The Sun Is a Witness

I hope I haven't kept you waiting. Yes, this is the crime club. I'm the librarian. The son is a witness. Yes, we have that crime club story for you. Come right over. Good.

Take the easy chair by the window. Comfortable? The book is on this shelf. Here it is, the sun is a witness by Aaron Mark Stein, the very unusual story of a design for killing that couldn't succeed without murder.

Let's look at it under the reading lamp. It was Tim Mulligan's job as an archaeologist to find out about dead civilizations and he was finding out about the Anatsazi, the Indian cliff dwellers who inhabited the great canyon walls of the southwest many centuries ago. It was late morning, June 22nd, the second day of summer, and Tim Mulligan was digging carefully in one of the caves high above the

canyon floor. When George Dylan, the owner of the property and Tim's benefactor, climbed slowly up on the camp cave 30 people old. He stopped to catch his breath. George! Before you appeared. I wonder to see how you're getting along to him.

You shouldn't have done it your heart. Where's Tony Blake? He's around somewhere. You're not going to snitch on me are you boy? You're his responsibility, Pop. He's your doctor. Yes, but he didn't join the outfit so he can take care of me.

What do you mean? He wants me to take care of him. Oh, that. Then maybe I will. After he and my niece Mary didn't get married. But right now, it's Indian history that's got all my attention.

Oh, yeah. Well, I dug up a grave, George. And it's fuzzy? I think so. I haven't unwrapped the money yet. Coon, we can do that together. Come on, let's go. What's that? No, Tim. No wind ever made a sound like that.