everybody—except myself. When did he get home?”
“He was in bed asleep when the call came about Sandy.”
“There would have been at least a half hour delay between setting the fire and the line ring. How long had he been home?”
“The engine of his pickup was cold.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You
checked
it?”
“I just happened to put my hand on it.” My face burned. “Curt, you don’t think I’d spy on my husband!”
“No, I didn’t think so.” He sighed. “Well, somebody killed her right under my nose and didn’t leave a clue. We’ll have to go back to the others.” He pulled the papers out of the envelope. “Here, if you’re still interested.”
I glanced at the pages dense with figures and printing. “Curt, I’m not a statistician. Just tell me.”
He took the pages from my hands. “Okay. Consider four hundred people living in Sherman, another eleven hundred in the surrounding farms. That’s fifteen hundred people. Now here … He pulled out a printed sheet. “I’ve got actuarial tables on accidental death. Scaling it down to Sherman’s size, you’d expect something like thirty accidental deaths during the last ten years. We’ve had forty-two.”
“Maybe we’re accident prone. It isn’t an ordinary community.”
“Okay, consider that. Go back ten more years, we’re only seven percent above the national average. Go back ten more, we’re exactly average. And so on, until we get back to where they didn’t keep statistics. We’re an average community in everything else. We have fewer deaths from smallpox, influenza, typhoid fever, and so on, just like the nation as a whole. We have more deaths from automobile accidents, slightly more than the nation as a whole. Suicides have gone up nationally; so have they here … but a little more than average. General farm accidents, household accidents, sporting accidents, we’re ten to fifteen percent above average.”
“What does it mean?”
“Some of them are murders disguised as accidents.” I stared at him. “Curt, I don’t have your faith in numbers, I guess. I can’t—”
He handed me a sheaf of papers. “Read these and then tell me. They take you back twenty years.”
I read:
Lester Lemonn, 53,
died of broken neck after car struck loose gravel on shoulder of highway. Presumed he swerved to avoid livestock. (Comment: Steering gear could have been tampered with. No record of autopsy, or of car having been examined.)
I looked up. “Curt, you’re not counting this sort of thing, are you? I mean, there are so many accidents.”
He nodded. “That’s right. So damn many. I’m assuming we have an average number of accidents. That leaves a dozen which were really murders. Go on, read.”
I went on:
Sally Niven,
32, found hanged in henhouse. Children at school, husband working. Presumed suicide. Apparently climbed up on box and kicked it away. Motive for suicide: depression, money problems. (Comment: Left no note, no record of having threatened suicide. Situation easily staged, possible rape-murder.)
Theodore Groner,
15, drowned. Swam for boat in middle of cove, apparently suffered stomach cramp. Witnesses in boat; Jerry Blake, Eli Black, Marston Odon, Gil Sisk, Rally Cartright, Louis Bayrd, Johnny Drew, and Harley Grove. (Number of witnesses make accident probable, but stomach cramps unlikely, since water was warm and victim had eaten nothing but peanuts for some time before swimming. Subsequent death of two witnesses Marston and Jerry, suspicious.)
Charles Hall,
19 and
Ruth Payson,
16, killed when car struck semi-trailer head-on. (Many possibilities here: jimmied steering mechanism, driver drugged with delayed action soporific.)
I looked up. “You mean a sleeping tablet which doesn’t take effect until later?”
Curt nodded. “Most of them don’t hit you for ten minutes anyway. Put an extra-thick gelatin capsule around it, and it might take a half hour longer. They ate hamburgers at the Club 75 before
“He was in bed asleep when the call came about Sandy.”
“There would have been at least a half hour delay between setting the fire and the line ring. How long had he been home?”
“The engine of his pickup was cold.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You
checked
it?”
“I just happened to put my hand on it.” My face burned. “Curt, you don’t think I’d spy on my husband!”
“No, I didn’t think so.” He sighed. “Well, somebody killed her right under my nose and didn’t leave a clue. We’ll have to go back to the others.” He pulled the papers out of the envelope. “Here, if you’re still interested.”
I glanced at the pages dense with figures and printing. “Curt, I’m not a statistician. Just tell me.”
He took the pages from my hands. “Okay. Consider four hundred people living in Sherman, another eleven hundred in the surrounding farms. That’s fifteen hundred people. Now here … He pulled out a printed sheet. “I’ve got actuarial tables on accidental death. Scaling it down to Sherman’s size, you’d expect something like thirty accidental deaths during the last ten years. We’ve had forty-two.”
“Maybe we’re accident prone. It isn’t an ordinary community.”
“Okay, consider that. Go back ten more years, we’re only seven percent above the national average. Go back ten more, we’re exactly average. And so on, until we get back to where they didn’t keep statistics. We’re an average community in everything else. We have fewer deaths from smallpox, influenza, typhoid fever, and so on, just like the nation as a whole. We have more deaths from automobile accidents, slightly more than the nation as a whole. Suicides have gone up nationally; so have they here … but a little more than average. General farm accidents, household accidents, sporting accidents, we’re ten to fifteen percent above average.”
“What does it mean?”
“Some of them are murders disguised as accidents.” I stared at him. “Curt, I don’t have your faith in numbers, I guess. I can’t—”
He handed me a sheaf of papers. “Read these and then tell me. They take you back twenty years.”
I read:
Lester Lemonn, 53,
died of broken neck after car struck loose gravel on shoulder of highway. Presumed he swerved to avoid livestock. (Comment: Steering gear could have been tampered with. No record of autopsy, or of car having been examined.)
I looked up. “Curt, you’re not counting this sort of thing, are you? I mean, there are so many accidents.”
He nodded. “That’s right. So damn many. I’m assuming we have an average number of accidents. That leaves a dozen which were really murders. Go on, read.”
I went on:
Sally Niven,
32, found hanged in henhouse. Children at school, husband working. Presumed suicide. Apparently climbed up on box and kicked it away. Motive for suicide: depression, money problems. (Comment: Left no note, no record of having threatened suicide. Situation easily staged, possible rape-murder.)
Theodore Groner,
15, drowned. Swam for boat in middle of cove, apparently suffered stomach cramp. Witnesses in boat; Jerry Blake, Eli Black, Marston Odon, Gil Sisk, Rally Cartright, Louis Bayrd, Johnny Drew, and Harley Grove. (Number of witnesses make accident probable, but stomach cramps unlikely, since water was warm and victim had eaten nothing but peanuts for some time before swimming. Subsequent death of two witnesses Marston and Jerry, suspicious.)
Charles Hall,
19 and
Ruth Payson,
16, killed when car struck semi-trailer head-on. (Many possibilities here: jimmied steering mechanism, driver drugged with delayed action soporific.)
I looked up. “You mean a sleeping tablet which doesn’t take effect until later?”
Curt nodded. “Most of them don’t hit you for ten minutes anyway. Put an extra-thick gelatin capsule around it, and it might take a half hour longer. They ate hamburgers at the Club 75 before
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