The mourners filed out quickly after the services, and Derwin found no opportunity, that would not have involved an awkward intrusion, to talk with any of them. However, as he walked slowly back to his car, a young man of about twenty-five drove up in an old automobile and parked at the edge of the grave. He got out from behind the wheel of the vehicle and went around to the back. From the trunk he removed a shovel and carried it to the grave. He nodded to the sheriff and began pushing dirt from the edge into the hole. Derwin strolled over and stood across the open grave from the shoveler. Neither spoke until the young man stopped to wipe his forehead. "You're the sheriff, aren't you?" he asked Derwin. Derwin nodded. "I understand you think that the wild boy killed Carl?" The young man inclined his head toward the grave. "Was Carl his first name?" Derwin answered noncommittally. "Yes. Carl van Sistine. He was a good friend of mine. When we were kids we used to play here, right in this graveyard. We hunted rabbits with sling shots. I don't remember that we ever killed any. We were always going to make a fire and roast the rabbits we shot, but as I said, we never got any." Derwin waited. "The wild boy didn't kill him." "What makes you think not?" Derwin asked. "No one saw him do it, but two witnesses did see him run out of the house, and they found Carl dead right after." "I know that." The young man rolled his shirt sleeves up over hairy forearms. "But did you know that Carl had something wrong with his head--a tumor or something? He'd had it ever since he was a little boy. Sometimes we'd be playing and all at once he'd stop dead still. If there was a chair, or anything that moved around, he'd grab it and holler for me to hold onto the other end. I'd hold it and he'd pull, until he couldn't hang on anymore. Then he'd fall over backwards. He'd lay there with his eyes rolled back until all I could see were the whites. His face would be pale, and screwed-up looking, and sweat would come out all over his body. His clothes would be wet with it. All the time he'd be groaning and crying." The young man took off his striped workman's cap and ran his fingers through wavy brown hair. "The last few years he couldn't leave the house. I used to visit him at first, but at last he didn't even recognize me. And when his attacks came on he'd holler with pain, and finally I couldn't stand to hear him anymore. That's what he died from--the tumor in his head--and not the wild boy killing him." "The doctors said it shouldn't have killed him--yet," Derwin demurred. "I know. But the doctors were wrong." The young man began shoveling dirt into the hole again. * * * * * The sun was directly overhead when Derwin climbed out of his car, pushing his game leg stiffly ahead of him. He went up the flight of steps at the front of a large, white house and pressed the button beside the door. He rang three times without an answer.