The Diehard by Jon A. Jackson

embarrassed, but he responded earnestly, “I believe you, Mr. Clippert. We all do.”
    “Thank you, Avery. Thank you. And I wish you would thank everyone at the office for me.” Clippert drank his whiskey and made a circular “fill-'em-up” motion to the bartender. “The police were over last night,” he said.
    “Oh,” Avery said.
    “Oh, they were polite enough, I guess,” Clippert said, “but I could tell they were just itching to tear into me, especially the one guy. He's some kind of hotshot detective, I guess. He was suspicious, I could tell.”
    “Suspicious of what, for crying out loud?” Avery said with youthful indignation.
    “It's their job,” Clippert said. “But it doesn't make things any easier. I'm so sick of cops and investigators, and—” He stopped himself, realizing that he must sound as if he was ranting. “Things are piling up, Bob. I have to fight. It's the only way I know.”
    “If there's anything I can do,” the young man said.
    “No, this is my fight. I don't have anybody blocking for me this time.”
    They walked to the parking lot. As they separated, Clippert slapped Avery on the back and said, “Didn't mean to unburden myself on you like that, Bob, but thanks for listening. Take care. See you tomorrow, probably.”
    He started for his car, then turned and called back, “And work on that kill shot, boy.”
    Avery grinned and waved. Back at the office he told everyone what a hell of a guy the old man was. “When the going gets tough,” he said, “the tough get going.”
    Arthur Clippert was in a phone booth, crowded up with his heavy coat, his breath steaming the windows. There was somechange on the shelf before him. He dialed several numbers, occasionally talking to someone, but most often hanging up after several unanswered rings. He finally left the booth, disappointed.
    “Gone,” he said under his breath. “But where? And is that good or bad?”

Eleven
    The coroner's jury ruled the death of Jane Marie Clippert a homicide by a person or persons unknown. Although the Wayne County prosecutor's office had an impressive quantity of information and evidence, they had nothing to show a grand jury that would point to a specific individual as the perpetrator of the crime.
    On December nineteenth, Mulheisen sat in his little office mulling over his copies of the pathology reports on Jane Clippert and the results of laboratory tests on various items found at the scene of the crime. The findings were that Jane Clippert had died of massive internal hemorrhage, due to a knife thrust into the chest cavity. The knife had punctured the left lobe of the lung but had miraculously missed all other organs.
    The victim had suffered two bullet wounds, but neither of these were sufficient in themselves to cause death, nor would the severe concussions and broken facial bones have caused death. The pathologist noted that the subject was in excellent health, had not been raped and had never been pregnant. In fact, pregnancy would have been extremely unlikely or even impossible, due to curiously undeveloped ovaries. Probably the subject had irregular or difficult menstrual periods, the report said, and her condition might havebeen potentially dangerous, even precancerous, but it had obviously posed no problems to her yet.
    No problem, Mulheisen thought, obviously.
    Someone knocked at his door. It was a tall, slender man of thirty, wearing a heavy wool suit and vest, topcoat over arm, carrying a briefcase. He was a very serious looking young man with spectacles and thick auburn hair that was cut rather long.
    “Sairjeant Moulhaysen?” The brogue was Scots and thicker than honey butter.
    Mulheisen was tempted to answer, “Aye,” but instead he said, “That's right. What can I do for you?”
    “Inspectorr McClain has sent me. It's aboot the Clipperrt case.” He handed Mulheisen a business card that read, “Alec McKenzie, The Underwriters Life Assurance Company of Canada.”
    “ ‘Twas