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wrong at all.
    Knees snapping, Chief Jensen crouched beside Flynn. “Really appreciate your expert opinion on all this, Inspector. I know you big-city police guys see more of murders than you do of your own coffee cups.”
    “I don’t use stimulants,” Flynn said.
    The nearest line of trees was more than two hundred meters down the hill from where they were crouching.
    Chief Jensen was staring at the ground. “The man was killed by his own shotgun,” he said slowly. “One barrel. We hear he has a wife and kids. Young man. Congressman from south of here, somewhere. It’s easy enough to say he got killed accidentally while cleaning his shotgun.” The Chief looked off at the line of trees. “That’s what we say around here about most such suicides.”
    Flynn swiveled on the balls of his feet.
    Shaw and son were pushing, pulling a metal framed stretcher on wheels over the rough ground toward them.
    Flynn stood up. “No reason why you shouldn’t move him. I take it you took photographs of all this.”
    “Yes, we did,” Chief Jensen said happily. He stood up. “My son came out here at very first light and took pictures. He hasone of those idiot-proof cameras, you know? And he’ll turn them into the drugstore first thing in the morning. We should have ’em back Wednesday, Thursday.”
    “You took the photographs before you removed the shotgun?”
    “Yes, we did,” Jensen said proudly.
    “Did you encase the shotgun so it can be examined for fingerprints?”
    Jensen’s face fell. “No. We didn’t. What fingerprints could we expect on it? It was his own gun. His own initials were on the stock. It had already been rained on, last night, by the time we got here.”
    Flynn looked at Morris, standing nearby, smiling. His smile seemed to suggest he was ready to burst out singing,
Oh, what a beautiful morning
.
    “If you’re ready, Inspector, I’ll show you the Congressman’s room.”
    “Really appreciate all you’re doing, Inspector,” Chief Jensen crowed. “Us country boys don’t get to see a real professional work too often. Damned nice of you to disturb your holiday weekend and come out and give us a hand. Busman’s holiday, uh?”
    Flynn stared at him.
    “It will be fun to hear you give evidence, too,” the Chief continued. “You’ll give it right. As it should be done.”
    Flynn asked Morris, “Has Mrs. Huttenbach arrived yet?”
    “Don’t think so. Not by the time we came out here.”
    A gangly teenaged boy in a hunting cap came around the corner of the lodge and stopped. A camera hung on a strap from his neck. In his hand he had a notebook and ballpoint pen.
    “There’s the press, though,” Chief Jensen said. He called, “Hi, Jimmy!”
    Doctor Allister was already walking toward the Voice of the People.
    Jensen hurried over to him, too. “Thought you were at your grandmother’s this weekend, Jimmy. Ain’t she eighty?”
    “I came back,” the boy said. “Patty called me and said there’d been a mor-der.”
    Doctor Allister’s beak bobbed as he dictated into the notebook what he had to say to the world.
    “Show me the room you gave Huttenbach,” Flynn said to Morris. “Even the White Queen can believe six things before breakfast.”
    Silently, Wahler drove Flynn back up the paved road, along the dirt road, and through the check point in the tall, miles-long fence surrounding The Rod and Gun Club.
    Just as they were cresting the last hill before coming to the lake, a helicopter roared up from behind the clubhouse. When it got well above tree level, it turned, and still gaining altitude, flew southeast.
    “My, my,” said Flynn. “It seems not everybody gets in and out through the hole in the fence. Some fly away under blades of steel.”

6
     
    “G rover,” Flynn found himself grumbling into the telephone. To the switchboard of The Old Records Building on Craigie Street, Flynn properly had asked for Sergeant Richard T. Whelan, but once hearing the voice of the man himself