Notes

THE ROAD
 
     Strong winds rose on either side of the road, lifting bending boughs high into the air, wet with rain.  Lawrence Wilson turned his collar up around his neck to buffer his body from the cold.  Erree shadows came forth from the underbrush emanating from each side of the rustic way.  The sun had completely set below the distant mountains and night had taken hold.   About thirty feet to the right of Lawrence, half buried in a slip shod fashion with some soil and a smattering of leaves was a young woman of twenty-six who Lawrence had murdered for the seventy-eight dollars which she had on her person.   Lawrence walked calmly and inconspicuously in the dusky darkness to his nearby house down the slender country path. Arriving at his log cabin home, Lawrence immediately disrobed and laid the money on a sofa, after counting it, he placed the sum of his clothes into a bathtub, proceeding to cleanse them of all wet dirt and caked on soil.  He then entered his shower, shampooed his hair and washed his body to a fine cleanliness.  Later Lawrence put on another suit of fresh, clean clothes and burnt the now dry fabrics which he excorsiced using the bath an hour ago in his fireplace.   He had used a knife in stabbing the woman dead who was taking photos of the terrain, as she was an aesthetic photographer.   His murdering hands were covered with black leather gloves.   After extracting the money from the woman's pocketbook, Lawrence simply flung the purse into the leaves.     Now in his mind, all connection between himself and the crime was eliminated.   A week later, a morning jogger who passed the area of the crime noticed the dead woman's red purse lying on the ground.   After investigating the area, the young athlete discovered the woman's remains, as the rain water washed away her slovenly grave over the course of the week.  Attempting not to panic, the young man rushed to a gas station about a half mile down the road and called an emergency number requesting immediate assistance.  Within twenty minutes a police squad car rolled into the gas station and the athlete led the two attending officers to the scene of the corpse.  After assessing that the death was due to a stabbing, and the two policemen took down the jogger's information, they proceeded to walk down the way to the closest house on the right, some ninety feet directly down from the scene of the crime.   As they approached Lawrence's wooden cabin he noticed their coming from one of his dusty windows.  Observbing the two officers approaching, Lawrence stood as a statue, diabolically anticipating their inquiry as he awaited them in his bathrob.  A stark knock rang out on his door, the kind of knock one makes and hears every moment of every day, yet this knock sent a shiver of accute fear through Lawrence's mind and body, unlike he had ever experienced before.  He had not rehearsed a response to any reletive questioning as well as he could have, and was ill prepared for this interuption only a week after the murder.  He opened the door immediately and feigned a smile as he asked inquisitively: "Can I help you?"   "Mr. Wilson, I presume?" said the one policeman.  "Yes. That would be me.  How did you know my name?"  "Why, by the sign next to your door, sir."  "I see, officer."   Lawrence went on: "Is there anything I can do for you?"   Lawrence in flinging the young woman's purse on the ground omitted to remove her identification.  Her name as listed in her driver's license was Beatrice Talbot.   "Yes, Mr. Wilson, if you will excuse the interuption, there has been a brutal murder close to your cabin, down the main pathway and we would just like to know if youo were acquainted with one Beatrice Talbot?"     Beatrice