The murder had caused a small stir in the community of St. Arden. Matthew Carter had been a man of some prominence, respected, if not loved. That such a thing could happen to a man of his standing made the citizens nervous. The pressure was on the Chief of Police to make an arrest.

Exactly two months after the murder Jason retrieved the morning paper from his driveway, took it inside and unfolded it to the front page. The Carter case was the lead story. He read it carefully. Throwing the paper aside, he dressed quickly and drove downtown.

Jason pushed through the swinging door of the police station, paused to look around the room, and approached the counter. A red faced, balding police sergeant sat behind the counter writing on a yellow note pad. The sergeant looked up briefly and continued to write as Jason removed his hat and twirled it in his hands.

Jason Messner, a small man with graying hair and rimless glasses, looked as though he belonged behind an accountant’s desk, not in the lobby of a police station. He shifted from one foot to the other, watching the sergeant intently. Several seconds passed.

Finally the sergeant raised his head and acknowledged Jason’s presence with a slight nod.

"I killed him," Jason said.

"What?" The sergeant said, a frown on his forehead.

"Matthew Carter. I killed him. I want to turn myself in."

The Sergeant removed his glasses and dropped them on the pad. He threw the pencil after them and leaned back. "Matthew Carter, you say."

"That’s right," Jason said. He switched the hat from one hand to the other.

The desk sergeant studied Jason for several moments. With a grunt he picked up the phone, pressed the intercom button and waited for an answer. Jason could hear a response from the other end, but could not make out the voice or what was said.

The desk sergeant, his eyes still on Jason, spoke. "Lieutenant," he said into the intercom. "We have a guy here who claims he killed Carter."

The voice on the other end rattled off a response that Jason couldn’t understand. The sergeant nodded his head and smiled. He replaced the receiver in the cradle and waved Jason to a chair in the corner of the room. "Lieutenant Phelan will be right with you," he said.

"Don’t you want to take my statement?" Jason said.

The sergeant shook his head and picked up the pencil. "That won’t be necessary," he said. "I’m sure the lieutenant will take care of that." He squinted thoughtfully at Jason, picked up his glasses and put them on. With an air of detachment he started to write.

Several minutes passed in silence. The ticking of the ancient clock on the wall behind the desk and the whirring of the fan overhead were the only sounds to be heard. Jason took a seat, sat primly on the edge, and folded his hands in his lap.

Jason looked up as the door in the corner of the room swung open. A tall, thin man of about fifty, with piercing eyes and a long neck, stepped into the room and crossed over to the sergeant. They talked briefly. The sergeant pointed at Jason and nodded. The other man put his hands in his pocket, walked over to Jason and smiled. "Sergeant Timms tells me you wanted to see me about the Carter killing. Is that right?"

Jason stood up. "Yes, sir."

The man extended his hand. "Phelan," he said. "Bill Phelan. I am in charge of homicide."

Jason shook Phelan’s hand timidly, quickly dropped it and looked down at the floor.

Phelan appraised Jason with expressionless eyes, put a hand on his shoulder and steered him toward the door at the back of the lobby. "Won’t you come with me?"

Phelan led Jason down a narrow corridor and into a bare room with a light, a table and two chairs. He waved Jason to one of the chairs, turned the other around, and straddled it.

"Mr…er," he started, then looked to Jason for help.

"Messner. Jason Messner," Jason said.

"Yes," the lieutenant said softly. "Mr. Messner. Before you say anymore, I must advise you of your rights. You have the right to remain silent…."

Jason waved him off. "I am aware of my rights, sir," he said. "I waive the right to an attorney. I want to confess and get it off my conscience. I’m ready to take my punishment."

Lt. Phelan pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and held the pack out to Jason. Jason shook his head. Phelan shrugged, selected a cigarette and put it in his mouth. He didn’t light it. "Then I feel it only proper that I tell you something else before you confess."

"What’s that?" Jason asked.

The lieutenant smiled, a fleeting smile that never reached his eyes. "We caught Carter’s killer earlier today. We have the murder weapon, a witness who will swear to the killer’s identity, and a confession from the killer himself." He leaned forward and dropped the cigarette into an ashtray. "Now, are you still wanting to make a statement?"

"There must be some mistake," Jason said.

"No mistake." Phelan’s voice was hard now, edged with impatience. "No mistake." He stood up and turned his back to Jason. Putting his hands in his pockets he expelled a sigh. "We get your kind all the time. They come in here with phony stories, wasting our time, hampering our investigation. I don’t know what makes you guys tick, but I don’t have any patience with your likes." He turned and glared at Jason. "I have half a mind to throw you in jail, but it isn’t worth the paperwork."

Jason started to protest, but Phelan crossed to the door and held it open. "Good evening, Mr. Messner. I have more important things to do with my time." He pointed to the exit.

Jason started for the door, hesitated, and looked beseechingly at Phelan. The lieutenant glowered back at him. "Out!"

Jason left.

Rosalee McIntire’s murder was almost as much a shock to St. Arden as was Matthew Carter’s. Divorced, she had led an active life, immersing herself in charitable activities that gave her a celebrity status in the community.

Jason followed the case with interest, soaking up details of the murder and subsequent investigation. He knew her slightly, his former wife having been a member of the same club as Rosalee. He had never cared for the woman. She was, Jason felt, a phony who curried favor with the upper echelons of society by working for high profile, "worthy" causes. Most of the social changes she favored were a detriment in Jason’s mind. He wouldn’t mourn her passing.

While the case did not warrant the coverage that Carter’s had, daily reports were detailed in the second section of the paper. Jason kept abreast of the case through these reports.

Finally it was time for another trip downtown. There was a different officer on duty at the station. He was talking on the phone as Jason approached the desk. The officer nodded to Jason, spoke into the phone, and hung up. Peering at Jason through half closed eyes he said, "What can I do for you?"

"My name is Jason Messner," Jason replied. "I want to confess to a murder."

The desk sergeant gave essentially the same reaction to the news as had the first one. With no show of emotion he jotted a line on the pad on the desk.

"Who’s the victim?"

"Rosalee McIntire."

The sergeant looked up briefly, then continued to write. He picked up the phone and pressed the intercom.

"Lieutenant Phelan," he said into the phone. "Somebody to see you about the McIntire case."

Jason took a seat and waited. When Lt. Phelan appeared, he glared at Jason. "You again?" he said. "And you claim to have killed Rosalee McIntire, I suppose?"

"That’s right," Jason replied.

The lieutenant turned and addressed the desk sergeant. "Get him out of here." He glowered at Jason, threw the door open and disappeared.

The sergeant smirked. "I guess you know they broke the case this morning. Got the killer. Her ex. Now, get lost. And don’t come back."

"I don’t understand," Jason said. "The man is lying. I killed Rosalee McIntire."

The sergeant picked up a magazine and started to read, ignoring Messner. After a few minutes, Jason left.

The morning paper had a front page write-up of the murder of Maxwell Robbins. Jason folded the paper and propped it against the sugar bowl. He stirred his coffee, took a tentative sip, and started to read.

"Maxwell Robbins, prominent attorney, was found shot to death in his luxury car on the outskirts of town. Police are investigating." The article went on to relate Robbins’ prominence in the community and the details of the murder.

Jason grunted as he read the article. He would shed no tears over the departure of Maxwell Robbins. The man deserved to die. Robbins had carried on a brief but torrid affair with Linda, Jason’s wife. Linda and Jason split up shortly afterward. To add insult to injury, Robbins represented her in a bitter divorce, leaving him penniless and hopelessly in debt. Linda moved away, taking with her Jason’s car, money and pride.

Jason read the article a second time, folded the paper under his arm and stood up. Taking another quick sip of coffee, he set the cup in the sink and stepped outside.

The third visit to the police station was the briefest. When Jason walked through the door, Lt. Phelan was standing behind the desk sergeant studying a clipboard. He looked up as Jason entered, swore and started toward him.

"Out!" he said.

"But I just committed a murder," Jason said.

"I don’t want to hear it," Phelan said.

"I killed Maxwell Robbins. I …"

Lt. Phelan cut him off. He turned to the sergeant. "Show him the door, Phil. And if he comes back arrest him for being a public nuisance." He left the room, slamming the door hard behind him.

Jason started toward the desk sergeant, hands held palms outward in a pleading gesture. Phil stood up, leaned forward on his hands and glowered at Jason.

"You heard the lieutenant," he said. "Get lost."

"But…." Jason started.

Phil’s frown deepened. He pointed to the door. "Out!" he said.

Jason hesitated, took a last look at the sergeant, and retreated to the door.

Jason walked slowly down the steps, glancing back to the front door of the station wearing a puzzled frown. He watched for a few minutes as police came and went. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders he walked away.

He would have to "confess" to one more murder, he knew. If Phelan was a man of his word, he would spend a night in jail, pay a fine, and have it on record that he had a habit of confessing to murders he didn’t commit. Then, if his name ever came up in connection to Robbins—well, the lieutenant would certainly dismiss it out of hand. Jason laughed inwardly.

Jason had been careful in the way he planned and carried out the murder, and this was an insurance policy, so to speak. He had purchased a gun from a pawnshop in Millerstown under an assumed name, and disposed of it in the river 100 miles away. He had been careful not to leave fingerprints, or go near the car. There was nothing to connect him to the murder. Still, he would confess to one more crime—for the record.

Before he had a chance to visit the station house again he had visitors of his own. Jason answered the door to find two uniformed men waiting on his doorstep. One of them stepped forward.

"Mr. Messner?"

Jason nodded.

"I’m officer Gentry. I have a warrant for your arrest."

"Arrest?" Jason’s heart went to his throat. "I don’t understand."

"Would you come with us, please, sir?" Gentry said.

Jason started to protest as Gentry took him by the arm and steered him to the police car.

The drive downtown was made in silence. Jason’s questions were met with nods and grunts. After awhile he sat back and endured the ride.

At the station he was ushered into the room where he and Lt. Phelan had talked on his first trip. Phelan was seated in his chair behind a table that was bare except for a pitcher of water and some glasses. Another man in plain clothes was standing by the door.

Phelan rose when Jason entered and smiled warmly. "Mr. Messner," he said. He waved Jason to a seat. Nodding toward the other man, he said, "this is detective Miles, my associate."

Jason looked from one to the other, his face red and angry. "I want to know what I am being charged with," he said.

Lt. Phelan shrugged. "Well, Mr. Messner," he said, "it seems the last time you came down here I was rather rude to you. I apologize for that and would like to make it up to you." He poured a glass of water and offered it to Jason. Jason shook it off. Phelan shrugged and set the glass on the table. "As I understand it you wanted to confess to the murder of Maxwell Robbins. Is that right?"

Jason nodded uncertainly. Phelan turned to the policeman. "Would you get Arthur in here?" To Messner, he said. "Arthur is a stenographer. He will take your statement."

Jason frowned. "But…."

Phelan turned to Jason. "Yes?"

"I don’t understand," Jason said. "What are you up to?"

Phelan spread his hands. "It’s quite simple. You say you killed Robbins. I believe you. You confess. Everybody is happy."

"No," Jason said. He balled his hands into fists and stuck out his chin.

Phelan creased his brow in mock puzzlement. "That’s curious," he said. "Last week you couldn’t wait to confess. You practically begged me to take your statement. Now you say you won’t do it." Phelan shook his head. "Very curious indeed."

"You wouldn’t believe me before," Jason said. "Now it’s too late."

Phelan smiled. "Or is it because you’re afraid we’ll believe you now, where you knew we wouldn’t believe you last week?"

Jason crossed his arms defiantly and looked at the floor. Phelan studied him for a minute, shrugged and leaned back in his chair. "In that case, let me read you your rights. Then we can talk."

"I know my rights."

Phelan, ignoring Jason, recited the Miranda warning. When he had finished he stood up and put his hands on the back of his chair, leaning his weight on them.

"Well, now," Phelan said. "After your last trip to the station—you know—the one where you confessed to the Robbins’ killing?" He paused. "I got to thinking, and something didn’t seem right." Another pause. Jason returned his look with a stony one of his own.

"Then I realized what it was," Phelan went on. He picked up the glass, took a sip and set it back down. "You see, on the first two trips you were careful not to come in and confess until the real killers were apprehended. But in Robbins’ case you were here on the following day. Now this was a break from routine, and in my line of work, that always sets bells ringing. So I asked myself why." Phelan took another sip of water.

"The answer was simple. You knew that there would be no arrest in the Robbins’ murder." He smiled without humor. "Now, how would you know that?" Without waiting for an answer, Phelan continued. "Then it came to me. You’re a smart man, Mr. Messner. And you came up with a plan. You would admit to murders you didn’t commit. By waiting until the killer had been apprehended, you knew we wouldn’t take you seriously. We wouldn’t ask you a lot of questions." He winked. "We’d write you off as some harmless nut case."

Phelan paused. Jason sat rigid in his chair refusing to look at the lieutenant.

"Then you would kill Maxwell Robbins," Phelan said. "You would ‘confess’, knowing that we dumb cops wouldn’t believe you." He smiled briefly. "Clever."

Phelan paused. The silence was unnerving. Jason shifted in his chair.

"Very clever," Phelan said finally. "But just a little too tidy. And police work is never tidy." He cupped his chin in his hands. "I decided to do a little digging. I got hold of Robbins’ files. Guess what?" Phelan didn’t wait for a response. "Two years ago Robbins handled a divorce case. Messner vs Messner. Robbins represented Linda. How interesting."

Jason sat up. "So what? He must have handled hundreds of divorce cases."

"Certainly," Phelan said. "But you were the only one who came forward. And that, to me, is significant. Now, I don’t know how many nails it takes to nail down the lid of a coffin. But I knew I needed more than just one."

Jason shifted in his chair. "Nail? I don’t see…."

Lt. Phelan held up a hand. "It gets better—or worse, depending on your point of view." He turned to Miles and whispered something to him. Miles nodded, stood up and left the room.

"The next thing I did was to ask around. You know. Dull, mind-numbing police work. I visited every gun shop and pawnshop in St. Arden. Then I went down the road to Millersville." He looked for a reaction, but Jason showed none.

"The EZ Money Pawnshop on Green Street. Are you familiar with it, Mr. Messner?" Again a pause, but Jason remained stoically silent. Miles returned and handed a file folder to Phelan. The lieutenant took it and laid it on the table.

"The manager of the pawnshop recognized you as a man to whom he had sold a gun three weeks ago...although he knew you by a different name." He made a pounding motion with his right fist and held up two fingers. "Two nails."

Jason started to protest, but was silenced by Phelan’s hand. "Now, Mr. Messner. I asked myself why would you use an alias to buy a gun when you had no criminal record and no reason to falsify your identity." He studied Jason with piercing eyes. "I could only think of one reason. You intended to use the gun to commit a crime." He pounded the table again and held up three fingers.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," Jason said.

Phelan rubbed his chin. "I’m sure the gun is nowhere to be found. By disposing of it you knew we could never trace it to the murder." He picked up the file, tapped it on the table and laid it down again. "Here’s where your luck ran out, Mr. Messner." He gave a low laugh. "You could probably qualify for the unluckiest criminal in the world."

"I’m not…" Jason said clenching his fists and glowering at Phelan.

"Please, Mr. Messner. We’re getting to the good part," the lieutenant said. He paused, considered the file, then looked at Jason. "To paraphrase: of all the pawnshops in all the world, I had to walk into this one."

"What’s that supposed to mean?" Jason asked.

Phelan pushed his chair back and crossed his legs. "It means this. The manager of this pawnshop is the only one I have ever dealt with who has such a remarkable sense of civic duty." He grinned. "It seems that every time he buys a gun from any one off the street he test fires it. He does this for two reasons. The obvious one is to make certain that it works properly." Phelan studied Jason’s face and shrugged. "But he also does this so he has a ballistic record of the gun. He keeps the round he fired in an envelope, marked with the date of firing and the serial number of the gun it was fired from." He threw a meaningful glance at Jason. "Now ain’t that a kick in the head?"

Phelan picked up the file, opened it and extracted a photograph. He looked at it thoughtfully, laid it on the table and slid it across to Jason. "This photo shows the bullet that was test fired by the pawnbroker and the bullet that was taken from Robbins’ body. Our ballistic expert tells me that they came from the same gun." Phelan pounded his fist on the table loudly. "The gun you bought under an assumed name." Phelan held up four fingers. "Now that’s a nail!"

Jason stared at the photograph, his head swirling. Even to his unpracticed eye he could see the similarity. And why not? Of course the bullets came from the same gun. His hand shaking, he put the photo down.

Phelan grunted. "Now that we know where to look, it’s only a matter of time before we have the evidence. We know you owned the gun. Now we’re going to show that you loaded it as well. Unless you used gloves when you handled this bullet—and I’m betting you didn’t." He stabbed at the photo. "We can prove that it was you who placed it in the gun."

Jason felt the blood drain from his face, and he swallowed hard.

"We’ll trace your movements. In fact, we have an eyewitness…"

"There were no…" Jason exploded.

"No what, Mr. Messner? No witnesses? Odd that you would know that."

"I want to see my lawyer."

Phelan nodded and stood up. Crossing to the door he opened it and called to the policeman outside. "Book him," he said. "And see that he gets his phone call."

Jason was ushered out of the room by the policeman. Phelan picked up the picture, tapped it on the table and returned it to the folder.

Miles looked at Phelan questioningly. "I didn’t know you could get evidence from the bullet."

Phelan shrugged. "I didn’t either. Is it possible? These TV documentaries on police labs show how they can get evidence off of a blade of grass and convict somebody with it. Why not DNA off of a bullet?" He glanced at Miles. "Messner evidently believes it."

Miles threw back his head and laughed. "I have to hand it to you, lieutenant. You’d make a great poker player. You had to be bluffing about the witness, too?"

"Yes and no," Phelan replied. "There is always at least one witness—the killer himself. Is it my fault if he misinterpreted what I said?"

Miles laughed again. He picked up the photo and studied it. "Well, at least we got lucky on this."

"Luck had nothing to do with it," Phelan said.

‘What do you mean?"

Phelan nodded. "We have no ballistics from the gun that killed Robbins. I never heard of a pawnbroker who kept records like that."

Miles eyes widened. "But the photograph…?"

Phelan took the photo from Miles and chuckled. "Nice photo. Certainly convincing." He tapped the picture with his forefinger. "But there’s a small problem with it."

"What is that?" Miles asked.

"That bullet wasn’t taken from Robbins’ body." He grinned. "It’s from another murder case."

"You mean…?" Miles started.

Phelan grinned. "Yes. It has no bearing whatsoever on Robbin’s murder."

"You can’t go into a courtroom with this," Miles said.

"Of course not. That would be unethical. Perjury. A travesty of justice." He smacked the folder against his thigh. "But unless I miss my guess Messner will fall all over himself for a plea bargain." He winked at Miles. "I’d better put this file back where it belongs."

While Miles stood in open-mouthed disbelief, Phelan tucked the file under his arm and left the room.