backinmydoghouseonthesixthfloorofthecahuengabuildingiwentthroughmyregulardoubleplaywiththemorningmail.mailslottodesktowastebasket,tinkertoeverstochance.iblewaclearspaceonthetopofthedeskandunrolledthephotostatonit.ihadrolleditsoasnottomakecreases.

ireaditoveragain.itwasdetailedenoughandreasonableenoughtosatisfyanyopenmind.eileenwadehadkilledterry’swifeinafitofjealousfuryandlaterwhentheopportunitywassetupshehadkilledrogerbecauseshewassureheknew.thegunfiredintotheceilingofhisroomthatnighthadbeenpartofthesetup.theunansweredandforeverunanswerablequestionwaswhyrogerwadehadstoodstillandletherputitover.hemusthaveknownhowitwouldend.sohehadwrittenhimselfoffanddidn’tcare.wordswerehisbusiness,hehadwordsforalmosteverything,butnoneforthis.

“ihaveforty-sixdemeroltabletsleftfrommylastprescription,”shewrote.“inowintendtotakethemallandliedownonthebed.thedoorislocked.inaveryshorttimeishallbebeyondsaving.this,howard,istobeunderstood.whatiwriteisinthepresenceofdeath.everywordistrue.ihavenoregrets—exceptpossiblythaticouldnothavefoundthemtogetherandkilledthemtogether.ihavenoregretsforpaulwhomyouhaveheardcalledterrylennox.hewastheemptyshellofthemanilovedandmarried.hemeantnothingtome.whenisawhimthatafternoonfortheonlytimeafterhecamebackfromthewar—atfirstididn’tknowhim.thenididandheknewmeatonce.heshouldhavediedyounginthesnowofnorway,myloverthatigavetodeath.hecamebackafriendofgamblers,thehusbandofarichwhore,aspoiledandruinedman,andprobablysomekindofcrookinhispastlife.timemakeseverythingmeanandshabbyandwrinkled.thetragedyoflife,howard,isnotthatthebeautifulthingsdieyoung,butthattheygrowoldandmean.itwillnothappentome.goodbye,howard.”

iputthephotostatinthedeskandlockeditup.itwastimeforlunchbutiwasn’tinthemood.igottheofficebottleoutofthedeepdrawerandpouredaslugandthengotthephonebookoffthehookatthedeskandlookedupthenumberofthejournal.idialeditandaskedthegirlforlonniemorgan.

“mr.morgandoesn’tcomeinuntilaroundfouro’clock.youmighttrythepressroomatthecityhall.”

icalledthat.andigothim.herememberedmewellenough.“you’vebeenaprettybusyguy,iheard.”

“i’vegotsomethingforyou,ifyouwantit.idon’tthinkyouwantit.”

“yeah?suchas?”

“aphotostatofaconfessiontotwomurders.”

“whereareyou?”

itoldhim.hewantedmoreinformation.iwouldn’tgivehimanyoverthephone.hesaidhewasn’tonacrimebeat.isaidhewasstillanewspapermanandontheonlyindependentpaperinthecity.hestillwantedtoargue.

“wheredidyougetthiswhateveritis?howdoiknowit’sworthmytime?”

“the’sofficehastheoriginal.theywon’treleaseit.itbreaksopenacoupleofthingstheyhidbehindtheicebox.”

“i’llcallyou.ihavetocheckwiththebrass.”

wehungup.iwenttothedrugstoreandateachickensaladsandwichanddranksomecoffee.thecoffeewasovertrainedandthesandwichwasasfullofrichflavorasapiecetornoffanoldshirt.americanswilleatanythingifitistoastedandheldtogetherwithacoupleoftoothpicksandhaslettucestickingoutofthesides,preferablyalittlewilted.

atthree-thirtyorsolonniemorgancameintoseeme.hewasthesamelongthinwirypieceoftiredandexpressionlesshumanityashehadbeenthenighthedrovemehomefromthejailhouse.heshookhandslistlesslyandrootedinacrumpledpackofcigarettes.

“mr.sherman—that’sthe—saidicouldlookyouupandseewhatyouhave.”

“it’sofftherecordunlessyouagreetomyterms.”iunlockedthedeskandhandedhimthephotostat.hereadthefourpagesrapidlyandthenagainmoreslowly.helookedveryexcited—aboutasexcitedasamorticianatacheapfuneral.

“gimmethephone.”

ipusheditacrossthedesk.hedialed,waited,andsaid:

“thisismorgan.letmetalktomr.sherman.”hewaitedandgotsomeotherfemaleandthengothispartyandaskedhimtoringbackonanotherline.

hehungupandsatholdingthetelephoneinhislapwiththeforefingerpressingthebuttondown.itrangagainandheliftedthereceivertohisear.

“hereitis,mr.sherman.”

hereadslowlyanddistinctly.attheendtherewasapause.then,“onemoment,sir.”heloweredthephoneandglancedacrossthedesk.“hewantstoknowhowyougotholdofthis.”

ireachedacrossthedeskandtookthephotostatawayfromhim.“tellhimit’snoneofhisgoddambusinesshowigotholdofit.whereissomethingelse.thestamponthebackofthepagesshowthat.”

“mr.sherman,it’sapparentlyanofficialdocumentofthelosangelessheriff’soffice.iguesswecouldcheckitsauthenticityeasyenough.alsothere’saprice.”

helistenedsomemoreandthensaid:“yes,sir.righthere.”hepushedthephoneacrossthedesk.“wantstotalktoyou.”

itwasabrusqueauthoritativevoice.“mr.marlowe,whatareyourterms?andrememberthejournalistheonlypaperinlosangeleswhichwouldevenconsidertouchingthismatter.”

“youdidn’tdomuchonthelennoxcase,mr.sherman.”

“irealizethat.butatthattimeitwaspurelyaquestionofscandalforscandal’ssake.therewasnoquestionofwhowasguilty.whatwehavenow,ifyourdocumentisgenuine,issomethingquitedifferent.whatareyourterms?”

“youprinttheconfessioninfullintheformofaphotographicreproduction.oryoudon’tprintitatall.”

“itwillbeverified.youunderstandthat?”

“idon’tseehow,mr.sherman.ifyouaskthehewilleitherdenyitorgiveittoeverypaperintown.he’dhaveto.ifyouaskthesheriff’sofficetheywillputituptothe”