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a sensation of heat that on occasion flamed in the nerve endings of his forehead until the arteries in his temples pulsed visibly.
    ‘You say it was foggy on the night of September 15?’ Nels asked. ‘Is that what you said, sheriff?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Thick fog?’
    ‘Absolutely.’
    ‘Do you remember this?’
    ‘I remember, yes. I’ve thought about it. Because I went out on my porch about ten o’clock, see. Hadn’t seen fog for more than a week. And I couldn’t see more than twenty yards.’
    ‘At ten o’clock?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And then?’
    ‘I went to bed, I guess.’
    ‘You went to bed. What time did you get up, sheriff? Do you remember? On the sixteenth?’
    ‘I got up at five. At five o’clock.’
    ‘You remember this?’
    ‘I’m always up at five. Every morning. So on the sixteenth, yes, I was up at five.’
    ‘And was the fog still there?’
    ‘Yes, it was.’
    ‘Just as thick? As thick as at ten o’clock the night before?’
    ‘Almost, I’d say. Almost. But not quite.’
    ‘So it was still foggy in the morning, then.’
    ‘Yes. Until nine or so. Then it started burning off – was mostly gone by the time we set out in the launch, if that’s what you’re driving at, sir.’
    ‘Until nine,’ answered Nels Gudmundsson. ‘Or thereabouts? Nine?’
    ‘That’s right,’ replied Art Moran.
    Nels Gudmundsson raised his chin, fingered his bow tie, andpinched experimentally the wattles of skin at his neck – a habit of his when he was thinking.
    ‘Out there on the Susan Marie,’ he said. ‘The engine started right up, sheriff? When you went to start it you had no trouble?’
    ‘Right away,’ said Art Moran. ‘No trouble at all.’
    ‘With all those lights drawing, sheriff? Batteries still strong?’
    ‘Must have been. Because she started with no trouble.’
    ‘Did that strike you as odd, sheriff? Do you remember? That with all those lights drawing, the batteries still had plenty of charge, enough to turn the engine over with no trouble, as you say?’
    ‘Didn’t think about it at the time,’ said Art Moran. ‘So no is the answer – it didn’t strike me as odd, at least not then.’
    ‘And docs it strike you as odd now?’
    ‘A little,’ said the sheriff. ‘Yes.’
    ‘Why?’ Nels asked.
    ‘Because those lights do a lot of drawing. I’d reckon they can run a battery down quick – just like in your car. So I have to wonder a little, yes.’
    ‘You have to wonder,’ said Nels Gudmundsson, and he began to massage his throat again and pull at the dewlaps of skin there.
    Nels made his way to the evidence table, selected a folder, and brought it to Art Moran. ‘Your investigative report,’ he said. ‘The one just admitted into evidence during Mr. Hooks’s direct examination. Is this it, sheriff?’
    ‘It is.’
    ‘Could you turn to page seven, please?’
    The sheriff did so.
    ‘Now,’ said Nels, ‘is page seven an inventory of items found on board Carl Heine’s boat, the Susan Marie ?’
    ‘Could you read for the court the item listed as number twenty-seven?’
    ‘Of course,’ said Art Moran. ‘Item twenty-seven. A spare D-8 battery, six celled.’

    ‘A spare D-8 battery, six celled,’ said Nels. ‘Thank you. A D-8. Six celled. Would you turn now to item forty-two, sheriff? And read one more time for the court?’
    ‘Item forty-two,’ replied Art Moran. ‘D-8 and D-6 batteries in battery well. Each six celled.’
    ‘A 6 and an 8?’ Nels said.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I did some measuring down at the chandlery,’ said Nels. ‘A D-6 is wider than a D-8 by an inch. It wouldn’t fit into the Susan Marie’s battery well, sheriff. It was an inch too large for that.’
    ‘He’d done some on-the-spot refitting,’ Art explained. ‘The side flange was banged away to make room for a D-6.’
    ‘He banged out the side flange?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘You could see this?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘A metal flange that had been banged aside?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Soft