Lieutenant Columbo turned towards Captain Frazier, cigar clenched in his teeth, his face grim.  "Here's what everyone saw last Friday night, the night of the incident."   He popped a videotape into the VCR and hit the play button.   The screen immediately sprang to life with colorful graphics.

          "California's most trusted news source: Action 7 News at Six!   With all the latest stories in your neighborhood, and around the world!  With Harold Steele, Allison Truman, Dennis Crandall's DopplerPoint weather, and George Peyton, sports!  Number one at six, with all the local and late-breaking stories: this is Action 7 News!"

          A slim redhead appeared on the screen, a grim look set on her face.   "Good evening, I'm Allison Truman.   Our top story: Los Angeles and surrounding areas are being hit hard with one of the most massive storms in state history.   Gale-force winds and record-breaking rains are lashing an area that stretches across the entire county, and beyond.   Power is out in many neighborhoods, and high wave warnings are in effect on most coastlines.  We have many reports on this dangerous storm for you tonight; the first is from our own Harold Steele reporting live from Malibu.   Harold?”

          A handsome man in his late thirties appeared, dressed in a long yellow rain slicker, looking ready to fall over as he was buffeted by wind and rain.   He stood in front of a fancy beach house, framed on each side by stretches of white sand.  “Allison, take a look at these waves!”  The camera panned to the nearby beach, where, even in the dying light of day, the pounding surf was clearly visible.   “Local residents tell me that they’ve seen waves up to six feet since the storm made landfall earlier today, and they’re still growing!”   The camera returned to the veteran newsman.   “Most of the residents of the neighborhood you see behind me have evacuated, and the storm shows no sign of abating!”

          At this point, Columbo began to fast forward.   “There’s a previously taped segment for a while, here.”   After a few seconds, he resumed play.

          “… And all they can do is pray,” Steele was saying.   “Live from Malibu, this is Harold Steele, Action 7 News.”

          “Thank you, Harold, stay safe.  We’ll come back to you later in the broadcast.”   Steele’s picture vanished.   “Even in major urban areas,” Truman continued, “the effects of the storm can be felt.  Already the streets are littered with downed power lines and…”

          Columbo stopped the tape.  “We’re certain that sometime during that part of the broadcast, the weatherman, Dennis Crandall, was killed in downtown Malibu, where they were going to film his weather segment.  His cameraman found his body a few minutes after this point in the tape.”

          “I read the reports, Lieutenant,” Captain Frazier cut in, “and from what I can see, Crandall’s death was an accident.”

          “I don’t think that’s what happened,” Columbo replied flatly.   “I think Mr. Crandall was murdered by Harold Steele.”

          “But if what you just said and showed me is accurate, Steele couldn’t have killed Crandall.   He was live on the air at the time of the death.”

          “I know it looks that way, sir, but I’m certain that Mr. Steele faked his alibi and staged Mr. Crandall’s murder to look like an accident.”   He talked for a long while more before Frazier spoke again.

          “Sounds like you’re onto something, Columbo.   But do you have any proof?”

          The lieutenant stood there, thinking, for a long moment before shaking his head.   “No, I’m afraid I don’t.   Not yet, anyway.  But I’m going to talk to someone I hope can give me that proof.”

          “Who?”

          “Mr. Steele.”

 
***

 
         Harold Steele leaned back in his office chair, his arms folded over his chest.  “Really, Lieutenant Columbo, this is a waste of both our times.”

          “Oh, I don’t think so, Mr. Steele.  There are still a lot of little things I think need to be explained.”

          “I don’t see why,” Steele shrugged.  “It’s pretty clear what happened, isn’t it?”

          “In some ways, yes, but I like to make sure all the holes are plugged.   My superiors, they don’t want any cases they thought were closed coming back to haunt them, so they tell me, make sure all your I’s are dotted and your T’s crossed.   It’s just good police work; you gotta be thorough.”

          “I appreciate that, Lieutenant, really, I do.  The news business is much the same way.   I just can’t help feeling that your obviously considerable talents are being wasted on a simple accident.”

          Columbo smiled.  “That’s very kind of you, sir, but don’t worry about me.   This is just part of my usual workload; it’s really not a bother at all.  If I could just go over with a few details of the night in question with you…”

          Steele glanced at his watch.  “Well, we need to make this somewhat quick; I have a newscast to prepare for.”

          “Of course.   I’ll try not to take up too much of your valuable time.   Now, on Friday night, I believe you told me…”

 

          “I… I was broadcasting beachside,” Harold Steele said through a somewhat choked throat.

          “About how far away would you say that is, sir?” Columbo asked gently.

          “I don’t know.   Fifteen miles?   Twenty at most.”

 

          “Isn’t that a little odd, sir?  I mean, here’s this huge storm, covering this large area of the state, and they send out two people to cover the same area.   Isn’t that a little – what’s the word? – not ridiculous, but it starts with R…”

          “Redundant?” Steele put in with a grin.

          “Yes!   That’s it.  Redundant.”

          “Well, usually, yes.  But remember that Dennis’ report didn’t really have anything to do with the area he was in.   He was just going to give a factual overview of the storm itself.   But we determined that the best place for him to do that was somewhere where the storm was serious, to give him the best backdrop.   Obviously that’s going to be somewhere near the coast.”

          Columbo nodded.  “That makes perfect sense, I have to admit.  Now, I talked to some of your coworkers, and I understand you’re under serious consideration for a major network job.   Congratulations.”

 

          “I heard about the network gig,” Dennis Crandall said, almost having to yell above the howling wind.  “Congratulations, man.   I knew you could do it.”

          “I don’t have much time, Dennis,” Steele interrupted.   “Let’s cut to the chase.   What do you want from me now?”

 

          “Thank you.   But what does that have to do with Dennis’ death?”

          “Nothing, really.   I just picked it up while I was asking about Mr. Crandall.   Did you know that he was in danger of losing his job?”

 

          Dennis waved a folded piece of paper practically in Steele’s face.   “Do you know what this is?   Did you have anything to do with this?”

          “I have no idea what it is,” came the calm reply, “and despite what your alcohol-pickled brain tells you, I’m not conspiring against you.   Now why don’t you calm down and tell me what’s going on?”

“Horton wants to fire me,” Dennis whined, crumpling the paper in his hand and jamming it deep into the pocket of his raincoat.  “This letter says that he intends on making tonight my last.   You’ve gotta help me!”

 

          “Well, Dennis was a good friend, but like any man, he had his flaws.   I’m afraid the bottle was one of them.”

          “Yes!   You and Mr. Crandall were friends from way back, right?”   Columbo flipped through his notebook.   “You even helped him get this job here, right?   That was very generous of you, sir, considering his problems.”

 

          “You brought this on yourself, Dennis.  I stuck my neck out for you to get you this job, and you swore that you were through drinking.  The lateness, the botched lines, that’s all your fault.   I can’t blow my credibility, not now!   Not with the biggest opportunity of my career on the line!”

 
         “It was the least I can do,” Steele replied smoothly.   “Our friendship was worth everything I did for him, and more.”

          Columbo nodded.  “Good friends are hard to come by.  Now, let me see, here…”  His fingers flipped page after page of cramped handwriting.   “I just want to go over what you told me about that night one more time.”

          “Is this really necessary?”

          “Yes, sir, I’m afraid it is.  If you could just humor me, please, this could be very important.”

          “All right, fine.  My cameraman Adam and I went out into the field to get footage and some possible hooks for my 6 o’clock broadcast.”

 

          Harold Steele stepped into the small parking garage and looked about.   There was no one in sight.   He quickly climbed into one of the news vans and powered up the equipment.  With a few button pushes and knob turns, the on-board clocks ceased to flash 4:30 PM, and instead began flashing 4:00 PM.  He stuffed a small plastic bag into an alcove.   After a few minor adjustments here and there, he helped himself out of the van and slammed the doors shut just as Adam Purcell jogged into the garage, a camera under his arm.

          “Oh, there you are,” Steele said jauntily, waving to the cameraman.   “I was looking for you.  Ready to go?”

          “With a storm like that coming out there?”  The grizzle-bearded, burly man glanced over Steele’s shoulder towards the ramp leading outside in askance.   “Never will be.  But as ready as I’ll ever be.”

          “That’s all I ask.  Let’s go.”

 

“Now there’s something I forgot to ask you, sir.   Usually news stations have other reporters to do this kind of story.  It’s pretty unusual for a lead anchor like yourself to go out into the field.   From what I understand from your director, Mr. Bachmann, you insisted on the assignment.”

          Steele laughed gently.  “You don’t remember Dan Rather during the hurricanes, do you, Lieutenant?   I have to admit that I was being a little bit of a glory hound.   I wanted to demonstrate to my potential employers that I was willing to get my feet wet, very wet, to do my job.   Besides, being out in the field is fun.   It’s a big part of the reason I went into TV journalism in the first place.”

          “Ah, I see.   Please continue.”

          “We’d decided to head out somewhere between 4 and 4:30 because we wanted to get some footage of the early stages of the storm, before it hit full force.   We made a run of some of the major coastal areas before settling down in Malibu.  We put together the tape in the van…”

          “Pardon me,” Columbo interrupted.   “Let me make sure I understand things before we go any further.   I talked to your cameraman earlier today, and he was explaining your news van to me.   Would you mind checking over what he told me, and tell me if it’s accurate?”

 

          “Wow,” Columbo marveled as he stepped into the van.   “This really is something.   All this equipment in this one little space.”

          “This live remote truck has the best equipment in the business,” Adam boasted.   “We could put together an entire newscast from a fleet of these vans if we wanted to.”

          “So you can put together taped footage AND broadcast live from one of these things?”

          “Sure can,” the cameraman replied with a proud nod.  “It’s not quite that simple, of course; for example, the antenna on this van can’t reach any of our transmission dishes from Malibu, so the station parked a special truck with transmitter equipment out in the hills so we could go live.  But yeah, almost anything is possible if we can prepare for it.”

 

          Steele nodded.   “Sounds about right.   General, but right.  Though I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

          Columbo held up a hand.  “Please humor me for a little while more, sir.   I just want to make sure all the facts are in place.   Anyway, continue with your story.”

          “Let’s see.   I think I said we put together the prerecorded part of my first segment…”

          “Now, it was just you two out there, is that right?”

          “Yes.   It was a little bit of an unusual situation, but I thought we could handle it on our own.”

          “So who started the tape in the van?”

          Steele smiled.   “Well, Lieutenant, as Adam told you, our technology is pretty top-notch.   I had a remote control that I used to start the tape at the proper time, held off-screen, of course.   We set the controls inside the van to broadcast the tape instead of the live feed for as long as the segment lasted.”

          “So you can do things like that with that equipment.   Broadcast either a tape or live.”   Columbo’s eyes sparkled with interest.   Steele’s smile widened at the lieutenant’s eagerness.

          “That’s right.   Anyway, after I did my piece, we went to a shelter set up in a church in downtown Malibu to do another segment there for the 11 o’clock news.   The power was out there, but we managed.”

          “And you stayed at that shelter until you heard of Mr. Crandall’s death?”

 

          Adam had already disappeared into the depths of the candle and lantern lit church, seeking some coffee.  Steele glanced at his watch: 5:50 PM.  In the darkness, it was child’s play to slip into the back alley where the news van was parked.   First, set the clocks back to the correct time.   Quickly run through the tape to make sure there was enough footage to fool the home studio into thinking it was live.   Pop the tape in, set the timer for 6:00:25 PM – thank God for Bachmann’s fanatical punctuality.  Deploy antenna.  Then start the five-minute run to meet with Dennis, for the last time.

 

          “Yes.   I’d had enough of standing in inclement weather, and actually having a roof over my head and some warm soup in my stomach was a bigger relief than I ever thought possible.”

          Columbo nodded.  “That’s pretty much what you told me that night.”

          “That’s exactly what I told you that night.  Lieutenant, it’s time you gave me an explanation.   What is it that’s got you so mixed up, as you put it to me?   It was an accident, pure and simple.   Dennis knew the risks; so does everyone else who goes out into the field in these conditions.   He just wasn’t careful enough.”

          “That’s what I thought at first.  That’s what everyone thought.  But the more I looked at the scene, the more I saw that wasn’t right.”

          Steele shifted in his leather office chair.  “Like what?”

          “Well, first there were a coupla things about the body that bothered me.”

 

          “Sergeant?”   Sergeant Kramer turned to see Columbo on his knees beside the body, his pants already soaking up the water on the sidewalk, his gloved fingers gently shifting the dead man’s head to and fro.   “You see what I see?”

          “Where?”   Kramer was at Columbo’s side in a moment, his voice already tinged with weary doubt.

          “There.   Between his teeth and around the inner part of his eyes.”   Latex-robed fingers pried open the cold, dead lips just a fraction of an inch, allowing Kramer’s flashlight beam to illuminate streaks of brown within.

          Kramer leaned forward, way forward, and squinted.   “Looks like mud.  So?”

 

          “Lab boys concluded it WAS mud.  We found more under his chin and soaking the collar of his shirt.   You see my problem, don’t you, sir?”

          “Frankly, Lieutenant, I don’t.”

          “Well, Mr. Steele, if you’ll recall, Mr. Crandall’s body was found face down on the sidewalk.   If he fell where he was found, how did mud get there?   The only mud nearby was behind him, around the base of the tree.”

 

          The branch connected with a sickening crunch.   Dennis immediately fell face forward into the mud patch that surrounded the oak tree, landing with a soft, gooey “ splut .”   Steele dropped the branch and leaned forward to check for a pulse.   Nothing.   He smiled; luck was with him.   He’d planned to make it look like a fall on the sidewalk, but the broken, heavy branch made for a nice bit of improvisation.   He twisted Dennis’s wide-eyed, staring face towards the pouring rain for a moment to wash away the mud.   Then he dragged the corpse onto the sidewalk, placing the head around the spot he remembered the branch landing on when it was first ripped from the tree.

 

          “The sidewalk wasn’t exactly the cleanest of places.  The wind had been carrying all sorts of muck across that surface.   Perhaps it got picked up there when Dennis fell.”

          “That’d explain the mud in his mouth, maybe, but not in his eyes.   The sidewalk was fairly smooth; any puddles on the paved surface were very shallow.  He’d almost have had to been face down in nothing but mud for it to get in his eyes.   I also found something interesting in his pocket.”   Columbo patted his own pockets for a minute, until he produced a clear evidence bag.

 

          Columbo’s hands worked in each pocket.   “Hmm, nothing so far,” he muttered to himself.   “Keys, wallet…  Hey, what’s this?”  He drew out a crumpled piece of paper.

          “A letter?” Kramer asked, craning his neck to see.

          “That’s what it looks like.”  The paper almost came apart in Columbo’s hands.   “It’s soaking wet.”  More gently now, he unfolded it enough to see the writing within.   “’It is obvious that you have some very deep personal problems.’”

 

          “’But I can’t let that interfere with this station’s success.   Tonight is your last night employed here.   Tomorrow morning you’ll report to Human Resources to discuss your severence.’”   Columbo slipped the bag back into his pocket as he watched Steele’s face.

          “My God.   I knew Dennis was having trouble, but I had no idea it’d happen so soon!”  He rubbed his eyes and looked back up at Columbo.   “If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost say it was suicide.”

          “No, there’s no chance of that,” Columbo chuckled.   “But there is one interesting thing about that letter.   When I found it, it was very wet.”

          “Well, there WAS a lot of rain last night, Lieutenant.”

          “Yes, but I found the letter in one of the pockets of Mr. Crandall’s raincoat.   It’s waterproof, with a large flap to cover the opening.   It’s as though he took out that letter during the rain.   Maybe to show someone?”

          “As far as I know, Dennis was alone out there,” Steel snorted.   “God knows why.  He was probably reading over that letter himself.   Couldn’t believe that his career was over.”

“I doubt that very much, sir.  The street was pretty dark; the storm had knocked out power to the entire area.  He didn’t have any reason to read that letter outdoors.  And then there’s the branch.”

 

          Steele picked up the branch and turned it until he found the place where it had crashed into Dennis’ skull.  Then he lowered the branch over the dead man’s head until that contact point rested gently atop the gaping head wound, which still overflowed with a dank mixture of rainwater and blood.   In a moment, the corpse was alone in the dark, wet streets, kept company only by leaves and the howling wind, until the increasingly panicked shouts of a cameraman came to keep him company.

 

          “What about it?”  Steele picked up a pen and turned it over and over in his fingers.

 

          Columbo turned the branch over and over in his hands.   “Heavy,” he muttered to himself.   “And you said this was the point of impact?” he asked louder pointing to a dark spot on the branch.

          The young medical examiner interrupted her flow of directions to the men bagging the corpse.   “I’d have to take a closer look to make sure, but yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s where the branch hit.   The thing’s soaking wet, but you can just make out a dent with a few hairs still stuck in it.”

          “Yeah, I see that!”  He turned the branch some more, whirling it about as if it were a toy.   Then he hefted it until its leafless tip scratched the ground as he squinted at the uneven break.   Kramer watched, a little befuddled, as Columbo glanced upwards at the tree, at the branch stump that hung in the air above.   “Anyone got a ladder?”

          “Huh?”

          “A ladder.   Is there a ladder around here?”

          “There’s a utility crew about a block from here doing repair work,” the medical examiner replied.

          “I’ll go ask them for a ladder, Lieutenant.”  One of the eager to please rookies trotted off.   He returned a few minutes later with an electric company truck driving slowly behind.

          “What the…?” Kramer gasped.

          “They didn’t have a ladder, Lieutenant,” the rookie shouted, “but they said we could use their cherry picker!”

          Columbo glanced in askance at the motorized basket, set into the end of the huge mechanical arm.  “ Ooookay.  Guess that’ll have to do.”  With the help of a pair of workmen, he gingerly stepped into the basket.   “I need to examine the end of that tree branch,” he told them, pointing towards the massive oak, its foliage and branches heavily shaved by the storm.   The tree branch leaned at his side, Columbo’s hands clutched the sides of the basket as it rose, then extended forward, inching towards the broken limb.   Finally, it ground to a halt, Columbo’s face almost directly in front of the stub.   Slowly, he lifted the branch towards where it had once hung, slowly rotating it one direction, then another.   After a few minutes of Kramer staring at him from below, he nodded, pushing the broken end of the branch into the broken end of the tree, the two fitting together like a jigsaw puzzle.   “Interesting,” Columbo said.

 

          “What was so interesting?”

          “Let me show you.”  Columbo plucked a cup full of pens from Steele’s desk.   “Hope you don’t mind me using this, sir, but this’ll make things clearer.  Suppose this is the tree.”  He plopped the cup down onto the desk, then drew a pen from it, placing it with one end touching the cup, and the other pointing outwards like a sunbeam.   “And suppose this is the branch that broke off.   It was pointing almost directly eastward.”   Now Columbo’s worn fingers produced a quarter from his pockets; the coin found a place near the pen.   “This quarter is where Mr. Crandall’s body was found; it was south of where the branch used to be.   Now, it does make sense that the branch broke off and landed where Mr. Crandall was; all the other debris nearby supports this.   But I don’t think that branch actually hit Mr. Crandall at all.  At least not without help.”

          “You’ve lost me,” Steele admitted.

          “The branch was waterlogged from the rain, but our lab boys were still able to find skin, hair, traces of blood imbedded in one spot on the branch.   That’s obviously where Mr. Crandall was hit.”

          “Obviously.”

          “But there’s the problem,” Columbo said with a nod.   “That spot on the branch faced northward.”   He tapped his finger on the opposite side of the pen from the quarter.  “I went up on one of those motorized basket things, and I fit the branch back onto the tree, and I saw that for myself.  So here’s the problem: if the wind broke off that branch, and it hit Mr. Crandall on the head, how was the point of impact on the side of the branch that faced AWAY from Mr. Crandall?”

          Steele made a casual gesture somewhat like a shrug.   “Maybe it spun in mid-flight?”

          “Not likely, sir.  Mr. Crandall would’ve been standing only a couple of feet, if that, from the branch.   It wouldn’t have had much time to spin all the way around like that.  And with the branch’s weight, and the steadiness of the wind, it’s doubtful it happened that way.”   Columbo deftly replaced pen into cup, cup onto original place, and quarter into pocket.   “The only explanation I can see is that someone picked up that branch after it broke off and hit Mr. Crandall with it.   I think he fell face-forward into the mud around the tree.   Then he was dragged onto the sidewalk, and the branch placed on top of his head to make it look like an accident.”

          “You’re saying Dennis was murdered,” Steele said with a touch of wonder.   But why?  Why would anyone want to kill him?”

 

“Refusing is not an option, Harry!”  Steele winced at Dennis’ words; he knew the rant that was coming almost by heart.  “We’ve been friends for almost thirty years, dammit !   Who set you up with the girl you married?   Me!   Who helped you pass that impossible Journalism 210 exam?   Me!  Who…”   His face turned ashen in the howling wind.   “Who helped you get into the clear when you hit that woman with your car after your bachelor party?   Me.  You owe me big, buddy.  Don’t be an ingrate, not now!”

          Steele’s breathing grew heavy; locked in a mutual death stare, neither man paid much attention at first to the branch from the large oak tree above them snapping in the wind, rolling to the ground behind them.   He wiped the dripping water from his face.   “Damn you, Dennis, don’t you dare call me that!   I’ve been protecting you and picking up your slack ever since that night!  I’ve done everything for you, done whatever you asked me to, no matter how much risk you put me in!  You have no right to…”

          “I know you’ll help me, Harry.  You’re my friend.   I never want to hurt you.”   The statement was quiet, without any malice, but it chilled Steele to the bone.   Dennis turned his back, starting his walk back to his TV van.   “You should be getting back to your broadcast.   We’ll talk about this later.”

          Steele swallowed.   “No.   No, we won’t.”

 

          “That’s a very good question, sir, and one I was hoping you could help me with.   You’ve known him longer than anyone; can you think of some reason why someone would want to kill him?”

          The news anchor thought for a moment, then shook his head.   “Sorry, Lieutenant, I don’t know anyone offhand.   Dennis could be a handful, of course, with his problem, but I don’t know of anyone specifically who’d want to do something like this.”   He shrugged.   “The husband of a one-night stand?   Someone who just doesn’t like the media?   I don’t know.”

“Seems to me you have a lot of power at this station, Mr. Steele.”

          Steele grinned.   “Well, seniority and popularity have its rewards, Lieutenant.   Why do you ask?”

          “Oh, it’s just something your cameraman said.”

 

          “And you can communicate from the main studio to wherever you are out in the field?”

          “Sure.   Usually we’re in touch with the home base production team through earpieces.”  Adam held up a couple as an example.

          “Did you wear those Friday night?”

          “Well, no.   We sometimes get direction directly from home base, but with the storm being as bad as it was, we didn’t really want to hang around.   Besides, we didn’t really know how sound the communications lines would be.  So Mr. Steele told the studio before we started that we’d just broadcast and then cut out of there.”

          “So except for your live broadcast, the main studio had no contact with you once you were out in the field?”

          “That’s right.”

          Columbo nodded.  “Huh.”

 

          “I don’t see why it’s so fascinating.  Just a normal part of the business.”

          “Well, see, I don’t know much about broadcasting or TV news.   It’s all new, and very interesting.”   Columbo waved his arm around in emphasis.  “I’m sure there was a perfectly good reason for you to have made that request, but I would’ve thought that with such a dangerous storm, you would’ve made sure that you kept in constant contact with the studio in case there were any problems, instead of cutting yourself off.”

          Steele’s eyes narrowed.  “I see.   To answer your question, I was hardly cut off.   I had a cellular phone, which was likely to be more dependable under those circumstances than the feed to the studio.”

          “Of course.   That makes perfect sense.   I’m sure there’s just as good an explanation for your gloves.”

          “My gloves?”

          “The ones you were wearing when you first reported at six o’clock.   I noticed that when you were discussing Mr. Crandall’s death the same night on the eleven o’clock news, you weren’t wearing them.”

 

          As he stumbled back towards the church, Steele looked down at his blue watertight gloves.   They were imbedded with pieces of bark and a couple of stains that looked like splashes of blood.  He ripped them off his hands and stuffed them into a dumpster before continuing his waterlogged journey.

 

          “By then, the storm had abated.  There really wasn’t any need for them.  I’m sure they’re around somewhere.  I tend to lose little things,” Steele laughed.

          “For me, sir, it’s the little things that make or break any investigation.   You really gotta pay attention to the details.”

          “That’s where the devil is, I know.  It’s important in my line of work, too.  But you have to be careful not to get caught in them.   You have to see the big picture, or you won’t get anywhere.”

          Columbo smiled and nodded.  “Exactly right, sir.  Oh, speaking of pictures, I did want to ask you one more thing I noticed while I was checking out the van you used on Friday night.”

 

          “And these are the tapes you use?”  Columbo indicated a small stack of thin black boxes.

          “That’s right,” Adam replied.  “Those tapes have the raw footage we used to put together Mr. Steele’s prerecorded segment.   I should’ve cleared those out long ago, but with everything that’s happened…”

          “Mind if I take a look at those?”

          “Not at all.”   He opened up one of the boxes and popped the tape in.   “This one should be some footage I got downtown…”   The screens burst to life in a wave of white snow and fizzing.   “What the hell?”  The cameraman hit a button, and the tape advanced into more snow and fizzing.   “That’s weird.”

          “What?”

          “This tape is blank.  I could’ve sworn we brought only the four half-hour tapes, and we used them all: three for footage and one for the segment.”

 

          “That is a little odd.  We did a lot of footage that afternoon, a lot more than we usually do, mostly street interviews.”

          “So you can’t explain why that tape was blank, Mr. Steele?”

 

          The minute he got back to the church, Steele hopped into the van.   First, the antenna needed to come down.   Then he needed to retrieve the magnetic tape eraser he stashed that afternoon and erase the recording of his “live” report.   Then, finally, he could get some hot coffee, and perhaps tonight, a restful sleep for once…

 

          “No, I can’t.   I guess we didn’t have as much footage as we thought we did.   When a storm is bearing down, and you’re being pounded by both rain and deadline pressure, you tend to lose track of time.”

          Columbo’s eyes brightened.  “Ah, yes, time.  I was just wondering, sir, if your cameraman, Mr. Purcell, could vouch for your whereabouts at the time Mr. Crandall died?”

          “I don’t see why,” Steele grumbled in outrage.  “Am I a suspect now?”

          “You never stopped being a suspect, sir.  No one can really be cleared, not yet.”

          “Well, of course, Adam can vouch for me.  He was right there when we went live to the studio.”

 

          “Are you sure, Mr. Purcell?” Columbo pressed.

          The larger man shifted uncomfortably.  “I…   I guess not.   I didn’t have a watch with me, and I kind of lost track of time, we were out there so long.  I just sorta assumed it was six o’clock.”   He turned to Columbo.   “Look, what are you saying?   I was there!  We did the segment, the home studio saw it, that oughta be enough, shouldn’t it?”

 

          “It would be enough for most people.  But apparently not for you, Lieutenant.”

Columbo smiled.  “I’ll take that as a compliment, sir.  You see, Mr. Steele, from what I’ve learned, no one here at the main studio had any real way to tell whether what you were sending them was live or taped, especially since you’d cut off communications to them.   If you’d wanted to, you could have fooled your cameraman into thinking you were broadcasting live to the studio, when you were really taping it for later.  That would give you a pretty good alibi for when Mr. Crandall’s body was found.”

          Steele shot to his feet.  “I think you’ve gone far enough, Lieutenant.”

          Columbo also rose, following Steele’s insistent pushing towards the office door.  “You have to admit it’s a pretty interesting theory…”

          “I admit no such thing.  And as you yourself said, it IS a pretty good alibi, considering you can’t prove that segment wasn’t live.”

          “No, I can’t.   Not yet.   But…”

          “Next time, Columbo, let me know before you talk to me.  I’ll be sure to have my lawyer present.”  He opened the door.   “Now please leave.   I have a job to do.”

          “So do I, sir.   So do I.”   Steele watched as the lieutenant shuffled out and slammed the door behind him.

 

***

 

          “Anything?” Columbo asked.

          Kramer shook his head.  “Nothing.   We’ve been tailing him for three days now, but he hasn’t done anything suspicious.”

          “Why should he?  He’s right.   We don’t have any proof.”   Columbo slapped his hand against the case file with startling violence.   “We’re missing something.   I KNOW we’re missing something.”   Columbo stood and grabbed his ratty coat.  “I’m going to Malibu.”

          “What for?”

          “I’m gonna find wherever it is that Harold Steele taped that segment.   If I’m lucky, I’ll find a witness who saw him out there before six.”

          “And if you’re not?” Kramer said quietly.

          Columbo regarded the sergeant for a silent moment.   “We’ll just have to hope that I am.”

 

***

 

          “Oh, yes, that’s my house!”  Kim Gallworth pointed excitedly at the beachside home barely visible over Steele’s right shoulder.  “And it made the evening news?  Wait ‘til I tell my husband!”

          Columbo stopped the tape.  “And you said that you were home on Friday night, when the storm hit?”

          “I know, we should’ve evacuated a lot sooner, but I’ve never been in a storm!   My sister, Mary Jo, she lives in Oklahoma, and she said that some of the most exciting times of her life were in tornadoes, and I thought to myself, well, this is just a little bitty storm, and the real estate agent assured us that this house was well built, and Jerry – that’s my husband – and I talked and we decided, well, why not stay for a little while and watch the weather?  And let me tell you, it was every bit as exciting as I thought!   The waves and the…”

          “Yes, yes, ma’am,” Columbo interrupted with just a hint of desperation.  “But you did evacuate later?”

          “Yes, when THAT came through our glass doors.”  She pointed at a large hunk of gnarled wood on the living room floor, sitting in front of a set of large glass doors that faced out into the ocean.  Columbo squinted against the distant late afternoon sun hanging over the glittering water; he could see that a duct-taped plywood board replaced one of the door panels.  “A piece of driftwood from the beach.  It just blew right into our living room, scared me and Jerry half to death!   That’s when we decided to skedaddle.   Better safe than sorry, you know.   But we got some great camcorder footage to show our kids in Milwaukee, and…”

          “What time did you leave?”

          “Oh, I dunno, around quarter to six.   Something like that.   I remember because the sky was so dark from all the clouds, and I was wondering what time it was, because, you know, that time of day it’s usually so bright it warms up this room quite nicely, and…”

          Columbo fought the urge to sigh.   “Ma’am, this is very important.   When you left, did you see a TV news truck nearby?”

          Kim Gallworth thought for a moment, then shook her head.   “Sorry, no, I didn’t.  But I want to ask YOU something: where do you think we should keep that driftwood?  I want to put it somewhere as a souvenir, a conversation piece, you know?   I figure that since it just blew off the beach that it’s ours now, and that we should…  Lieutenant?   What are you doing?”

          What the Lieutenant was doing was rewinding the tape of Harold Steele’s broadcast, his face just a foot from the screen.  He hit play and squinted.  He rewound and hit play again.   And again.   A smile crept over his face.   He ejected the tape and took both of Kim’s hands into his own.   “Ms. Gallworth, thank you.   Thank you VERY much.  I’ll show myself out.”  And he was gone in a flash.

          “No problem, Lieutenant!” she yelled after him.  “If you’re ever in the neighborhood again, stop on by; Jerry says I make a mean meatloaf!”  The door slam echoed through the house.

 

***

 

          “We’re on in fifteen, people!  Aren’t those tapes ready yet?”  The balding little man running around the set almost crashed headlong into Columbo as he made his way through the garden of cables and cameras.   “What are you doing here, Lieutenant?   I told you this is a closed set.”

          Columbo paused for a moment, letting the two officers behind him catch up.  The sight of the two uniforms plunged the set into near silence.   “I’m looking for Mr. Steele.   Is he around?”

          “Y-yeah.   Sure.  He should be in makeup about now.”  The little man pointed, and the trio headed in the indicated direction.   None of them saw the sudden flurry of activity that erupted behind them as they passed; cameras were picked up, furious hand gestures made, and boom mikes quietly moved.

          Harold Steele’s eyes were half-shut; the usual makeup routine was so ingrained in his schedule that he almost went to sleep, even under the most amateur ministrations.   Movement caught his eye; his attention snapped to full when he saw Columbo and the two officers in the mirror.   Waving the makeup girl away from his hair, he whirled the chair around to face the men.  “I assume there’s some reason for you to come barging in here?”

          “Yes, sir, there is.  I’ve come to arrest you.”

          Steele barked out a sharp laugh as he stood, ripping the bib off his collar.   “Great!  Not only will I win a huge lawsuit for false arrest, I’ll have a story too!   ‘Top Homicide Cop Disgraced’ – news at eleven!”

          “Could you sit down, please, Mr. Steele?”  The voice was soft, but deliberate; Steele wisely resumed his seat.  “I don’t know why you killed Mr. Crandall, sir.   Not yet.  But considering your history with him, we’re looking into both your backgrounds right now.   I have a feeling we’ll find a very strong motive for murder.   May even have something to do with why Mr. Crandall drank so much…”

          “Psychoanalysis isn’t your strong point, Lieutenant.”