The cops first told Clifford Shephard that he was "the phantom forger" the day after they fingerprinted and mugged him. A slow-moving, heavy-jawed and trusting fellow, Shephard patiently smiled at their accusations, told them they'd find they were making a mistake. He was just a middle-aged salesman who lived in Scotch Plains, N.J., he explained, and, as a matter of fact, had just taken on a new line of liquid run-stopper for ladies' stockings.
Shephard's smile dissolved when a liquor dealer gave him one curled-lip glance in the New Brunswick, NJ. police station and told the cops, "That's the guy."...
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