Streak of Lightning
“I said.
“I think we’ve established that, Miss Fitzgerald,” Terri Adkin said, the amusement now turning into impatience. Small town amateur detectives are an acquired taste, I guess.
“But that’s my point,” I said. “We’ve all known that from the beginning. And we all knew, at least Greg and Jesse and myself, that Joe was drunk when he came into the police station.”
“He didn’t drink,” Lori pointed out.
“I know. You told me that yesterday. But he was drunk when he walked into that police station. Or at least we thought he was.” I walked among the debris of pots. “He threw the chair through the window, and it landed on this plant. Then he came over to this spot to grab his chair. . . .” I mimicked the movement, bending over and straightening up again slowly.
“Oh, my God,” Lori gasped. “And he hit his head on the shelf.”
“And those big ceramic pots tumbled down on him,”
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