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“So you recognized Scott Summers—the deceased?”
This question was posed to me by Lieutenant Spiller of the state police who was handling the investigation, along with a Sergeant Witz who was interviewing Nikko. We had been separated for questioning in case our stories didn’t match up. In spite of Nikko’s valiant attempt at CPR, the “deceased” could not be resurrected. By the time the paramedics arrived, Nikko had given it all he had, with me trying to help. As the Munchkin said in the Wizard of Oz, Scott Summers was most sincerely dead.
I was told that I was not under arrest or anything of the sort but was entitled to a lawyer, which the court would appoint if I couldn’t afford one. (I couldn’t.) The mention of lawyering up makes the hair on the back of one’s neck bristle. Howeve
