A Candidate for Murder Read Online Free PDF Page A

their expense.”
    “Then why don’t you just try to have Governor Milco arrested or impeached, or whatever it is you do with crooked politicians?”
    “It isn’t that simple. The investigation would have to go through channels, and criminal intent would have to be proved. There’d be other people involved who’d do everything in their power to cover up any evidence which might hurt them, too.”
    “You make them sound dangerous.”
    Dad shook his head. “Don’t borrow trouble. Governor Milco will play by the rules.”
    What kind of rules did a crooked politician play by? I searched Dad’s face, but his expression didn’t tell me anything. All I knew was that I didn’t feel as confident as Dad seemed to be.
    We were halfway to Gormley Academy when the car phone rang, and Dad answered it.
    The conversation was brief. Dad suddenly slammed down the receiver and picked up speed. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “Where are you going?”
    “To the scene of an accident.” Dad’s voice was tight and raspy as he answered, “A part of the new state highway collapsed. Two workmen were trapped and probably killed.”
    Neither of us spoke as we drove to the scene. Dad had to park his car a short distance away—the other side of a deep and narrow creek, its banks overgrown with shrubbery, that ran under the new highway. He strode toward the accident scene, and I trotted along after him, trying to keep up. We could see a couple of collapsed concrete and steel piers lying under a large, broken, concrete slab. A body, covered with a sheet, lay near the paramedics’ ambulance, and workmen were digging frantically, shouting instructions to each other. Two television crews were already on hand, both of them broadcasting.
    As Dad and I arrived at the cordoned-off area, one of the workmen stood and wiped sweat and tears from his eyes. His voice was flat as he said, “No use. Ortiz is dead.”
    He stumbled to a place on the grass near us, where hedropped to his haunches, pulled a rag from his pocket, and mopped again at his face.
    Dad tried to duck under the yellow police tape, but a uniformed policeman quickly warned us away. Dad told him who he was and showed some identification, but that didn’t help. “Stay behind the lines,” the policeman ordered.
    The workman heard Dad give his name and looked up at us. “You the Amberson who’s runnin’ for governor?” he asked.
    “Yes,” Dad said.
    “You said you was lookin’ into some of the construction contracts. That right?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Okay,” he said. “I hope this one’s on your list. These people in charge—I suspect they’re cuttin’ down. Not enough steel, maybe too much sand. I hope you find out what’s goin’ on and tell it like it is.”
    “Can you give me proof?” Dad asked.
    The man shook his head. “I’m nobody important. You get yourself an engineer. Take samples.” He lowered his voice. “There was a supervisor here, name of Herb Gillian. He didn’t like the way things were going, and Cragmore fired him. I don’t know where he moved off to, but see if you can find him. He’ll tell you what you need to know.”
    A young man wearing a business suit and hard hat strode over, his lips pressed into a thin angry line. He immediately snapped an order to the worker. As the worker slowly dragged to his feet he turned to Dad. “Find him,” he said.
    With a screech of tires a third television truck rolled up. A reporter hopped out—a youngish woman I’d often seen on TV. She gave a quick glance around, saw my father, gestured to a cameraman, and the two of them rushed to join us. I heard the reporter give a few opening statements, and as Dad began to speak, a microphone was quickly thrust in his direction.
    “What is your name and your position here?” Dad asked the man in the hard hat.
    There was so much authority in his voice that even though the man blustered and sputtered indignantly, he stammered, “I-I’m G-Gerald