Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 100, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 603 & 604, October 1992

“Yes?” She was in her mid-forties, wearing black polyester slacks and a brown sweater, which had been mended at the elbows. With the open door came the scent of grease and cigarette smoke. Two young girls, one six, the other about eleven, sat on a couch, which was covered by a quilt. The television was on. Mrs. Hanson’s black hair, streaked with grey, was pulled back in a simple ponytail with the help of an elastic band. She looked directly at them, her firm face even, showing no expression.

“This here’s Detective Moore, of the state police,” Victor said, not taking his eyes off her for a second. There was a look about her, especially around the eyes. Was it a look of relief? Or knowledge?

“What’s the problem?”

Victor said, “It’s about your husband, Henry.”

“Henry? He’s been gone for five years.”

“So he has, Mrs. Hanson. But we’ve received information that he was the victim of a homicide.” From the driveway came the sound of an approaching truck, laboring under low gear.

“Oh.” Her hand tugged at the neck of her sweater. “Can’t say I’m surprised, really. He was a violent sort. Where’s his body? And do you know who done it?”

Victor cleared his throat and reached into his raincoat, pulling out a folded piece of paper. “Mrs. Hanson, this is a search warrant, executed from the Norwich District Court, authorizing Detective Moore and myself to search your property, and the buildings.”

The engine sound grew louder, and a bright yellow dump truck came up over the rise, its amber lights flashing into the mist. It was towing a heavy trailer, and set upon the trailer was an equally bright yellow backhoe with large, black tires.

Victor added, almost apologetically, “It seems someone believes you murdered your husband, Mrs. Hanson, and buried him in your front yard.”

The dump truck grounded to a halt, its air brakes screeching. Mrs. Hanson said not one word.

Two days before Victor had been in his office, working up the budget for next year’s town meeting, when Corinne Grew tapped on his door and walked in. She was the widow of the town’s postmaster, and besides being Victor’s secretary and file clerk and assistant clerk to the district court, she was also his own private intelligence system for the town of Norwich.

“Someone here to see you,” she said.

“Who’d that be?” he said, putting his pen down. His department was in a small brick building, set next to the Town Hall, and contained four tiny rooms which included his office, a waiting room, storage area, and a holding pen for the few prisoners who had to spend a night before he could bring them to the county jail. The building had belonged to the town’s historical society, before one of its members died and left the society $30,000.

“He be one Freddy Hanson. Age about seventeen or so. Said it’s real important.”

Victor asked, “I know him from anywhere?”

Corinne Grew smiled, adjusted her glasses. “You’ve pulled him over twice for speeding, once for reckless operation, and you arrested him last year for disorderly conduct, in August when we had all those fights down at the bandstand.”

He rubbed at the back of his neck, feeling a knot of muscle and tendon. “Corinne, you ever forget anything?”

“Hardly.”

“Send him in, then.”

Victor had a few bad habits, and one he was especially aware of was his unceasing impulse to size people up the minute he met them. He knew the pitfalls of this, and he would sometimes think over and over again, “Don’t judge a book by its cover,” like some sort of mantra, but he couldn’t help it.

Freddy Hanson was seventeen, with torn jeans, an open black leather jacket with studs and buckles, and shoulder-length brown hair. His face was reddened with a bad complexion and he had about a dozen or so hairs above his lip masquerading as a moustache. He slumped down in a chair before his desk and Victor thought, lumberyard or state aid, there’s not much ahead for this fella.

“Help you with something, Freddy?”

He nodded, his hands stuck in his jacket. “Yeah. I want to know when a crime runs out.”

Victor cleared off his desk and started writing on a fresh pad of paper. “What do you mean? Statute of limitations?”

“Yeah, that’s it. When you can’t get arrested no more for something you did.”

Victor folded his hands before him. “Depends on the crime.”

“How ’bout killing someone?”

“How ’bout you stop fooling with me?”

Freddy sat up in the chair. “I ain’t foolin’ about anything. I’m talking about someone being killed.”

“In this state, there’s no statute of limitations on murder, Freddy. That help you any?”

“Yeah, it does. I wanna report a murder, then.”

He looked at the boy’s eyes, seeing if the pupils were dilated or red-rimmed. They looked normal enough. And there was no scent of alcohol. What was going on here?

“Who was killed, Freddy? And when?”

“My dad. About five years ago. Someone clubbed the back of his head and buried him, and I know who done it.”

Victor started taking notes, feeling the knot at the back of his neck tighten. “Who, Freddy?”

“My mom, that’s who.”