through the machine that stamped it with a postmark—'
I scanned the clipping one more time. 'What I asked you over the phone,' I said, 'was whether there was anything in the letter that absolutely ruled out the possibility of suicide.'
'That's why I suggested a meeting. That's why we're sitting here.
The letter doesn't rule out suicide, except for the fact that Will says he did it, and he's never lied to us in the past. But the postmark rules it out.'
'Because it was mailed before the death happened.'
'You got it. He might have decided to claim credit for Whitfield's suicide. But, good as he is, he couldn't read Whitfield's mind and know ahead of time that he was going to kill himself.'
10
It took me awhile to get away from Marty McGraw. He looked around for the waitress, but she must have been on her break. He shrugged and walked over to the bar and came back with two bottles of Rolling Rock, announcing that he'd had enough whiskey for the time being. He drank from one of the bottles, then pointed at the other.
'That's for you if you want it,' he said. I told him I'd pass, and he said he'd figured as much.
'I've been there,' he said.
'How's that?'
'Been there, done that. The rooms. The church basements. I went to a meeting every day for four months and didn't touch a drop all that time. It's a long fucking time to go without a drink, I'll tell you that much.'
'I guess it is.'
'I was having a bad time of it,' he said, 'and I thought it was the booze. So I cut out the booze and you know something? That made it worse.'
'Sometimes it works that way.'
'So I straightened out some things in my life,' he said, 'and then I picked up a drink, and guess what?
Everything's fine.'
'That's great,' I said.
He narrowed his eyes. 'Sanctimonious prick,' he said. 'You got no right to patronize me.'
'You're absolutely right, Marty. My apologies.'
'Fuck you and your apology. Fuck you and the apology you rode in on, or should that be the Appaloosa you rode in on? Sit down, for Christ's sake. Where the hell do you think you're going?'
'Catch some air.'
'The air's not going anyplace, you don't have to be in a rush to catch it. Jesus, don't tell me I insulted you.'
'I've got a busy day,' I said. 'That's all.'
'Busy day my ass. I'm a little drunk and it makes you uncomfortable. Admit it.'
'I admit it.'
'Well,' he said, and frowned, as if the admission was the last thing he'd expected from me. 'That case I apologize. That all right?'
'Of course.'
'You accept my apology?'
'You don't need to apologize,' I said, 'but yes, of course I accept it.'
'So we're okay then, you and me.'
'Absolutely.'
'You know what I wish? I wish you'd drink a fucking beer.'
'Not today, Marty.'
' 'Not today.' Listen, I know the jargon, all right? 'Not today.' You just do it a day at a time, don't you?'
'Like everything else.'
He frowned. 'I don't mean to bait you. It's the booze talking, you know that.'
'Yes.'
'It's not me wants you to drink, it's the drink wants you to drink.
You know what I'm saying?'
'Sure.'
'What I found out, I learned it helps me more than it hurts me. It does more for me than it does to me.
You know who else said that? Winston Churchill. A great man, wouldn't you say?'
'I'd say so, yes.'
'Fucking Limey drunk. No friend to the Irish either, the son of a bitch. More for me than to me, he was right
