Free 13 - Knock'em Dead by Jessica Fletcher, Donald Bain

knocking me over. I never had a clear look at the person, but I did see that it was a man wearing a gray overcoat with the collar turned up and a black knit cap pulled low over his forehead. He’d been walking fast and didn’t break stride as he kept going, never pausing to apologize. I watched him disappear into the crowd on the street and tried to focus on what I could remember of him. I’d once taken a class in witness identification techniques. Ever since, I’ve gotten into the habit of taking in every possible detail of people I meet, under both pleasant and unpleasant circumstances. My final fleeting image of him was from the top of his wool cap down to his shoulders.
    How rude, I thought as I turned and continued into the theater where Priscilla Hoye and Joe Scott stood in the lobby with Harry Schrumm and a group of reporters, including cameramen from local TV stations. They immediately started hurling questions at me, but Priscilla waved her hands and said, “Harry Schrumm, the producer of Knock ’Em Dead, has a statement to make. After that, Mrs. Fletcher will be available to answer questions.”
    She led us to a folding table at one end of the lobby where a microphone had been set up. As I followed, she looked down and asked, “What happened to your coat?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “It’s torn.”
    I checked what she’d seen. Sure enough, there was a tear down the side almost a foot long.
    “I can’t imagine how this happened,” I said. Priscilla examined it more closely. “It’s been cut,” she said.
    “Cut?”
    “Yes, look.”
    I removed the coat and took a closer look. She was right. It wasn’t a tear. It had been neatly sliced.
    “The man who almost knocked me down,” I said to no one in particular.
    “What?”
    “Ah—nothing. I must have caught it on something. Let’s get this over with.”

Chapter 8
    The press conference was less painful than anticipated and over sooner than I’d expected. Harry Schrumm’s statement was impressive in its brevity; he spoke of how upsetting the attack on me was to him personally, called for a stepped-up police effort to capture the Broadway serial killer, and predicted that Knock ’Em Dead would one day be Broadway’s longest running play.
    Schrumm introduced me and I took questions from the press, most of them directed at the attack on me by Jenny Forrest. I tried to play down its significance, even laughed when describing how the knife proved to be only a stage prop.
    “Will you press charges against Ms. Forrest?” I was asked.
    “No.”
    “Was this staged as a publicity stunt to hype your play?”
    “No.”
    “Are you afraid the Broadway serial killer will strike someone from the cast of Knock ’Em Dead?”
    “I certainly hope not.”
    “Do you believe in ghosts, Mrs. Fletcher, specifically the ghost of Marcus Drummond, for whom this theater is named?”
    I chuckled. “I haven’t seen him yet and don’t expect to. Thank you.”
    As the reporters drifted away, I looked across the lobby and saw a man I hadn’t noticed during the press conference leaning against a wall in a far comer. Perhaps his nondescript appearance contributed to my not having taken note of him. He was of medium height, had sandy hair, and wore a tan raincoat; a beige figure absorbed by the beige lobby walls. He slowly crossed the lobby and stood a few feet from the table. Schrumm disappeared into the theater. “I’ll be back in a minute,” Priscilla said, chasing after a reporter.
    “Mrs. Fletcher?” the man said.
    “Yes?”
    “I’m Lieutenant Henry Hayes, NYPD.” He held out his badge.
    “Police? You aren’t here because of what happened, are you? It was just a silly mistake, as I explained to the press.”
    His smile was wide and warm. He extended his hand, which I took. “Not specifically,” he said. “I’m heading up the Broadway serial killer task force.”
    “I read that you were. Any progress?”
    “Afraid not. Got a