"I got a column runs three times a week," he said. "You know how many people read what I write, Will or no Will?"

"Quite a few."

"Millions. You know what I get paid to write what I write? Not millions, but close."

"You never had a story like this one before."

"I've had plenty of stories over the years. This town's up to here with stories. Stories are like assholes, everybody's got one and most of 'em stink."

"This was different. You told me so yourself."

"They're all different while you're writing them. You have to think they're special at the time. Then they run their course and you move on to something else and tell yourself it's special, and twice as special as the last one."

"Will was your creation, Marty. You gave him the idea. And he addressed all his letters to you. Every time there was a new development, you were first with it. You showed what you got to the cops, and you were the first person they shared with."

"So?"

"So you couldn't bear to see the story end. Regis Kilbourne was closer than he knew when he compared the case to a Broadway play. When the star left the stage, you couldn't stand the idea of closing the show. You put on his costume and tried to play the part yourself. You wrote letters to yourself and wound up giving yourself away, because you couldn't keep from quoting your own failed play."

He just looked at me.

"Look at the three men you put on Will's list," I said. "A union boss who threatens to shut down the city and a judge who keeps unlocking the jail-house door. Two fellows who manage to piss off a substantial portion of the population."

"So?"

"So look at the third name on the list. The theater critic for the New York Times. Now who the hell puts a critic on that kind of list?"

"I wondered that myself, you know."

"Don't insult my intelligence, Marty."

"And don't you insult mine. And don't ride roughshod over the facts or all you'll get for your troubles is saddle sores. You know when The Tumult in the Clouds opened? Fifteen years ago. You know when Regis Kilbourne started reviewing for the paper of record? I happen to know, because it was in all the obits. Just under twelve years ago. It was another guy reviewed Tumult for the Times, and he died of a heart attack five or six years ago himself, and I swear it wasn't because I jumped out of a closet and yelled 'Boo!' at him."

"I read the Times review."

"Then you know."

"I also read Regis's review. In Gotham Magazine."

"Jesus, where'd you find that? I'm not even sure I read it myself."

"Then how come you quoted it? In the same letter where you talked about Peter Tully's withered hand having the city by the throat, you had this to say about Send-'em-Home Rome." I found it in my notebook. " 'You have not the slightest sensitivity to the feelings of the public, and no concern for their wishes.' That's what you wrote. And here's what Kilbourne wrote about you: 'As a journalist, Mr. McGraw presents himself as one who would rather keep the common touch than walk with kings. Yet as a playwright he has not the slightest sensitivity to the feelings of the theatergoing public, and no concern for their wishes.' "

"I remember the review."

"No kidding."

"Now that you read it to me, I remember it. But I swear I didn't recognize the line in Will's letter. The hell, he quoted my play, he could quote my reviews while he was at it. Maybe the son of a bitch was obsessed with me. Maybe he thought throwing some quotes around, which I didn't even happen to recognize, maybe he thought that was a way to curry favor with me." He looked at me, then shrugged. "Hey, I'm not saying it makes sense, but the guy's a nut. Who can figure someone like that?"

"Give it up, Marty."

"The fuck's that supposed to mean? 'Give it up, Marty.' You sound like some fucking TV show, anybody ever tell you that?"

"Kilbourne's review in Gotham was scathing. The play got negative notices all around, but Kilbourne was vicious, and all of his venom was directed against the play itself and the man who wrote it. It amounted to a personal attack, as if he resented a columnist presuming to write a play and wanted to make sure you never tried it again."

"So? That was fifteen years ago. I had a couple of drinks, I kicked a chair and punched a wall and said a couple of words I never learned from the nuns, and I forgot about it. Why the hell are you shaking your head at me?"

"Because you quoted the review."

"That was Will quoted the review, remember? Will Number Two, and I don't know who he is but he ain't me."

"You quoted the review in your column, Marty." I opened the notebook again and cited chapter and verse, quoting lines from Kilbourne's review that had found their way into various columns Marty had written both before and after the death of Adrian Whitfield. When I finished I closed the notebook and looked at him. His eyes were lowered and a full minute passed without a word from him.

Then, still not looking at me, he said, "Maybe I wrote the letters."

"And?"

"What harm could it do? Keep a good story alive and throw the fear of God into three sons of bitches while you're at it. Don't tell me there's laws against it." He sighed. "I don't mind breaking a law when I've got a good reason. And I don't mind upsetting the emotional equilibrium of three assholes who never gave a rat's ass how many emotional equilibriums they knocked to hell and gone. Or do I mean equilibria? You a Latin scholar, Mattie?"

"Not since high school."

"The kids don't take Latin anymore. Or maybe it's back in again, for all I know. Amo, amas, amat. Amamus, amatis, amant. You remember?"

"Vaguely."

"Vox populi, vox dei. The voice of the people is the voice of God. And I suppose the will of the people is the will of God, wouldn't you say?"

"I'm no expert."

"On Latin?"

"Or on the will of God."

"Yeah. I'll tell you something, Mr. Expert. That first column I wrote? When I more or less told Richie Vollmer to kill himself and do the world a favor?"

"What about it?"

"I meant what I wrote in that column. I never thought it would inspire anyone to homicide, but if the thought had crossed my mind I might have gone ahead and written it anyhow." He leaned forward, looked into my eyes. "But if I ever had the slightest notion that writing more letters from Will would lead to the murder of anyone, Tully or Rome or Kilbourne, I never would have done it."

"And that's what happened? You put the idea in someone's head?"

He nodded. "Unintentionally, I swear it. I gave Adrian the idea and I gave it to this idiot as well."

"You know," I said, "the cops'll break you. You won't have an alibi for the night of Kilbourne's death, or if you do it won't hold up. And they'll find witnesses who can place you on the scene, and they'll find carpet fibers or blood traces or some goddamn thing or other, and they won't even need that because before all the evidence is in hand you'll cave in and confess."

"You think so, huh?"

"I'm sure of it."

"So what do you want me to do?"

"Give it up now," I said.

"Why? So you can have the hat trick, is that it?"

"I've already had more publicity than I want. I'd just as soon stay out of it."

"Then what's the point?"

"I'm representing a client," I said.

"Who? You can't mean Whitfield."

"I think he'd want me to see this through."

"And what's in it for me, Mattie? Mind telling me that?"

"You'll feel better."

"I'll feel better?"

"Havemeyer did. He thought he could commit murder and then go right back to his life. But he found out he couldn't. It was eating him up and he didn't know what to do with it. He was ready to give it up the minute I walked in the door, and he told me he felt relieved."

"You know, he handled the killing part neatly enough," he said. "Havemeyer, I mean. Shot him, ran down the street, got away clean."

"Nobody ever gets away clean."

He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them he said he could certainly use another drink. He caught the waitress's eye, held up two fingers, and made a circular motion. Neither of us said anything until she came to the table with another double round, two double shots with beer chasers for Marty, two more glasses of club soda for me. I still had a glass and a half of soda from the round before, but she took them away, along with Marty's empty glasses.

"Oh fuck it," he said, when she was out of hearing range. "You're right about one thing, you know. Nobody ever gets away with anything. What do you want me to say? I wrote the letters and I killed the son of a bitch. You happy now? What the hell's that?"

I put the tape recorder on the table. "I'd like to record this," I said.

"And if I say no it turns out you're wearing a wire, right? I think I saw that program."

"No wire. If you say no I'll leave it turned off."

"But you'd prefer to record it."

"If you don't object."

"Fuck it," he said. "What do I care?"

26

SCUDDER: Please state your name for the record.

MCGRAW: What bullshit… My name is Martin Joseph McGraw.

S: You want to tell me what happened?

M: You know what happened. You already told me what happened… Oh all right. After the death of Adrian Whitfield I desired as a journalist to maintain the momentum of the story. I sought to do this by writing additional letters.

S: From the person who called himself Will.

M: Yes.

S: Whitfield's last letter wasn't really misaddressed, was it?

M: He got the zip code wrong. That happens a lot but it doesn't delay the mail. We're the Daily News, for God's sake. Even the geniuses at the post office can find us.

S: So his letter arrived-

M: First thing Friday morning. Body was barely cold and there's a letter on my desk claiming credit for it. I took a good look at the postmark, wanting to know when it was mailed and where from, and while I was at it I happened to notice the zip code.

S: And?

M: First thing I thought was it wasn't from Will, because he never made that mistake. Then I read the letter and I knew it was from Will, it couldn't be from anybody else. And he said he was through. There wouldn't be any more letters, there wouldn't be any more victims. He was done.

S: Did you suspect Whitfield wrote the letter?

M: Not at the time. Remember, I'm reading this before there's any speculation about suicide. I don't know the autopsy's going to show he was dying of cancer. I just got the thought that I ought to hang on to this letter and see what happens. What the hell, it could have been delivered late the way it was addressed, so why not give myself time to think it through?

S: And you turned the letter over finally-

M: To spike the suicide theory. It proved Will was the killer. I thought about addressing a new envelope and mailing it to myself, but that could constitute sabotaging the investigation.

S: Hadn't you already done that?

M: I'd delayed it slightly, but a new envelope would establish that the letter had been mailed at a later date than it actually had, and suppose they finally catch up with Will and he can prove he's in Saudi Arabia at the date the letter's postmarked? I wanted to cover my ass without kicking sand over any bona fide clues. And then I remembered the zip code and decided to take advantage of it. So I took the envelope and circled the zip code in red and scribbled 'delayed-wrong zip code' alongside of it. I made the writing illegible enough so you'd believe some postal employee actually wrote it. Anybody examining it would be able to determine when it was actually mailed, and would simply assume it had been delayed somewhere in the system.