clyde the pilot, so I can take my new frustrations out on those dirty commies.

I call ahead to Kevin, tell him what happened, and ask him to assign Marcus to find out everything he can about Terry Murdoch. The first thing I do when I get home is go through the military files again, looking for some connection, any connection, but there just isn't anything there.

Kevin and I finish our preparations for tomorrow's witnesses, and Laurie and I get to bed early. For the past couple of weeks, we've pretty much kept our conversations about the case out of the bedroom, more to help our insomnia than for any other reason.

But tonight Laurie breaks that unwritten covenant. "I want to testify," she says.

"I know you do. We're just not ready to make that