Cameras of all shapes and sizes, along with a mob of sound men bedecked with microphones and sound equipment, surrounded us the moment we drove up and came to a slow halt at the end of a line of parked Sheriff’s patrol cars blocking the road. A mongrel pack of network news vans littered the country lane in front of the Stewart house. Like a virus they seemed to have quadrupled in numbers in only a few hours. Once the milling crowd saw Frank and I driving slowly up the tree lined country road the mad rush of men, women, and cameras appeared to us like the swift assault of a pack of starved piranha. Both of us pushed cameras and microphones out of our faces even before the car came to a stop.
“Sergeant Hahn, who is your prime suspect in the murder of David Stewart?”
“Is it true you’re here
