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Dorsey came to the grim conclusion that through his own temporary (he hoped) ineptitude, the investigation was a bust. He had a few facts that others might convincingly call opinions and nothing on which Ray Corso could act. Radovic had taken a long walk and used a telephone. Oh, Dorsey thought, how the workers’ compensation board will be impressed by that! And that man is not being paid to be in that office, he’s dedicated and ruthless, the kind that mans the ship even when the water is over his head. Still, maybe this mess can be saved.
    Dorsey pulled the Buick out of the motel lot and for the first time on this trip he left the flat bottom of the crater that held Johnstown and climbed up Route 271, headed north. Passing the Flood Museum, Dorsey amused himselfby thinking of the whole town as an extension of that institution. With hard times, flood memorabilia had become the town’s primary industry. Street signs marked a walking tour; bars and restaurants were decorated with flood scenes where photos of boxers and baseball players once hung. Water retention had replaced steelmaking and coal mining.
    Dorsey found Mundys Corner just south of where 271 links up with U.S. 22, several miles past the point of level ground. Though it was only a small village, it took Dorsey thirty minutes to find the correct house, glad it was thirty minutes that could be billed to Ray Corso. The house, set back from the road with only a dirt drive cutting through some pines, was like many found in the highlands, constructed of stone, with wood stoves and high chimneys.
    Dorsey introduced himself through a locked screen door while a suspicious Mrs. Maynard examined him closely. Short and wide, her eyes squinted against the outdoor light as she looked up.
    â€œYou from the unemployment? My Claudia, she got the mail-in cards, she don’t have to go to the office each week—to register, I mean. They give her a lot of cards; they do it to hold down the lines. You been gettin’ her cards? She said onna phone she was sending ’em in regular.”
    Patiently, Dorsey explained again that he was not from the state unemployment office and that he wanted to speak to Claudia concerning an accident at the mill. “Private insurance matter,” he told her.
    Mrs. Maynard explained that her daughter was on an extended vacation; she wouldn’t be home for two more weeks. It took some doing, but Dorsey persuaded Mrs. Maynard that her daughter might have said something to either her or Mr. Maynard about the accident. He was shown to an easy chair in a cramped living room, and Mrs. Maynard went for her husband.
    â€œShe liked it there, Claudia did,” Mr. Maynard said from the sofa opposite Dorsey. Built similarly to his wife, he was dressed in matching green work clothes. “Told meshe always got along real well with everybody at the mill, even the fancy office types. Even when she got axed in the layoff she didn’t have no hard feelings personally. Didn’t tell anybody off. The big shots stay and she goes, but she don’t make a fuss.”
    â€œSounds like she just sort of tolerated management types, the ones she worked for.” Dorsey hoped to learn as much as he could through small talk before getting down to a line of questioning. “Sounds like she wanted to get along.”
    â€œClaudia grew up right. And she’s loyal to her people.”
    â€œMr. Maynard,” Dorsey said, working on a casual expression, “this business I’m here on is pretty routine stuff. It’s about an accident down at Carlisle Steel. Just a few questions to set the record straight.”
    â€œSure, we can talk, if that’s all it is,” Mr. Maynard said. Dorsey caught the trace of reluctance in his voice.
    â€œClaudia, she was in the personnel office, right?”
    â€œSecretary, general clerk stuff.” Mr. Maynard ran his hand through his sparse gray hair. “Kept track of overtime