Continued, The Correspondent
The flowers were all decapitated. Every bloom and bud snipped and left on the ground.
Harry was out early to take the dog to the bathroom and he came running back inside.
When I stepped out, everything was green, a monotone jungle, but the blooms littered the ground like the candy from a pinata.
We went around and collected them, then tossed them in the bin.
Without stems one cannot even put them in glasses.
I felt numb. Rather, I felt resigned to the inevitable.
My neighbor Theodore, himself something of a gardener, came by shortly later, knocking on the door, upset by the obvious massacre, and so with Harry and Theodore in the kitchen asking questions it came out about the notes I have received from the angry individual with the initials “DM.” It had been quite some time since the last one, so I’d thought perhaps it was over.
I told them it was someone needling me from back in the courthouse days, but I couldn’t bear to show them the notes, so I said I’d thrown them out (though of course I have not).
Theodore said he was going to call the police, but I would not let him.
Cutting flowers from their stems is no crime; it’s only April and many of the bushes will bloom again.
What evidence do I have but the letters, which I could not bear to show them.
My houseguest Harry is different, though.
He is fortunate to lack a certain civilized propriety that makes the standard person self-censor.
He continued asking questions later that evening.
I feel a certain openness with Harry. We are alike.
We also have an established commitment to discreet confidence with one another.
I showed him the notes. He studied them quietly for some time and the first question he asked me was if I knew who DM was.
I said I thought I probably did know. There are some cases that stay with me, and one in particular, and it—Oh, Colt.
If I could rewind the clock—do certain things differently.
I have really made such a mess of things.
He watched me for some time and after a bit Harry got up and ran me a glass of cold water.
He set it down on the table and then he went to the drawer beneath the phone and took a slip of notepaper and a pencil and set them down in front of me, too.
I wrote out the name and the date of the case and he asked me what I needed.
Enzo Martinelli. I can still see him. I said an address would be sufficient.
I went to bed, and in the morning there was a list of options he had found, so now I have it.
Oh, Colt.