“WHY DID MAZURICH DIE, MR. MAXWELL?”
“My friend, you are the latest in a long line of conspiracy theorists. I have more letters on who killed Council President Mazurich than you’d ever care to write.”
“Mr. Maxwell—”
“You want to know what I have? Police reports, forensic reports, digital images of the scene. The man killed himself. If there was anything to any of these conspiracy—”
“Mr. Maxwell—”
“I’d be the first to report it—”
“Mr. Maxwell!”
I stopped talking for a moment.
“Mr. Maxwell, I am not delusional. I offer you nothing that cannot be substantiated. I am aware that he killed himself.”
“What then?”
“Why did he kill himself?”
I remained quiet.
“Mr. Maxwell?”
“Okay,” I said, “why did he?”
“Not over the phone. My life is in danger. I’ve talked too long already. Meet me in the Old Arcade at 6:30.”
“How will I know you?”
“I will know you . . .”