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there any suspects, Captain?”
    Larsen smiled ironically. “Not yet, I’m afraid. Of course, I wouldn’t tell you if there were, as you know. Not this early in the game.” His manner indicated that Kanter, an experienced campaigner, might have done a little better.
    “Anyone taken into custody for questioning?” Kanter persisted.
    “No.”
    “Is this cleaning lady going to be questioned at headquarters?”
    “No. I’ll send a man over to her house as soon as we’ve finished here.”
    “How does it look to you, Captain?” someone asked. “Is it a crime of passion?”
    “How about robbery?” someone else put in.
    Larsen grunted irritably, as if regretting the questions. “It doesn’t look like anything at all to me at the moment. But I’ll give you a word of advice. This girl’s father, as you know, is a wealthy, influential man. Not only is he a leading California industrialist, but he’s also a considerable power in politics. Now—” Larsen paused. “Now, while I’m not going to give you any information that’s not completely verified, I’m not going to hold out on you, either. I’ve already told you that you’re welcome to look at the bodies, which is customary. When you see them—” Larsen’s pale blue eyes became chilled, his manner impersonally official—“you’ll discover that both bodies are only partially clothed. That’s the way they were found, and that’s the way you’ll see them. But if I were you, I’m not real sure I’d report it that way, much less draw any conclusions from the condition of the bodies. As you know, it’s not the police department’s function to defend the papers and radio from libel actions.” Wryly he smiled. “We have enough trouble with our own legal problems.”
    “Are you going to allow pictures, Captain?” I asked.
    He shook his head, waited for the ritual buzz of protest to quiet, and then said, “I thought about it, and I don’t think I will. As I’ve said, the girl was the daughter of a prominent man, and she’s been found under circumstances that’re going to have to be explained, to say the least. We’ll be glad to supply you with ordinary pictures of the victims from their family albums, or whatever. But I don’t think we’ll have any pictures here. They’d be unprintable. So there’s no point.”
    And now, briskly, the Captain looked at his watch. At the gesture, a dozen questions simultaneously erupted, but the Captain held up a hand. The interview was over.
    “We’ll have a briefing this afternoon at four P.M. in the lineup room,” he said firmly. “I’ll have more facts for you then. In the meantime, I’ve got lots to do. And I’m sure you do, too.” He gestured to the bedroom. “You can go in two at a time, if you want to. But don’t walk more than a foot or two into the room.” He and Ramsey stepped together to the bedroom door, standing on either side. Larsen gently pushed the door wide open.
    Even from where I stood, I could clearly see the grisly tableau. The bedroom was small, barely large enough to accommodate the queen-size bed. On the room’s single chair hung the girl’s clothing: a heavy wool skirt, dark brown, a sweater, persimmon, and underclothing, white and unruffled. A table lay overturned on the floor, one of its legs splintered. Near the table lay a lamp, shattered. Near the lamp lay the man, face down. His arms were spread wide, his fingers terribly crooked, clutching nothing. His legs were drawn up in death’s last agony. He’d been a tall, slim man, with thick brown hair.
    I let the others go ahead; Jim Campion and I loitered behind the reluctant group. Kanter was just ahead, paired with a radio reporter. Over Kanter’s shoulder I saw the girl. She lay at the foot of the bed, on the floor. One of her hands was twisted in the bedclothing, as if she’d tried to pull herself up, and then died. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. Her throat was discolored and distended, a pulpy mass