Real Murders

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“Tonight I want to tell you about that most fascinating of murder mysteries, the Wallace case,” I told my mirror. Enthusiastically.

I tried Sincere after that; then Earnest.

My brush caught in a tangle. “Shoot!” I said, and tried again.

“I think the Wallace case can easily fill our whole program tonight,” I said Firmly.

We had twelve regular members, which worked out well with twelve programs a year. Not all cases could fill up a two-hour program, of course. Then the member responsible for presenting the Murder of the Month, as we jokingly called it, would have a guest speaker-someone from the police department in the city, or a psychologist who treated criminals, or the director of the local rape crisis center. Once or twice, we’d watched a movie.

But I’d come up lucky in the draw. There was more than enough material on the Wallace case, yet not so much that I’d be compelled to hurry over it. We’d allocated two meetings for Jack the Ripper. Jane Engle had taken one for the victims and the circumstances surrounding the crimes and Arthur Smith had taken another on the police investigation and the suspects. You can’t skimp Jack.

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