The detective named Miller gave a derisive grunt. "Of all the goddam stories! Kirk, you gonna listen to any—"
Kirk silenced him with a gesture. "Go on, Cordell."
The young man slowly lifted the cigarette to his mouth, dragged heavily on it, then let it fall to the floor. "That's all. That's when the lights started flashing in there and I tried to be a hero."
"Sure you've left nothing out?"
"You've got it all. The truth, like you wanted."
Kirk said patiently, "Give it up, Cordell. You're as sane as the next guy. Give that story to a jury and they'll figure you're trying to make saps out of them—and when a jury gets sore at a defendant, he gets the limit. And in case you didn't know: in this State, the limit for murder is the hot seat!"
The prisoner stared at him woodenly. "You know I didn't kill my wife—or Professor Gilmore. I had no reason to—no motive. There's got to be a motive."
The police officer rubbed his chin reflectively. "Uh-hunh. Motive. How long you married, Cordell?"
"Six years."
"Children?"