“Okay.”

“Where were you the Monday night of the Ike Johnson murder? By the way, do you mind if I tape this?”

She pulled out a microcassette recorder and pressed Record.

“No, I don’t mind. I was at an AA meeting in a Sunday school room at the First Methodist Church of Panama City, Florida, from six until eight. I then went to Applebee’s on Twenty-third Street with two of the members. I then drove home, arriving about twelve forty-five. I read a little and then went to bed . . . alone.”

“Can someone corroborate your story?” she asked.

“AA is anonymous. It would be their choice, but I’ll ask.”

“It’s not that important. The crime occurred far later than that anyway, but if they’re willing, it wouldn’t hurt. Did you speak to anyone after you got home that night who could confirm your whereabouts?”

“No.”

She started to say something but I stopped her.

“The thing about both the murder of Ike Johnson and the assault on Molly Thomas,” I said, “is that they both took place inside the prison. I wasn’t inside the prison when either happened. And anyone who was, including the killer, was logged in at the control room.”

She nodded. “That’s a good point. How well do you know Molly Thomas?”

“I’ve probably spent a sum total of three or four hours with her. Most of that time has been in the visiting park of the institution. I’ve counseled her and her husband during some of their visits together, at their request, of course. They, like most inmate couples, were having some marital problems and wanted my help.”

“Were you able to help them?”

“Apparently not. I thought so at first, but then lately something has happened to Anthony, her husband. He’s on a serious downward spiral.”

“Have you ever met with Molly Thomas by herself at or away from the institution?”

I nodded. “Yes, I have. Friday before last. She called and asked to see me, saying it was an emergency and she was scared to come to the institution. So we met in the pastor’s office of the Methodist church in Pottersville.”

“What was the nature of that meeting?”

“She described what took place at the institution the night of her assault and how Captain Matthew Skipper followed her home and tried to force his way into her house. She asked for my help.”

“Who did she say raped her?”

“Her husband.”

“He’s an inmate. How could he have even seen her?”

“Captain Skipper arranged it, according to her, but interrupted them in the middle and then stalked her that night and tried to break into her home.”

“Why didn’t you come forward with this information?”

“I did. I told the Inspector General of the department, Tom Daniels, and the warden of PCI, Edward Stone.”

She was about to say something else, when my phone rang.