himself; but he wasn’t there when he woke up.”
“No one else saw Mitchiner that afternoon?” Dalton
asked, thumbing through the statements McLamb had
read back in December.
“Not to remember. But it’s not like anyone would
unless it was his family. He was in his own world most
of the time, so he didn’t have any special friends here.
197
MARGARET MARON
A real nice, easygoing man, but you couldn’t carry on
much of a conversation with him. He kept thinking Mr.
Bell was his cousin and he’s white as you are.”
“Could we speak to Mr. Bell?” McLamb asked.
“Well, you
another little stroke since then and his mind’s even
fuzzier than it was at Christmas.”
She led them into the lounge where several men and
women—mostly black, but some white—sat in rockers
or wheelchairs to watch television, something on the
Discovery Channel, judging by the brightly colored fish
that swam across the screen. In earlier years, Mr. Bell had
probably been strongly built with a full head of hair and
shrewd blue eyes. Now he was like a half-collapsed bal-
loon with most of the air gone. His muscles sagged, his
shoulders slumped, his head was round and shiny with
a few scattered wisps of white hair, his blue eyes were
pale and rheumy. Large brown liver spots splotched his
face and scalp.
himself. Pity and dread mingled in his assessment as Mr.
Bell struggled to his feet at Mrs. Franks’s urging.
The old man steadied himself on his walker and obe-
diently went with them to the dining room where the
deputies could question him without the distraction of
the television.
While Dalton steadied one of the straight chairs,
McLamb and Mrs. Franks helped him lower himself
down. He kept one hand on the walker though and
198
HARD ROW
looked at them with incurious eyes as Mrs. Franks tried
to explain that these two men were sheriff ’s deputies.
“They need you to tell them about Fred Mitchiner,”
she said, enunciating each word clearly.
“Who?”
“Fred Mitchiner. Your roommate.”
“Fred? He’s gone.”
“I know, sweetie, but did you see him go?”
