“The best I figure now, the very next morning,” Class drawls, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

“The plant’s got these two meat inspectors, and one of them said he saw my knife wasn’t put up exactly right, and they said there was some blood on it. I heard it turned out ‘0’ positive-same as ole Willie’s.

Of course, I didn’t know all this was going on. They began questioning everybody on the kill floor that day and up front, too. Even though I’d been home that afternoon by myself, I never figured I had to worry.”

“How’d they say Willie was killed?” I ask, realizing how much I have forgotten to ask his wife.

“Was there a struggle?”

Class shakes his head.

“Naw, they said he didn’t even put up a fight. That’s why they knew right away it was somebody who worked in the plant.

Whoever done it jus’ walked right up behind him at his desk and cut his throat and then stepped back and watched him die. It wouldn’t take long

if you get that artery.” Class draws an imaginary line across his throat.

I feel a chill, and it isn’t just from the cold.

What a horrible moment it must have been for that old man when he realized what was happening to him.

“So you were the only suspect?” I ask, thinking how tempting it would be to try to frame someone like him.

Class shrugs.

“They acted like we was all suspects for a while till that blood got checked. Then the sheriff wanted me to take a lie detector test, and I wouldn’t. Hell, I don’t trust that shit. Then they fired me, but nothing happened after that until yesterday when all hell broke loose.”

Somehow he is able to grin, though weakly, at the spectacle of himself being taken into custody.

“Your wife said she heard that the DNA analysis,” I say, realizing he may not know, “showed conclusively that the blood on your knife was Willie’s.”

“I don’t know about that,” Class demurs, scratching a sore on his ring finger.