stories. They’re supposed to be softer than so-called hard news. Most of my stories have to do with people’s attitudes, and feelings, more than just hard facts. That’s my job, and you just said I do it pretty well.”

“Mister Wisham.…”

“So, why me? Why would Walter March, or anyone else, raise a national campaign to get me off the air?”

“Okay, Mister Wisham. Rolly. You asked the question. You could wear an elephant down to a mouse.”

“Because he was afraid of me.”

“Walter March? Afraid of you?”

“I was becoming an enormous threat to him.”

“Ah.… Someone told me last night—I think it was that Nettie Horn woman—all you journalists have identity problems. ‘Delusions of grandeur,’ she said. Rolly, a few minutes of network television time a week—I mean, against Walter March and all those newspapers coast-to-coast, coming out every day, edition after edition.…”

“Potentially I was an enormous threat to him.”

“Okay, Rolly. I’m supposed to ask ‘Why?’ now. Is that right?”

“I’ve been trying to tell you something.”

“Okay.”

“I have more reason to murder that bastard than anyone you can think of.”

“Uh.…”

“Don’t tell me I need a lawyer. I know my rights. I came to this convention because the network forced me to. I came with such hatred for that bastard.… Frankly, I was afraid to cross his path, to see him, or even hear him, or be in a room with him—for fear of what I might do to him.”

“Wait.”

“My Dad owned a newspaper in Denver. I was brought up skiing, horsing around, loving journalism, my Dad, happy to be the son of a newspaper publisher. Once a newspaper starts to decline in popularity, it’s almost impossible to reverse the trend. I didn’t know it, but when I was about ten, Dad’s newspaper began to go into a decline. By the time I was fourteen, he had mortgaged everything, including his desk, Goddamn it, the desk he had inherited from his father, to keep the paper running. These were straight bank loans—but unfortunately Dad had made the mistake of using only one bank. He wasn’t the sharpest businessman in the world.”

“Neither am I. I.…”

“Just when Dad thought he was turning the paper around—it had taken five years—this one bank called all the loans.”

“Could they do that? I mean, legally?”

“Sure. Dad never thought they would. They were friends. He went to see them. They wouldn’t even speak to him. They called all the loans at once, and that was it.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Neither did Dad. Why would the bank want to take over a newspaper, especially when there was hope for its doing well? They wouldn’t know how to run it. Dad lost the newspaper. He gave up as decently as he could. He wandered around the house for weeks, trying to figure out what had happened. I was fifteen. There was a rumor around that the bank had sold the newspaper to Walter March, of March Newspapers.”

“Okay, it seems like an ordinary.…”

“Not a bit ordinary. These bankers were old friends of my father. Huntin’, fishin’, cussin’ and drinkin’ friends.”

“He was hurt.”

“He was curious. He was also a hell of a journalist. In time, he found out what happened. People always talk. Walter March had bought up Dad’s loans, lock, stock, and barrel—to get control of the newspaper.”

“Why did the bankers let him? They were friends.…”

“Blackmail, Captain Neale. Sheer, unadulterated blackmail. He had blackmailed the bankers, individually, as persons. So far, in your twenty-four hours of investigation, have you heard about Walter March and his flotilla of private detectives?”

“I’ve heard rumors.”

“When I was sixteen, Dad died of a gunshot wound, in the temple, fired at close range.”

The recording tape reel revolved three times before Rolly Wisham said, “I never could understand why Dad didn’t shoot Walter March instead.”

“Mister Wisham, I really think you should have a lawyer present.…”

“No lawyer.”

Captain Neale sighed audibly. “Where were you at eight o’clock Monday morning?”

“I had driven into Hendricks to get the newspapers and have breakfast in a drugstore, or whatever I could find.”

“You have a car here?”

“A rented car.”

“You could have had breakfast and gotten your newspapers here at the hotel.”

“I wanted to get out of the hotel. Night before, I had seen Walter March with Jake Williams in the elevator. They were laughing. Something about the President and golf … catfish. I hadn’t slept all night.”

“Did you drive into Hendricks alone?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, Mister Wisham, I don’t see any problem. Your face is famous. We can just ask people down in the village. I’m sure they saw you, and recognized you. Where