"I'm not going to give you your file," I said.

"I'm not surprised."

"But after John Rutka's killer is caught, I'm going to destroy them all."

"Oh? How will I be certain that you've done it? I have no reason to trust you, Strachey."

"You'll never know for sure. I'm sorry about that." "No, you're not. You're not sorry at all." "Okay, you're right. In your case, Bruno, I'm not sorry at all."

He sneered contentedly.

I left Slinger's house and went out into the clammy night air. The headache I'd had earlier in the day was gone, but now my stomach was churning. It was partly because I'd had only a Mars bar for dinner, but not entirely.

I made my call to New York on behalf of Mike Sciola from the phone in the cubbyhole under the stairs. In the age of AIDS, the murder of friends and lovers dying horribly is an act of mercy so common as to border on respectability-in a saner world United Way would be putting out brochures on the subject-and I had no trouble making the arrangements Mike had asked for. end user

I watched the 8:25 A.M. local-news insert in "Have a Nice Day, USA" on the monitor in the Channel Eight foyer. Troy Pillsbury, the morning anchor, reported on a flaming six-car pileup on the Northway; on Albany judge and Federal Appeals Court nominee

"Pincher" Goerlach's approval in Washington by the Senate Judiciary Committee despite protests from liberal groups over his outbursts from the Albany bench directed at "adherents of deviant lifestyles"; and on the previous evening's bon voyage ceremonies at the Albany airport, where Scooter Raymond was seeing off a schoolgirl and her parents, who were carrying the bird with the broken wing to Minnesota.

After the commercial, Ronnie Linkletter came on and he and Pillsbury acted hugely amused with each other for no reason discernible to viewers. Ronnie predicted continued balmy weather, to which Troy replied, "That's the way we like it." They both chuckled at this mot.

Linkletter had insisted to me on the phone an hour earlier-when I of course threatened him with blackmail if he refused to see me-that I not come to the station. I said I preferred to meet him there-I wanted to check his mud flaps and we could have breakfast somewhere else. When I arrived, I didn't know which of the eight cars in the Channel Eight lot was Linkletter's, but none had damaged, missing, or newly replaced mud flaps, so that was that.

At 8:35 Linkletter came out grinning, still delighted, I guessed, with the Shavian wit of his exchanges with Troy Pillsbury. His smile fell away, though, once we were away from the Channel Eight building and inside my car.

"You're a real asshole," he said. "It isn't bad enough that John Rutka practically ruined me. Now you're going to come after me, too, with his fucking file on me." He looked as if he might burst into tears.

"Look, I just used the files to get your attention. Just answer some questions for me, Ronnie, and I promise you that when John Rutka's killer is caught, the files will be trashed. I'll do it myself."

His sweet boy's face with the button nose and round soft eyes got a stricken look and he struggled for control. "What do you mean, get my attention? What are you trying to get me to tell you? You are blackmailing me!"

"I truly do not want to hurt you, Ronnie, because I know you've been hurt already and you don't need this. Just answer a couple of questions to help me out and that's probably all I'll need from you."

"Probably!"

We had pulled out onto Central Avenue and were headed east in the fuming stop-and-go morning traffic. "What happens next," I said, "all depends on the veracity and the particular nature of your answers. So take care."

"Oh, Jesus."

"The first question is, of course, did you kill John Rutka?"

First he jerked up, as if I'd jabbed him with a pitchfork, and then he began to shake all over. I said, "Does that mean your answer is yes, or no?"

"No! No! Jesus, of course not!"

"You threatened him after he outed you."

Linkletter's slight body writhed in his seat belt. "Well, of course I did. I was fucking out of my mind. The man nearly ruined my life. All I ever wanted was to be in the media, and that asshole almost blew my career right out of the water. Sporkin Communications has let me know-indirectly of course-that when my contract is up next year it might be nice if I had something lined up in Montana or some other diddly-doo minor market. John Rutka was shit. I'm sorry somebody killed him, but he was shit and he deserved to die. I don't mean actually die, but you know what I mean."

I said, "I agree that Rutka did things to people that were all wrong and you were one of those people."

"Then why are you harassing me too?"

"So that I can find out who killed John Rutka and then get rid of the bloody files. Get it?"

"Oh, sure." He looked unimpressed.

"So. Where were you Wednesday night, Ronnie?"

"When Rutka was killed?"

"Yes. Between, say, seven and ten?"

"At a meeting. At the Parmalee Plaza Hotel."

"And Scooter Raymond watched, right?"

That got him with the pitchfork again and he jerked up and then he jerked down. Here I was, taking out my pent-up disgust with the monumental inanity of local television news on this unlucky twerp. I resolved to be more objective with Linkletter from that moment on.

"How do you know about that?" he moaned.

"That wasn't fair, I admit, but I'm trying to evaluate your trustworthiness."

"Maybe somebody should evaluate yours."

He had me there. I pulled off Central into the parking lot of Albany's premier Long Island-style, Athenian-glitz diner and parked at the deserted far end of the lot.

I said, "I talked to Bruno Slinger last night."

"Oh. I guess I'm his alibi and he's mine. And Scooter's too."

"Bruno thinks you're wonderful."

Now some of the tension went out of him and he let loose with a wan little grin. "I know. I think he's wonderful."

I said, "Even though a couple of prime suspects like you and Bruno corroborating each other's alibis wouldn't impress a jury, the fact that people at the hotel saw you coming and going-assuming they did-would probably be enough to establish your whereabouts somewhere other than at the scene of the abduction and murder. And, I guess, Scooter would testify as to your whereabouts."

He got trembly again. "Oh, Jesus, poor Scooter. I shouldn't have let him come. I never liked threesomes, but I knew Bruno wouldn't mind, so I let him talk me into it. If the station finds out about Scooter, they'll have him sweeping the newsroom floor for the rest of the term of his contract. But he wanted to come. He has this thing about watching weathermen being-you know.

Scooter's a little weird."

"Bruno mentioned that. What is it about Bruno you find so attractive, Ronnie?"

A puzzled look. "You don't think he's attractive?"

"That kind of thing is pretty subjective."

"Well, for me it's his charisma."

"That's not a word I'd have come up with for Bruno."

"You know," he said, gesturing vaguely, "his power and glamour. Somebody who's in his natural element when he's in the media eye. Bruno is brilliant and aggressive-and God is he butch. I get goosebumps just thinking about him."

"Have you ever been involved with that type of man before?"