Free Dead Even by Emma Brookes Page B

ago.” He stood. “Come with me into the den. All of my records are in there. Just bring your coffee along. It’s perfectly all right.”
    The first thing Mike noticed when they entered the room was that here, too, the curtains were pulled tight across the windows. Simpson switched on the overhead light and crossed over to a long row of bookcases. He ran his hand down a row of notebooks, each marked on the spine with a year, until he found the one he was looking for. He opened the notebook and flipped through a few pages.
    The two officers watched as Simpson took several deep breaths. “Good heavens. I was in Lawrence on that date. At an insurance convention. But I assure you I committed no crime while I was there. Now that I think about it, I don’t believe I ever even left the motel.”
    Mike and Butch exchanged glances. “Maybe you had better come with us down to headquarters, Mr. Simpson,” Mike said. “We can get it all straightened out there.”
    Simpson was clearly agitated. “No, no. Now wait a minute. What time did this crime supposedly take place? Was it during the day, or in the evening?”
    â€œBetween six and eleven in the evening, sir,” Butch answered the man. “And unless you can account for that time, I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us.”
    Simpson walked over and opened a cupboard above his large screen television. Inside were rows of videotapes. He hunted for a few seconds, then selected one. “I happen to remember that night, now that my notebook has jogged my memory. I was one of the speakers at the meeting. It’s all on video. I was on stage with several other insurance people that entire evening. The date and time are on the video. Here, I’ll show you.” He turned on the television and inserted the tape in his VCR.
    They watched in silence as Harold Simpson began his speech. The date and time were imprinted across the bottom of the video, just as he had said.
    When it was finished, Mike turned to Simpson. “Is there any way to verify this tape?”
    â€œOf course,” the man nodded. “It was done commercially by a firm in Lawrence. We always use the services of a local business in the city where the conventions are held. Good will, you know.” He ejected the tape from the machine and passed it over to Mike. “The name’s right there on the label. Shem’s Video. And there are two or three other insurance agents in town who I’m sure have this same tape. Sam Walker with Strophe Insurance for one. He was on the stage with me that night. If anyone else would have one, he would.”
    Mike extended his hand. “Well, that ought to take care of it, then. Looks like our witness was wrong. We’ll check this tape out, of course, but I’m certain you don’t have anything to worry about.”
    Simpson walked them to the door. “I don’t understand how someone could think I was involved in a crime that happened so long ago. What made them think it was me?”
    â€œYour voice, sir,” Mike answered. “They heard your voice and thought they recognized it. It is rather distinctive, wouldn’t you say?”
    Simpson nodded. “So that’s it. Well, this husky voice is the result of trying to save my wife and son when our house burned down. Neighbors tried to keep me from going in, but I had to try and reach them.” He stopped talking and looked away. “Couldn’t though. Lost them both. And I was left sounding this way.”
    â€œWe’re sorry, sir,” Mike said. “And we’re also sorry about all this. Just doing our job, you know.”
    â€œQuite all right, officer,” Simpson answered. “I understand completely.”
    *   *   *
    It took them three hours to confirm the authenticity of the tape—record time for a Sunday. They obtained a duplicate from Sam Walker, then placed a call to