“I became convinced that Coleman would try to kill Ashley to keep her from being appointed guardian and to make sure that he would inherit everything. I started following Ashley to protect her and to try to catch Coleman attempting to commit murder.”

“What happened at the Sunny Rest Home on the day you were arrested?”

“I followed Ashley and noticed another car that was following her. I parked on a side street several blocks from the home. Then I concealed myself in the parking lot. It was raining so hard that I didn’t notice the police surveillance, but they didn’t see me either.

“The car that was following Ashley pulled into the lot shortly after she did. Randy Coleman was the driver. He waited for her to come out. Then he tried to kill her. Ashley got away. I tackled Coleman. When the police came, we were wrestling on the ground, neither one of us had possession of the knife. The police couldn’t tell which of us had tried to kill Ashley. Naturally, they suspected me.”

“Mr. Maxfield, did you murder Terri and Norman Spencer and Tanya Jones?”

“No.”

“Did you assault Casey Van Meter?”

“No. I saved her from Coleman at the pool.”

“Did you attack Ashley Spencer in her home, at her dormitory, or in the parking lot of the Sunny Rest nursing home?”

“No, never.”

“No further questions.”

Delilah smiled at her prey. She was feeling good.

“I read your first novel, Mr. Maxfield. I liked it.”

“Thank you.”

“It was a real big success.”

“Yes.”

“But that second book, The Wishing Well, that book didn’t do so well, did it?”

“It had decent sales,” Maxfield answered defensively.

“Nowhere near what Tourist sold.”

“No, but it was a New York Times bestseller.”

“Yes, you testified to that. But let me ask you, wasn’t A Tourist in Babylon on the list for twenty-two weeks?”

“Yes.”

“Your second book was only a bestseller for two weeks because people didn’t like it, right?”

“I don’t know what the people like,” Maxfield replied haughtily. “I don’t write to please the average reader.”

“Well, the critics didn’t like it either, did they?”

“I had some good reviews.”

“Really? I had my assistant get a complete collection off of the Internet. We can read them to the jury if you’d like. By my count, three reviewers thought your book was pretty good, and there were twenty-eight bad reviews, some of which were downright nasty. Seems those critics really went to town on you.”

Maxfield colored as Delilah spoke. “The critics were jealous of my success. They’re just failed writers who couldn’t stand the idea of someone in his early twenties accomplishing something they could only dream of.”

“So the reviews were the product of some conspiracy?”

“I didn’t say that,” Maxfield snapped.

“Do you think these reviewers are part of a plot to frame you for all these murders?”

“Objection,” Swoboda said.

“Sustained,” Judge Shimazu ruled.

“Mr. Maxfield,” Delilah said, “you haven’t written a book in ten years, have you?”

“No.”

“Were you teaching at Eton College because you couldn’t earn a living writing anymore?”

“No, that is not correct. You don’t just manufacture literature like you do toasters. I enjoy teaching creative writing, and the job gave me time to write.”

“Didn’t your publisher give you an advance for a new book and demand it back because you couldn’t deliver?”

“We had creative differences.”

“I see. Is that why your publisher was threatening you with a lawsuit?”

“Objection,” Swoboda said.

“Sustained.”

“After so much early success, being a failed writer must be hard on you.”

“I am not a failed writer.”

“Weren’t you having trouble thinking up a plot for a new book?”

“I had several ideas. I was looking for the right one.”

“Doing research?”

“Yes.”

“Wanting to have all the little details right to make your scenes real for your readers?”

“Yes.”

“Committing horrible murders so you could paint an authentic torture scene for your readers?”

“No. I did not kill anyone.”

“Let’s talk about the boathouse, Mr. Maxfield. Is that okay with you?”

“Yes.”

“I want to make sure I have this right. You were out for a stroll in the forest when you heard a scream?”

“Yes.”

“Then you heard another scream?”

“Yes.”

“So you decided to investigate?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s when you saw a man running away?”

“Yes.”

“That would be pretty important, wouldn’t it, this man running from the scene of the crime?”

“Yes.”

“I would imagine you’d want the police to know about that, especially when they were accusing you of murder and mayhem?”

Maxfield didn’t answer.

“Well, you did think it was important, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“The first time you came in contact with the police after you went on the lam was in Nebraska when you were arrested, right?”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell the arresting officers about this man you saw running from the boathouse?”

“No. I was terrified. They had guns drawn, they were shouting at me.”

“What about when you calmed down?”

“They didn’t ask me any questions. They just put me in a cell.”

“You know Detectives Birch and Marx, right? They were the detectives who testified in court.”

Maxfield looked worried. “Yes.”

“Did Detectives Marx and Birch escort you back to Oregon from Nebraska after you waived extradition?”

“Yes.”

“But first they interviewed you in jail in Nebraska, didn’t they?”

“Yes.”

“You testified that you had a lot of time to think about what had happened after your arrest?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember what you told the detectives about what happened at the boathouse?”

“Not word for word.”

A boom box was sitting on the floor next to counsel table. Delilah picked it up. She stood.

“Your Honor, may I have permission to play the short interview that the defendant gave Detectives Birch and Marx, to refresh Mr. Maxfield’s memory?”

“Objection, Your Honor. No foundation has been laid for this,” Swoboda said, anxious to keep the tape out of evidence. He knew what was on it and had tried to warn Maxfield, but his client wouldn’t listen to him.

“I agree with Mr. Swoboda, Your Honor,” Delilah said. “May I recall Detective Birch?”

The judge told Joshua Maxfield to retake his seat at the defense table and Larry Birch went into the witness box.

“Detective Birch, you’re already under oath,” the judge said. “Miss Wallace, you may proceed.”

“Detective Birch, after the defendant was arrested in Nebraska, did he waive extradition?”

“Yes.”

“How did he get back here?”

“My partner, Tony Marx, and I flew to Nebraska, and the authorities turned over the defendant to us. Detective Marx and I then flew back with the prisoner.”

“Prior to returning to Oregon, did you interview the defendant?”

“Yes.”

“Where did the interview take place?”

“In an interview room at the jail where the defendant was being held.”

“What was the defendant’s condition?”

“He looked rested. We asked if he wanted something to eat or drink. He asked for a sandwich and soft drink and we provided them to him.”

“Did you read the defendant his Miranda rights before questioning him?”

“Yes.”

“Was the interview recorded?”

“Yes.”

Delilah stood up. She was holding a plastic evidence bag. Inside it was a cassette.

“Detective Birch, have you reviewed the interview on this tape?”

“Yes.”

“Is it the interview of the defendant that you conducted in Nebraska?”

“Yes.”

“Your Honor,” Delilah said, “I move to introduce this cassette tape of Detective Birch’s interview into evidence.”

“Mr. Swoboda?” Judge Shimazu asked.