Man in a Blue Shirt

The morning I became a murder suspect, I was wearing a blue shirt. I should have worn white or brown. This happened in Schenectady, New York, the rust-belt city where I grew up and where my mother still lives. I had been visiting my parents for a month, sharing their calm early summer routine. On Tuesday mornings they would drive downtown to return library books—on time, never a fine. I rode along, as I intended to visit several bookstores on Jay Street, two blocks from the library, one of those closed-street malls that somehow survive. Since 1985—the year this happened—the German bakery has closed, but a folklore shop has moved in and the two bookstores have stayed open. I had already stopped at Bibliomania (antiquarian) and was browsing at Open Door (good fiction and nonfiction) when someone in the store commented on a news item that had just come over the radio. "He did it right in front of the little girl," and "They haven't caught him yet." Thus, it should have made perfect sense to me a few minutes later, crossing Liberty Street in front of City Hall, when a half dozen cops swarmed me and pushed me against a utility pole.

The killer is described as white, of slender build, about 5 feet, 10 inches tall, with brown hair and a bushy mustache. He was wearing blue jeans and a light blue shirt, police said, his clothes reportedly stained with blood. No age has been determined.

(All extracts are from the Schenectady Gazette.)

"Why were you running?"

"I wasn't running."

They frisked and cuffed me. A cop car pulled up to the curb, siren wailing. They cupped my head (as required) when they pushed me into the car, then drove the half block to the police station, siren still wailing, past the library where my parents were still picking out books or had already headed for the parking lot. They would be home by the time I made my one phone call.

I sat in a room with a plainclothes cop, hands cuffed behind my back. My shoulders hurt, my nose itched. Through a window in the door I saw a long-haired guy in a blue shirt and jeans, also handcuffed, being led into another interrogation room. I had on a blue shirt, too. Anybody in a blue shirt and jeans, that day, would be guilty until proven innocent.

At about 3 p.m., state police picked up a 33-year-old Niskayuna man who was found walking near the Colonie town line. He was released shortly afterward. The bearded man, who was carrying a violin (in a case) and a bag containing bottles and "supplies," said he was trying to find a way to Saratoga Springs for last night's Eric Clapton concert.

"Why were you running?"

"I was crossing the street," I answered. "The Don't Walk sign was flashing. Is that illegal?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Shopping for books."

"Really? Books? Why aren't you in Minnesota? You live in Minnesota, right?" They had my driver's license. That's how they knew where I lived.

"I'm on vacation. I'm a college professor. My faculty ID is in my wallet, too, if you don't believe me."

"Why aren't you taking your vacation in Minnesota? Why are you taking your vacation in New York State and making trouble for us?"

"Visiting my parents."

"Are you married?"

"No."

The cop took a minute to mark that down. He must have had a box in which to record such damning evidence.

"What bars do you hang out in?"

"Here?"

"Yeah, here in New York."

"I don't drink."

Even more incriminating. Single guy who doesn't drink.

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"I share a house with a woman." This piece of information took him a minute to process. He asked for the woman's name, and I gave it.

"Do you know what this is all about?"

Slight pause. "No, I don't."

"You're lying."

Police believe Mrs. Pelton...