The trio stood in Klaussheimer’s kitchen, sipping coffee. Jackie had been issued a white terrycloth robe for modesty’s sake, and Carol began to explain the situtation.
“You see Jack, you’re supposed to be dead.”
“Correction, Carol. He is dead.”
“Well that’s just preposterous, doc, I can’t be dead. I’m standing right here in front of you. I think Carol’s explanation is much more plausible.”
“Not necessarily, Herr Davidson. Tell me, what is the last thing you remember before you stepped out of that chamber in my lab?”
“Well, I suppose I remember leaving the library yesterday at about nine o’clock. And that’s about it.”
Carol reached over to a stack of papers and photos, and handed them to Jackie. “Jackie, honey, that was almost a month ago. You never came home that night.”
“I guess I stand corrected, doctor. You’re right. I must be dead,” Jackie said, flipping through the stack of police reports and black and white crime scene photos of his own mangled corpse. “Who would do such a thing?”
Klaussheimer poured four fingers of Canadian Club into a Collins Glass, and slid it over to Jackie.
“We were hoping you could tell us.”
