Suddenly two floodlights came on and crisscrossed the building. They came to rest on the figure. When the light hit him directly, I saw it was Michael Charnick, dressed in a tee-shirt and sweat pants. And he was holding a trophy—I recognized the silver figure of a baseball player swinging a bat at the top of a black base. It had to be Ori’s missing trophy.
Detective Rooney in his London Fog raincoat jogged over to us.
“Gentlemen, thanks for coming so quickly. Mr. Wolf, as I told you, the kid suddenly appeared on the roof around six o’clock. He’s been waving that a trophy around and howling, ‘I killed him, I killed Ori Gold, and now I’m going to kill myself!’”
“It’s Michael Charnick,” I said. “He was in the dorm on the night of the murder.”
“I remember. We sent up a negotiator, but the
