The Perfect Murder (21 page)

I suppose I should tremble at writing this letter. But, as I said before, you each have more to fear from one another, than I of you. But I also can’t see any of you actually going through with what I comfortably have set out to do—dark, grisly murder. Each of you is certainly outfitted with the proper genius (which I have borrowed, thank you) and the appropriate measure of rage, but each of you lacks the arrogance to push yourself beyond the page and to the knife. It is the difference between, say, Boswell and Johnson.

There is another reason I have little to fear, either as a threat to my life or as a threat of releasing these papers. Mr. Hillerman informs me he has made copies of my acid-soaked notes. Have you, now? And what do you think I have done with yours? Let them decompose in a folder? You threaten to expose me as a murderer, which is what I am. Where is the revelation? I, in turn, threaten to expose each of you as a murderer’s accomplice, which you—at least for now—are not. No, each of you holds close to your heart the belief that the laurels of immortality await you. No doubt they do. That is why I wrote you in the first place. But imagine if the stench of murder fouled your perfumed reputations? You understand the modern media as well as I do. Television—their chief engine—makes no distinction between fame and notoriety. Each of you would immediately lose that precious epithet you have spent a lifetime earning: “Oh, Caudwell. Oh, Lovesey. Oh, Block. Oh, Westlake. Oh, Hillerman. You mean, the
writer!”
What if, instead, the rabble of fans were heard to mutter, “You mean the one who got caught up in that famous murder?” Your reputation would become a subset of my own.

No, I am not worried. I am protected by a mantle more lasting than bronze, by a shield harder than any of the flimsy armaments in the Pentagon’s depot. Between me and harm’s way stands the ego of a great writer.

So, I don’t think any of you can expect to discover who wins the blue ribbon in a thank-you note. That wouldn’t be sporting or courteous. How could I tell you which solution I had chosen before I carried it out? You might not kill me, but you would certainly try to queer my plans. I would almost have to count on it. No, on occasion, you shall have to check your newspapers and magazines (the better ones, mind you; avoid the tabloids; this story will be too refined to pierce the calloused sensibilities of such editors). Trust me, media manipulation is an old hobby of mine. Until that time, rest comfortably knowing that our correspondence is safety copied on heavy bond of the best thread, and that in my spare time I have reread these missives, and considering how noble the epistolary exchange is as a literary tradition and how fine these letters read when taken as a single work, I have thought about submitting them to the editors of one of the finer houses. I realize there is risk in it, and yet, why not? The millennium approaches.