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Mitch,” the caller repeated. “That’s all you need to know. I just didn’t want to see an innocent man sent to prison. Check the clock.”
    The line went dead, leaving a confounded Mariana with more questions than answers. Who was this Mitch? Was he really the killer? If so, why did he kill the girl? And why would he call? What possible proof could the old clock contain?
    Slowly, she replaced the receiver. This certainly complicated matters. Whether she chose to believe the stranger on the phone or not, common sense and her legal training dictated that she check out his story. To examine the clock would be simple. The family, she was sure, would be most cooperative. But what if the caller, Mitch, actually was telling the truth? What would happen to her credibility? How would it affect her case, and most importantly, her reputation? Reliable evidence, if there were any, which proved the guy who she’d presented to the court as the killer was in fact innocent, would destroy everything she had built and worked so hard to achieve. Not just the case, which had been six months in progress, but her whole career.
    For the time being, she decided to keep the information to herself. Still, she did want to check out his story. Grimacing, she knew that meant finding a way inside the Wyman’s house, unofficially of course, and undetected. Easier said than done, but she had to have a look at that clock!
    Waiting impatiently, until the following morning, Mariana drove to the nearby suburb of Trevois, where the Wyman family now lived. Through a close association with the girl’s parents over the past few months, she knew they regularly attended church on Sunday mornings. Pulling her car to the curb two blocks from the house, she waited to see if they left. Sure enough, a few minutes before nine o’clock, their gray four-door sedan began backing out of the driveway. Both Mr. Wyman and his wife were in the vehicle. Slowly, the car disappeared down the street.
    Smiling an evil and wicked grin, the D.A. calmly turned the key in the ignition of her own car. The engine roared to life and she tentatively drove forward, half expecting to see the gray sedan coming back.
    Realizing the edginess was a symptom of an overactive imagination, and due in part to a guilty conscience, the young attorney pushed the doubts to the back of her mind and turned the car into the driveway. With an audacious step, as if she had a legitimate purpose for being there, Mariana walked right up to the front door. Knocking loudly, and receiving no answer, she tried the doorknob. It was locked. So much for the easy way in!
    Glancing nervously toward the street, she saw no one in sight, though that didn’t account for the possible prying eyes of a neighbor, watching from the cover of their home. Shrugging with cold indifference, Mariana turned her attention back to the house. It was now or never. Stepping boldly from the porch, she moved around the house, eyes scanning the exterior, searching for any point of access. Knowing it could attract unwanted attention to physically try the windows, the D.A. continued walking around to the back. Much to her disappointment, she quickly discovered that entrance too, was locked.
    Out of sight now, and hidden behind the large bushy evergreens lining the backyard, she searched in vain for a spare key. Looking first under the rubber doormat and then the flowerpots, she ran her fingers along the ledges above both the window and the door. She found nothing.
    Sighing, Mariana looked toward the house. There had to be some way inside, though she sure wasn’t having much luck finding one. Then she saw it. The cellar door!
    Hurrying over, she bent down and grabbed hold of the handle. Taking a deep breath, she pulled on the door with all her strength. The heavy door raised up and then suddenly fell backward, crashing against an old tree stump. With a muffled cry of satisfaction, Mariana started down the concrete steps to the rickety