27. It’s time to go to the police
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My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.
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So how’s this work?
I live in the Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan. Do I walk over to the police station on West 20th and the tell the officer behind the counter about a guy name Ace, some condoms he had 30 years ago, a dead senator, Spanky’s ashes, my old letterman’s jacket, a corrupt coroner, and a Steelers license plate?
Yeah, right.
And just what if some New York City cop did hear me out, does what I know have anything to do with New York City? Other than I happen to sit there when writing this blog.
Nah, the police-in-my-neighborhood thing is not going to work.
So do I take a train back to Pittsburgh, walk into a random police station there, and tell a Pittsburgh police officer about a guy name Ace, some condoms he had 30 years ago, a dead senator, Spanky’s ashes, my old letterman’s jacket, a corrupt coroner, and a Steelers license plate?
Maybe.
But knowing what I now know (more on that later), nothing would happen. It turns out that I can’t trust the Pittsburgh police or prosecutors. I might even be the next dead old buddy.
Nah, I gotta stay away from the Pittsburgh police.
Do I go see small town Police Chief Jim and tell him about a guy name Ace, some condoms he had 30 years ago….
Nah. Same situation as Pittsburgh. I would soon be dead.
So the police are out.
I have a drink.
I know! I’ll go to the press! It’ll be dramatic. I’ll have my Woodward and Bernstein and Deep Throat moment.
Tomorrow: The good old Fourth Estate
