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told him almost everything I knew, as well as why I needed the information. He took notes in a spiral pad and asked occasional questions, and I drew a sense of confidence from that. When I finished my recitation, I sat back in my chair. “That’s it,” I said.
    “Okay.” He tapped his pencil on the desk twice. “I think I can find that file for you, but I can’t do it now. It’s not in this building. Files that old are in the borough headquarters. I’ll go down there and hunt them up.”
    “You will?” I must have sounded incredulous.
    “I’ll give it a shot and see what happens.”
    “Will the autopsy report be in the file?”
    “A copy should be.”
    “That’s great.” I felt as though I were already halfway there.
    “Better give me a call tomorrow before you come down. What borough do you live in?”
    “Borough? Oh, you mean New York. I live in Oakwood.”
    “You came down here from there for this?”
    “Yes, and I’ll be back as soon as you find that file.”
    “Here’s my card.”
    I looked at it. Sergeant John M. Brooks. “I’m Christine Bennett. Can I call you at nine?”
    “I’m on ten to six tomorrow.”
    “Thanks.” I stood and offered my hand. “An awful lot,” I added as we shook.
    —
    I drove back to Ocean Avenue and had the kind of luck New Yorkers always hope for. As I coasted down the street, my eyes peeled for a parking space, someone pulled out and I had one. It was still too early to eat lunch, and my sandwich and can of soda were safely cold in Aunt Meg’s plastic picnic box packed with a bag of ice. I left it in the car and found the Talleys’ apartment house.
    I must admit to a certain feeling of discomfort at the thought of ringing bells and knocking on the doors of strangers. Part of that was, I think, an ordinary fear of being considered a little weird. Most people alive today weren’t born forty years ago, and I would probably encounter more people—many more—who didn’t remember the Talley murder than would. But the other part of my reticence was, I’m sure, a product of the way I’d lived for the second half of my life, all my adult life until three weeks ago.
    I hadn’t been cloistered as Mrs. McAlpin had assumed. In many ways I was an ordinary teacher of English literature in a college for women. I met the parents of my students and spent lovely hours walking, talking, and dining with the girls I taught. I knew what problems they had, because they confided in me. But at this moment I felt sorely deficient in what they call interpersonal relationships. Talking to strangers was not, as my students would have said, my bag.
    But there was no other way. I entered the small foyer of the Talleys’ building and looked around. There was a bank of mailboxes on the left wall, and another bank on the right. In front of me was a pair of double doors made of glass panes, heavy wood, and fairly shiny brass. But the door was locked.
    The only way to enter was with a key or by being buzzedin by a tenant. I didn’t know any of the tenants, and I was not about to ring bells and hope someone would push a buzzer. Maybe some other time, but not today.
    I went back out into the sunshine. Across the street were three private houses wedged between two large apartment buildings. The houses seemed much less threatening, and I crossed the street and went to the nearest one.
    A child answered my ring and called her mother, who quickly informed me that they had lived there for only seven years, and the tenants upstairs for two. But, she added helpfully, there was a very old man next door who had lived there a long time.
    I thanked her, went down the stone steps and up those of the adjoining house. These houses were so close together that there wasn’t room between them to park a car, although one of them had what looked like a narrow driveway. It had probably been built in the days when cars were a lot smaller than they are today.
    All three houses had tiny front lawns, but this