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Soaring from its center was a tower which stuck out against the morning sky like a sore thumb. Much too high and mighty for its base. The original idea, I supposed, had been to throw up something which could be perceived for miles, something symbolic of the statutory— as opposed to the lynch—law which had now come to these western wastes. But the tower was simply too damned big. It weighed upon the courthouse like a guilty conscience. As an afterthought, perhaps, it had been given an added function—to tell the time. On each of its four sides was a white clockface with black hands and numerals. I punched my gold-plated-light-emitting-diode-second-minute-hour-month-date-digital Pulsar, accurate within a minute a year. 11:14. I looked up at the clock. The old baby was right on the button.
    Harding Courthouse was set in a small oval park, circled by Silver Street, beautified by a stand of ancient mulberry trees. There was a green lawn in front, and the statue of a World War I doughboy, rifle and bayonet at the ready, his helmet and heroism hallowed by birdshit. I climbed steep concrete steps, entered a rather grubby interior. Green walls. A water fountain. Recruiting posters. A candy bar machine. Office doors with signs: County Treasurer, Tax Assessor, Clerk and Recorder, Attorney. On the wall near the foot of a central staircase was an arrow pointing up and the info that on the second floor were the courtroom and the offices of Judge Charles S. Vaught Jr., Third Judicial District, Harding, Cienfuegos, and Maria de la Luz counties.
    “I am Mrs. Helder, Clerk of the Court,” said the lady in the anteroom. “May I help you?”
    “I am B. James Butters. May I see Judge Vaught?”
    “The judge is in chambers this morning. May I ask your purpose?”
    It popped out. “I’m his son-in-law.”
    ZAP.
    I tried to make things better. “Or was. And will be again I hope.”
    Which made them worse. She left me hastily, returned slowly, gestured at a door. I walked in.
    “Butters.”
    “Yes, sir.” I almost said “Your Honor.”
    “You are, or have been, my son-in-law.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “You are not now.”
    “No, sir.”
    “But you may be again.”
    “Yes, sir.” It was explanation time. “I’m from New York. I write children’s books. Tyler and I were married for three months last year. Then she left me for someone else, so we divorced. Now we’re back together again—permanently, I hope. You didn’t know any of this?”
    “Mr. Butters, I have neither seen nor heard from my daughter in thirteen years.”
    He hadn’t offered me a seat. I took one, opposite his desk. “Unless it’s too personal, Judge, why not?”
    “You would know better than I. I wrote her often at first, without response. She has independent means.”
    “Have you heard of a writer named Max Sansom?”
    “He came to see me, as you have. He had the tact to tell me Tyler was living with him.”
    “Sansom was never heavy on tact. Or talent either. You know about the hit-and-run.”
    “Yes.”
    “Tyler thinks he was murdered.”
    Eyebrows. “Murdered?”
    “She asked me to come out here and look into it.”
    But he was being judicial, frowning, pursing his lips, considering the possibility of murder, coming at length to a decision. “I think,” he said, “you may disabuse her of the notion. Based on any evidence that has come to my attention, I doubt the death was other than accidental. In any event, I’m sure the Sheriff’s Department has investigated.”
    “Well, she said to talk to you and her mother, so I will. It won’t take long—I should be on my way home by tomorrow. Oh—” I hesitated. This was the point at which young Doc Shelley had given something away. I went on the alert.
    “She also said to read the transcripts of two old trials.”
    “Trials?”
    No reaction.
    “Yes. First the one when they tried her grandfather, Buell Wood.”
    He removed his horn rims, rubbed the bridge of his nose and his memory. “That