Free You Have the Right to Remain Silent by Barbara Paul

nodded, expecting no more. On her desk were reports detailing the follow-up interviews with the families of the victims. She picked up the first one.
    Mrs. Conrad Webb had regained her composure by the time the police came again. She’d had several friends with her, offering sympathy and moral support. With trembling voice she’d explained that on Saturday her husband had left for a 1:30 luncheon appointment at the Tavern on the Green, and that was the last time she saw him. When he hadn’t returned by seven that evening, she’d grown worried; Conrad was always so conscientious about letting her know when he was delayed. They’d been invited to a dinner party at the Hutchinsons’—both of whom were among the group of friends present during the police interview—and not knowing what else to do, she’d gone to the dinner party alone. There she’d expressed her concern, but her friends had persuaded her there was nothing to worry about. Conrad often got involved in marathon business meetings, they’d reminded her. She’d left the party shortly before midnight. Both the Hutchinsons confirmed her story.
    No, Conrad hadn’t said whom he was meeting or what the meeting was about. He hadn’t seemed tense or worried about the meeting, or about anything else, as far as Mrs. Webb could tell. No, she didn’t know what project he’d been working on lately, only that it required frequent trips to Washington. It was the interviewing detective’s opinion that Mrs. Webb was reluctant to admit how little she knew about her husband’s work.
    The Saturday staff of the Tavern on the Green had been contacted; they told the police that Conrad Webb had not been there for lunch on Saturday, nor had he made a reservation. The maître d’ was quite positive about it; he knew Mr. Webb well and would have remembered if he’d come in.
    So Conrad Webb had lied to his wife, Marian thought, just as Herb Vickers had lied to his. According to Mrs. Webb, her husband had left their apartment shortly after one o’clock; that narrowed the time a little more. The bodies had been dumped around eleven that night; there were still ten hours to account for.
    Marian read quickly through Gloria Sanchez’s report on Candy Vickers; nothing there Sanchez hadn’t already told her. As she was picking up the next report, the phone rang; it was a television reporter wanting to know what progress had been made. Marian said “No comment” and hung up. He must have come up with a pretty good lie to get past the desk sergeant.
    The next report was on Jason O’Neill. A phone call to the victim’s mother in Idaho had elicited no new information; Mrs. O’Neill was despondent and mystified as to why anyone would want to kill her son. The detectives had found an address book in Jason’s apartment and proceeded to interview his friends and a few of his business associates. And yes, Jason O’Neill had had a girlfriend. Two of them, in fact: one in New York and one in Washington. The New York girlfriend was a singer named Amy Camus who’d only recently moved into Manhattan from Brooklyn. Amy told the investigating officer she and Jason had had a date for Saturday night but Jason didn’t show. She’d been furious with him until she learned why he hadn’t kept the date. Wasn’t she worried when he didn’t show up? Well, they hadn’t been getting along too well lately, and she thought he’d just stood her up. Did Jason do things like that often? No, but there’s always a first time, isn’t there?
    Marian smiled wryly; there was a lady with her feet on the ground. When was the last time she’d talked to Jason? the detective had asked. Friday, Amy supposed, but she had heard from him on Saturday. He’d left a message on her answering machine while she was out, saying he’d pick her up a half hour later than they’d