Stoneham arose and walked slowly to the microphone. As he did so, the room settled into a deathly hush. All faces were on his, and Stoneham knew, from years of public speaking how to hold them. When he reached the podium he stopped, turned slowly forward and did not speak for the space of several long heartbeats.
“As all of you know,” he intoned, “my wife was murdered last night.” He paused to let that line have effect. “It sounds so neat, all compacted into one sentence like that. But the act itself was not neat. It was the work of a madman, or perhaps several. And we tonight are faced with the debris left in the killer’s wake.
“I don’t know how many of you ever met Stella. Those who did, I’m sure, must treasure their acquaintance with her as one of the best in their lives. I know I did
