“I know the pin belonged to the murderer and he’s worried it will be tied back to him. But he thinks he’s goin’ to get away with it.”

Bruce’s mouth hung open as he took in my words. Mr. Yates looked bored.

“Before Frank Mitchell’s death, someone had been trying to buy his house, but Mr. Mitchell refused to sell. Whoever wanted it was pushing Frank hard. Hard enough to make him so upset that he got drunk and stumbled around in his backyard a few days before he was murdered. Then a couple of months after he died, his son sold the house to an investment company in Louisiana. But it recently sold again to a corporation that is putting in a superstore. They bought his house to make a parking lot. I also know that Frank owed a bookie a lot of money. But I don’t think the bookie killed him.”

Mr. Yates’s eyes bulged. “Why not?”

“After the murder, a man kept showing up at the hardware store, getting all nosy about the murder scene. Finally, one of the employees asked him why he kept showing up and buying weird things and he stopped coming in. But this weekend, he came back and he was trying to get to the storage room, where the murder took place.”

Mr. Yates’s face paled. I guessed I knew more than he thought I did.

I turned to Bruce. “The employees say he’s bald and mousy and usually wears nice clothes, like he’s a businessman. Do you know anyone like that?”

Bruce chewed on his thumbnail and shook his head. “No.”

“Can you tell me what happened the night you were in the hardware store?”

Mr. Yates leaned forward, glaring at me. “Do not answer her. My client is not taking the witness stand.”

“He’s tellin’ me, not the witness stand. I’m tryin’ to help him.”

Bruce looked down at the table, studying a groove in the wood.

Hunching down, I tried to make eye contact. “Bruce, I saw David last week. At the grocery store, after I got out of jail, which I got thrown into for tryin’ to help you. David told me that you heard Frank Mitchell arguing with his murderer. Is that true?”

He nodded, then moved on to a hangnail on his index finger.

“David said you heard Frank say he was never gonna sell and the other guy said he was gonna get was owed to him.”

He gave three sharp nods of his head. Yes.

“Did you hear anything else? See anything? Anything at all?”

“No.”

Mr. Yates banged his hand on the table and leaned forward, the light reflecting off the top of his bare head. “Bruce, I am warnin’ you. Do not talk to this woman. She can walk out of here and use anything you say against you.”

Bruce cringed, curling up his shoulders and trying to hide is face.

I softened my voice. “Bruce, I promise you that I only want to help you. I know you took the murder weapon because you thought they might pin the murder on you. You wanted to get rid of the crowbar, but David wanted to keep it as insurance.”

“David Moore needs to keep his thoughts to himself.” Mr. Yates growled through clenched teeth.

“Bruce, will you please tell me what happened?”

He took a deep breath and stretched his hand out across the table. “I decided to rob the hardware store. I’d just lost my job and my parents had kicked me out.” With a grimace, he rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t want to do it, but my rent was due…” I was surprised how soft and timid his voice was. How could anyone think him capable of murder?

“So what happened when you got there?”

“I expected that I was gonna have to break in, but the back door was standin’ open, so I slipped through. As I walked along the back wall to the office, I heard yellin’. So I got closer and hid behind some shelves. Two guys were fightin’ and shoutin’ at one another. Frank, he kept yelling ‘I’m never gonna sell, you rat bastard.’ And ‘crawl back into the hole you crawled out of.’ Things like that. ” Bruce’s eyes lit up. “Oh! And he called the guy cue ball.”

“Then what happened?”

“The other guy, he kept shoutin’ ‘I’m gonna get what’s owed to me’ and ‘I’m gonna get what I deserve’ which seemed really weird. Finally, he picked up a crowbar and whacked Frank on top of the head.”

“And then he went into the office?”

“Yeah, he was in there for several minutes before he came out and ran out the back door.”

“Did you get a look at the guy? Can you tell me about him?”

“No, he was wearing black clothes and a black stocking cap.”

“Even though it was April?”

Bruce shrugged.

“Was he tall? Short? Fat? Skinny?”

Rubbing his forehead, Bruce closed his eyes. “I think he was as tall as Frank. Not skinny, but not fat either.”

“Just average weight?”

He shrugged. “Yeah.”

I tuned my attention to Mr. Yates. “How tall was Frank Mitchell?”

“How should I know?”

“Won’t it be in his file or something?”

“He wasn’t very tall.” Bruce cut in.

I’d forgotten that Bruce grew up across the street from the victim. “How tall do you think he was?”

He shrugged again. “I dunno. Maybe five-six. Five-seven.”

“And you didn’t see the killer’s face or hair?”

“No, he had on that hat and it was too dark to see his face.”