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  “That’s what he was doing when he got shot. He was crossing the stage to the podium, making sure the spot was following him.”

  “Where were you?”

  “At the podium, I told you. Looking up at the guy in the booth, waiting for the councilman to…”

  “What guy in the booth?”

  “The guy on the follow spot.”

  “One of your people?”

  “No.”

  “Then who?”

  “I have no idea. My guess is he works here at the Hall.”

  “Who would know?”

  “You got me.”

  “I thought you supplied everything. The sound, the lighting…”

  “The onstage lighting. Usually, when we do an auditorium like this one, they have their own lighting facilities and their own lighting technician or engineer, they’re sometimes called, a lighting engineer.”

  “Did you talk to this guy in the booth? This technician or engineer or whatever he was?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Who talked to him?”

  “Mr. Pierce was yelling up to him—Henderson’s aide—and so was the councilman himself. I think the college kid was giving him instructions, too. From up in the balcony.”

  “Was the kid up there when the shooting started?”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, didn’t you look up there? You told me that’s where the shots came from, didn’t you look up there to see who was shooting?”

  “Yes, but I was blinded by the spot. The spot had followed the councilman to the podium, and that was when he got shot, just as he reached the podium.”

  “So the guy working the spot was still up there, is that right?”

  “He would’ve had to be up there, yes, sir.”

  “So let’s find out who he was,” Ollie said.

  A uniformed inspector with braid all over him was walking over. Ollie deemed it necessary to perhaps introduce himself.

  “Detective Weeks, sir,” he said. “The Eight-Eight. First man up.”

  “Like hell you are,” the inspector said, and walked off.