Twenty-Four
“LOOK, I ALREADY TOLD the nervous kid,” says the voice from under the 1973 Ford Mustang, “I know nothing about that girl’s murder. I didn’t even know anything about it until I got back from my business trip two days ago. Darn oil plug rusted.” The man scoots out from under the car, his face and hands covered with grease spots and dirt.
“Mr. Walkin,” Helen says. “Any information you can give will help.”
“You may help keep an innocent man from going to prison,” I say.
“Huh, you talking about that young priest? I heard he got the girl knocked up. Priests shouldn’t do that, you know?”
“Please, sir, can you tell us what you saw that night?” Helen gets out her notepad.
Walkin stands up and walks over to his tool bench. We’re standing in his garage, the Mustang on jack stands, t
