Storymania - Way To Go George by Richard Kelly

Way To Go George
Richard Kelly

The doctor knocked on the door of the examining room before entering. Without a word of greeting, he sat down at a small table attached to the wall and looked through a folder for several minutes. Finally, he said, "Mr. Perkins, our examination reveals that you have cancer. The malignancy has progressed to the point where surgery would be of little benefit. In cases like this we recommend a series of treatments involving chemotherapy and radiation. Often, the results are quite favorable. Complete remission is a possibility."

George was stunned. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard. There had been no real pain, only some moderate discomfort. He went to see a doctor only because the symptoms had persisted for so long. When put through such an extensive examination, he’d become a little apprehensive, but still, he’d seen no reason to worry. A man of thirty-seven who never had a serious illness could not have anticipated anything like this. But probably most people don’t expect to be told they have cancer.

At the end of the treatment program, which lasted weeks and made him sicker than he had ever been in his life, he found himself in the same examining room facing a solemn doctor. "Mr. Perkins, the therapy has failed to slow the spread of the cancer. The best estimate is that you have twelve to eighteen months to live. You can expect to lose weight and become progressively weaker. There will also be an increase in pain. We can prescribe medication that should control the pain to some degree. Other than that, there is nothing more we can do."

George left the office experiencing surprisingly little distress. In part, this was because he had never really believed the treatments would be successful. But also, following the initial diagnosis, he had begun to question how important it was to continue living. In a way, his life had ended three years earlier when he’d arrived home from a business trip and found a note from his wife on the kitchen table.

Dear George,

I’m sorry to have to tell you this. I have been having an affair with Frank ever since his divorce. We’ve decided we can’t stand being apart any longer, so I am moving in with him. I have taken all of my personal belongings. You are welcome to the rest of the things in the house. I hope you can find happiness without me.

Yours forever,

Jo Ann

It was bad enough to have a seven-year marriage end with only a note. What made it even worse was that George’s wife had run off with his best friend.

*

George first met Frank Wilson when they were assigned as roommates in their freshman year at college. They looked enough alike to be brothers, but the similarity ended there. Frank was witty and charming. He made friends easily, and the coeds found him to be highly attractive. His superior intelligence enabled him to do well in his courses without much effort. This left him with considerable time for the pursuit of his ultimate goal, which was enjoying life to the fullest. For Frank, this meant drinking, parties, and especially sex. He seemed to take particular pleasure in letting others know how women were attracted to him and in describing the details of his sexual conquests.

George was quiet and far more serious. Unlike Frank, he had to spend a great deal of time studying to get passing grades. He told himself that was why he didn’t date or have many friends. The real reason was that he lacked confidence and felt uncomfortable in social situations.

George was easily intimidated and would do almost anything to avoid conflict. Frank took advantage of this. He would wear George’s clothes without asking permission or neglect to pay back money he had borrowed. In spite of these differences, the two became close friends and roomed together during their four years of college.

After graduation, George and Frank ended up working in the same city. They got together regularly to play poker, watch sporting events, and drink a few beers on Friday night. Of course, the thing with Jo Ann ended all that.

Anyone familiar with the world of business would not have been surprised to learn that success came easily to Frank. Within a short period of time, he became very well off financially. He lived in a luxury apartment, drove expensive automobiles, and spent money lavishly. He always seemed to have his choice of beautiful women. Life as a bachelor was so good for Frank that he was past thirty before he married. The marriage lasted less than a year because of his involvement in a series of blatant affairs.

By almost any standard, George was less successful. After college, he managed to get a position with a good firm, but even though he was a conscientious worker, promotions and raises came slowly.

George had lived in the city several years when he met Jo Ann. For George, it was love at first sight. He proposed on their second date and, surprisingly, Jo Ann accepted. Three months later, they were married. George often wondered why someone as beautiful and intelligent as Jo Ann had chosen him as a partner. Whatever the reason, he had felt extremely fortunate.

George recognized that his accomplishments paled next to Frank’s. Though he preferred not to admit it, there were times when he viewed the life of his friend with some envy and resentment. He managed to deal with these disturbing feelings by reminding himself that he had Jo Ann. The loss of her to Frank was, to say the least, devastating.

When Jo Ann moved out of Frank’s apartment after they had been together only a few months, George hoped she might come back to him. In spite of what she had done, he was willing to forgive her. For several weeks, he called her almost every day. Each time, she would hang up as soon as she recognized his voice. It was probably fortunate for George that when the divorce became final, Jo Ann moved to another city. There was no telling how long he might have persisted in the futile attempt to negotiate a reconciliation.

At the time it became clear that he had lost Jo Ann forever, George fell into an even deeper state of despair. Curiously, he found himself working harder than ever. He began staying late at the office, and often he would bring work home on weekends. This was not motivated by any particular desire for success. It was simply because the work kept him from thinking about how dreary and utterly meaningless his life was.

As a result of that dedication, George received a promotion and several substantial raises. Because he found no joy in spending money, for the first time in his life he began to accumulate some savings. He decided to begin investing in a mutual fund he had read about in a magazine article.

There was a period of time when George had attempted to find a replacement for Jo Ann. He was surprised by how eagerly a single or divorced woman would respond to his suggestion that they have dinner together. It was also surprising how pleasant the evenings were. George felt relaxed and conversation came easily. On those occasions when he spent the night with a date, he experienced more gratifying sex than he’d ever had with Jo Ann. But invariably, after a few dates, he began to lose interest. Eventually, he decided he was incapable of becoming involved in any type of lasting relationship and stopped dating altogether.

*

Even though George hadn’t expected the cancer treatments to result in a cure, it took him awhile to become accustomed to the idea that he was going to die relatively soon. His struggle with the dreadful reality had a surprising effect. He had seldom engaged in self-analysis, nor was he inclined to think deeply about life. As he contemplated his own mortality, he became increasingly introspective.

What followed was a period of self-discovery. From George’s perspective, the most important of the newly gained insights, if they could be called that, was the realization that he had lived his entire life without a sense of direction or purpose. His accomplishments could not be attributed to any internal motivation or set of principles, which he assumed guided the lives of others. Instead, they were the result of external forces. He came to understand that he had always done what others expected of him or what the situation demanded. George Perkins, he concluded, was little more than a robot.

George was having a beer after work at a bar across the street from his office one

Friday evening when the idea first came to him. It certainly was not the result of any conscious effort on his part. At the time, he was trying to decide what kind of pizza he should pick up on his way home.

The thing was so ridiculous that George immediately put it out of his mind. Later that evening, after eating a pepperoni pizza and having finished off most of a six-pack, the thought returned, and it didn’t seem quite so absurd. As the weekend went on, he became increasingly preoccupied with the idea, and by Sunday night, he could think of little else.

In a period of forty-eight hours, George had developed an obsession that was to dominate his life. When he tried to read or watch TV, he invariably ended up thinking about the plan, a label he had assigned to the idea as it began to develop. He was unable to concentrate on his work, and he became less productive. That mattered little, for certainly no one could be critical of a man struggling with terminal cancer.

As the details of the plan evolved, George felt a growing sense of purpose and a contentment he had never before experienced. It was the first time in his life he could say he had come even close to being happy. The irony in the fact that his existence had finally taken on meaning as death was rapidly approaching did not escape his notice.

*

In mid-January, George decided any further delay in getting started would increase the risk that he would run out of time. He carefully reviewed the detailed notes he had kept during the previous weeks. After making a couple of minor modifications, he was ready to begin preparations.

First, George sold his shares in his mutual fund and the stock he had accumulated through his company’s employee profit sharing program. The total came to just a little over $12,000.

George cashed the checks from the stock sales on the same day. He asked the teller to give him $9,000 in $100 bills. The rest he put in his checking account. On the way home, he stopped at a business supply store and bought a fireproof storage box, which was designed for keeping valuables. Later, he put the box with the cash inside on the top shelf of the closet in his bedroom.

The next morning at his office, he used the computer to write a letter. When no one was near the copy machine, he made a duplicate. Back at his desk, he carefully tore up the original and dropped the small pieces into a waste basket.

During his lunch hour, George went to a post office and rented a post office box in the name of Gerald Peabody. He also picked up nine postal service envelopes and bought enough stamps to cover postage for them.

At home, George carefully addressed the envelopes, using large block letters, to Gerald Peabody at the new post office box. He sealed each one, put on the stamps, and placed them in the storage box with the copy of the letter.

On the last day of January, George took one of the envelopes out of the box and mailed it on his way to work. Two days later, he picked up a single piece of mail at the post office. That evening, he opened the empty envelope and wrote on it, "RECEIVED FEBRUARY 2." He got the storage box from the bedroom, put the envelope in it, and took out ten $100 bills. The next day he stopped at his bank and deposited the cash in a saving account he had opened the week before.

At the end of February, he mailed a second envelope, which arrived at the post office on March 1st. He wrote on the envelope the day it was received and put it in the storage box. He waited two days before depositing ten more of the remaining $100 dollar bills in his account. That monthly ritual continued throughout the spring and into the summer.

Early in August, George began further preparations. He would be needing a gun. He had no experience with firearms, so he visited several gun shops to learn as much as possible from the salesmen. He also discovered a book, The Shooter’s Bible, which provided him with valuable information. On the basis of his research, he decided a .38 caliber revolver with a long barrel would best serve his purpose. Once the decision was made, he was eager to get his hands on the gun, but the plan required that the purchase be delayed.

The next thing George had to do was to make travel arrangements. He waited until August 20th, his birthday, to contact a travel agent. Then it would seem like a present. He might as well give himself one, he thought. Nobody else would.

He explained to the woman at the agency that he had unexpectedly come into a large sum of money, which he planned to spend on a trip around the world. An hour later, he left with a large bundle of travel brochures and airline schedules.

The following week was devoted to studying the travel literature. There were so many places George wanted to visit that deciding on an itinerary was difficult. He finally settled on an ambitious tour, which would take him to three continents in five weeks. When the travel plans were completed, he got together the material necessary for a passport application.

Two and a half weeks later on Friday, September 18, George was at work. He was tilted back in his chair and his feet were on the desk. That was a violation of company policy, but he could care less. He had worked his butt off for the company for fifteen years. He didn’t owe it a thing. And it was his last day, but no one knew that.

Ever since he had gotten back from lunch, George had been going over the details of the plan in his mind. It had reached the final stage. There were only a few more days to go. He was pleased that the schedule he had set up in January was working out so well.

Before leaving the office that afternoon, he wrote a second letter on the computer. He made a copy and destroyed the original. Later that evening, it went into the storage box along with the first letter.

On Saturday morning, George called gun shops until he located one that had the type of revolver he needed in stock. The rest of the weekend, he reviewed his plans for the coming week. He didn’t want to make any careless mistakes when it was so close to the end.

George was up early on Monday and at the door of the travel agency when it opened. He spent most of the morning there working on the final arrangements for the trip. The agent assured him the tickets would be ready for him by Thursday. He stopped at the bank on the way home and transferred money from the savings account he had opened in January to his checking account to cover the cost of the travel expenses.

He had nothing to do until Wednesday, when he went to the gun shop and bought the revolver. On Thursday afternoon, he picked up the airline tickets.

Friday was a shopping day. George bought luggage that would be suitable for an extended overseas trip, a fine leather passport case, and some supplies he thought might not be available in foreign countries.

That evening, after he finished eating a sausage pizza, he went to the phone and dialed a number he knew from memory. A familiar voice answered.

"Wilson speaking."

"Hello Frank, this is George. It’s been awhile. How have you been doing?"

Frank did his best to cover his surprise, but he was unsuccessful. "I’m doing fine," he answered in an unusually subdued tone.

"I’m calling to ask a favor," George said. "I suspect you think it’s strange after everything that has happened. Of course, you would assume that I must still be angry about you and Jo Ann. At first, I was very upset, but I got over that quickly because I realized our marriage was already a failure. Looking back, I think it was the best thing that could have happened. The last couple of years have been the happiest of my life. I’ve been with several women, and sex has been unbelievably good. Things have gone well at work, so I’m in good shape financially. As far as I’m concerned, the Jo Ann thing is ancient history. You spent time with her, so you know she isn’t all that great. I’ve absolutely no hard feelings. In fact, I think I owe you for getting me out of a bad situation.

"I guess I should have gotten in touch earlier, but I always seemed to be busy, if you know what I mean. Recently, I’ve been dealing with a very big problem. A few months ago, I found out that I’m dying of cancer.

"That’s the reason I called. I need some help, and you’re my oldest and best friend. I have no one else to turn to. Could you come and see me on Monday night? It’s really important."

After some hesitation, Frank responded. "Yes, my schedule is clear that night. I can be there."

"Good, I’d really appreciate it. Would eight o’clock be convenient?"

"That would be all right."

"By the way, we’ve had some drive-by damage to cars parked on the street here in the neighborhood. It would best if you pulled into the driveway."

"Okay, I guess I’ll see you on Monday," Frank said. He hung up the phone abruptly.

George slept until late the next morning. It was almost noon by the time he had eaten a large breakfast. He had just one more thing to do. He got out his new luggage and began packing. It was hard to decide what he would need on a round-the-world trip, so filling two suitcases and a carry on bag took most of the afternoon.

When everything was packed to his satisfaction, George opened a bottle of his favorite German beer and thought about his life in the last few months. He felt a sense of satisfaction in what he had accomplished. It was time for a celebration. After drinking two more beers, he dressed in his best slacks and sport jacket and went out for drinks and dinner at a very expensive restaurant.

George woke up early on Sunday morning experiencing unusually intense pain and weakness. The activity of the past week was beginning to have an effect. He took a heavy dose of pain medication and spent the rest of the day in bed. That night he slept well and was feeling much better when he woke up the next morning.

A minute or two before eight that evening, George heard a car pull in the driveway. He opened the door before Frank had a chance to ring the bell.

"Hi, Frank. Come on in," George said cheerfully. Frank nodded and went over and sat on the sofa looking very much ill at ease.

"There’s a bottle of scotch in the kitchen. Help yourself to a drink and while you’re there fix me a double on the rocks."

When Frank returned and set a drink on the table beside George, his glass was already half empty.

George began to talk about old friends and experiences they had shared in the past. Frank finished his first drink quickly and seemed to relax. George urged him to have another. After a third trip to the kitchen, Frank was a little unsteady on his feet and his speech was slurred. Convinced that the alcohol was having an effect, George changed the subject.

"I want to talk about the reason I asked you to come over tonight. After I’m gone, I want you to take care of my estate. I have a fair amount of equity in the house and a car that is a year old. There will be money in my checking and savings accounts. In my will, I’ve left this all to you. The way I figure it, after you pay the funeral expenses and take care of the estate taxes, there should be several thousand left, in addition to the property. The only other asset I have is some stock I received through the company profit sharing program. You may remember I have a half-sister. She lives in California. We’ve never been close, but I’d like her to have something, so she is to get the stock."

George paused and took a sip of his drink. "Would you be willing to do this for me?"

Frank nodded. "I guess I can take care of things for an old friend."

"Good. I’ll stop over at your place in a couple of days with a package of the materials that you will need. We can go over the details then.

"There’s another thing you should know about. I’ve decided I’m not going to wait around for a slow, painful death. I bought a gun. It’s over there in the cabinet by the fireplace. I’ve never handled one before. I want you to give me instructions on how to use it." George knew that Frank prided himself on his knowledge of firearms.

Frank frowned and shook his head.

"Look, Frank, I’m determined to go through with this whether you help me or not, so there’s no reason for you to feel guilty."

"I have to say that I’m not comfortable about this," Frank said, as he went to the cabinet and took out the revolver. After demonstrating the proper way to hold the gun and squeeze the trigger, Frank started to hand it to George.

George raised his hands. "I don’t want to touch it. Put in the bullets and fix it so all I have to do is pull the trigger."

George watched while Frank loaded the gun and cocked it. "Is it ready to fire?" he asked. Frank nodded. "Good. Just leave it there on the table. I’ll take care of it later."

George seemed to tire. He sat slouched in his chair with his eyes half closed, and he was unresponsive to Frank’s feeble attempts at conversation. After a particularly long silence he said, "Frank, this medicine I’m taking is powerful, and I shouldn’t have had that last drink. I’d better go lie down."

Frank got up from the sofa immediately. "It’s time for me to be going. Give me a call if you need anything." His hasty departure made it clear he was relieved to escape the situation.

George watched Frank back out of the driveway. After writing something on a scrap of paper, he went out to the garage, got in his car, and drove to a convenience store three blocks from his house. He pulled up to one of those pay phones designed to be used by motorists. He dialed a number and spoke briefly to the person on the other end of the line. When he was done, he went back to his house. As he was getting out of the car, he glanced at his watch. The trip had taken nine minutes.

George moved quickly through the kitchen and into the living room. Using his right hand, he carefully picked up the revolver from the table where Frank had left it. He grasped it by the barrel, so that the muzzle was pointed at his chest. He stepped to the middle of the room and aimed the gun at a spot slightly to the left of his breastbone. There may have been the trace of a smile on his face when he put the part of his left index finger between the first and second joints on the trigger and pushed.

*

Three days later, at 5:38 in the evening, Frank was pouring himself a second Swedish vodka on the rocks when the doorbell rang. He went to the door expecting an unannounced visit from one of his female friends. Instead, he was greeted by two men dressed in dark suits.

"Are you Frank Wilson?" the taller one asked.

"Yes," Frank said, looking somewhat puzzled.

"I’m Sergeant Gibbons. This is officer Beatty. We’re from the city homicide division. We have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of George Perkins.

Frank started to protest, but the one who identified himself as Gibbons began that thing Frank had heard on TV cop shows about having the right to remain silent and to have an attorney present.

As soon as Gibbons was finished, Frank responded. "This is insane. I don’t need an attorney. I didn’t even know that George was dead."

Gibbons nodded. "We’re taking you into custody."

Frank sat handcuffed in the back seat of the squad car on the way to the police station trying to figure out what was going on. The alcohol in his bloodstream slowed his thought processes enough that it took him awhile to realize what must have happened. "How did George die?" he asked.

Neither officer seemed willing to answer, so Frank tried again. "It was a gunshot wound, wasn’t it?" This time Gibbons nodded.

So, thought Frank, asshole George shot himself, and the stupid police are trying to make it into a murder. "Who’s in charge of this investigation? I demand to talk to him immediately."

Frank had to wait for a response from Gibbons. "Lieutenant MacCauley, Chief of Homicide, is in charge. He may be willing to see you if he hasn’t gone home for the day."

At the station, Frank was left alone in a small room furnished with a table and four chairs. He was making plans to file a suit for false arrest, which would result in an enormous settlement, when the door opened.

Sergeant Gibbons came in first carrying a heavy file folder. He was followed by a tall, thin man with neatly trimmed gray hair who was wearing a well pressed dark suit, white shirt, and what appeared to be a silk tie. The idea flashed through Frank’s mind that this wasn’t what he’d expected a police lieutenant would look like. Both men took chairs across the table from Frank.

"I’m Lieutenant MacCauley. I understand you wanted to talk with me."

Frank leaned on the table with his fists clenched. "I certainly do. I want to get this situation cleared immediately. I have a social obligation tonight."

"Sergeant Gibbons tells me that you have been read your rights, and that you have chosen not to have an attorney present. Is that correct?"

"That’s right. Like I told your cops, there’s no reason for me to need an attorney."

The lieutenant glanced at the officer sitting at his left and nodded. Then he looked back at Frank. "George Perkins died of a gunshot wound at his home on Monday night."

"That’s what I was told."

"You visited Perkins that night."

"I don’t know how you found out, but it doesn’t make any difference. George and I were old friends. We go back a long way. He called me late last week and told me he was dying of cancer. He asked me to come over on Monday night because he had something important he wanted to discuss. When I got there, he asked me if I would take care of his estate after he was gone. I didn’t feel comfortable about it, but he was so insistent, I finally agreed."

MacCauley interrupted. "It’s very unusual for a friend to handle an estate. Ordinarily, family members do that."

"George’s situation was different. His only living relative was a half-sister he hadn’t heard from in years."

"Did Perkins give you any materials, a will, information on where you could locate his assets or anything like that?"

"No. He told me he was going to get the papers I would need later. While I was there, he talked about committing suicide. He said he didn’t want to suffer."

"So, you’re telling me that Perkins took his own life?"

"Of course he did. In fact, when I was there on Monday, he told me he’d just bought a gun. He didn’t have any experience with firearms, so he asked me to show him how to use it. I gave him a demonstration. It was a .38 caliber revolver with a long barrel. Frank was so out of it he didn’t know how to put the shells in the chamber, so I loaded it for him."

"It seems strange that he chose to commit suicide before he got the papers to you."

"I have to tell you that George was not the smartest guy in the world. He was never very good at planning ahead. There’s no way you can make a murder case out of this. It’s a clear and simple case of suicide."

MacCauley shook his head. "That’s not the way it looks to us. Perkins died from a gunshot wound to the chest. There was a revolver lying on the floor near the body. The killer tried to make it look like suicide, but he made some mistakes. We found two sets of prints on the weapon. Perkins’ prints were only on the barrel. The prints of a second person were on the grip. These same prints turned up on the cartridges in the chamber. The evidence clearly indicated that it wasn’t Perkins who loaded the gun and pulled the trigger. His prints on the barrel of the gun were most likely the result of his attempt to pull it away from the killer."

MacCauley paused to look in the folder on the table. "A 911 call was made on Monday at 9:37 p.m. The caller reported that he was getting into his car when he heard what sounded like a gunshot. It came from a house a short distance from where he was parked. He saw a man run out of the front door, get into a car parked in the driveway, and drive off at a high rate of speed. He was able to give the address of the house and the license number of the car. It was one of those special vanity plates, so it was easy to remember. The vehicle was registered to a Frank Wilson."

Frank started to interrupt, but before he could get the words out, MacCauley continued. "The call was traced to a pay phone at a convenience store a short distance from Perkins’ house. The caller refused to give his name and left the area before the investigating officers arrived at the scene.

"A box was found in one of the bedrooms in the house. This was in it." MacCauley took out an envelope from the file and passed it across the table to Frank.

Frank examined the envelope and threw it back at MacCauley. "I never saw this before, and I don’t know the person it’s addressed to."

MacCauley showed Frank a stack of envelopes. "There were nine of these in the box. The postmarks indicate one was mailed on the last day of every month beginning in January. A notation was made on each one showing that it was received a day or two later.

"Now I want you to look at the copies of two letters that were found in the box along with the envelopes." MacCauley handed one of the letters to Frank. "Note, this was dated two weeks before the first envelope was mailed."

January 16th

Dear Frank,

I’m not sure you took me seriously when I called you last night. I wasn’t drunk like you suggested. To prove I was serious about this, I’m sending you a copy of a page of the documents I described to you. As you will see, it could put you away for a long time.

I’ve enclosed a dozen stamped envelopes. They are addresses to a false name at a post office box. I don’t want anything coming to my house. If an envelope doesn’t arrive by the first of the month with ten $100 bills enclosed, I will turn the documents over to the authorities. I’ll send more envelopes when these run out.

Your friend,

George

P.S. You’re probably wondering how I got these documents. Let’s just say they came from someone you made very unhappy and would enjoy getting even.

When Frank was finished reading, MacCauley handed him the second letter. "This one was dated ten days before Perkins died."

September 18th

Dear Frank,

I thought I’d better write you a letter after our phone conversation, so I can be sure you understand the new arrangement. You are going to be off the hook soon. I have untreatable cancer, and I don’t have much time left. I want to do some things before I die that are going to cost money. You are to come to my house a week from next Monday with a cashiers check for $25,000 payable to me. (I would accept cash in $100 bills if you would prefer.) In exchange, I’ll give you all of the original documents I told you about. I won’t be needing them anymore. I think you’ll agree you’re getting them at a bargain price.

I’ve notified you far enough in advance that I’m sure you can come up with the money. If you don’t show up on time, you know what I’ll do.

Your friend,

George

Frank read the letter quickly. "What in the hell is going on here? I never got these letters."

MacCauley ignored Frank’s outburst. "There was a bankbook in the box. Perkins opened a savings account at the end of January. Each month, a day or two after the envelopes arrived, he deposited $1,000. Apparently, he went to the same teller almost every time. She recognized Perkins’ picture and remembered the transaction because the money was always in $100 bills."

"I certainly didn’t give George that money," Frank said angrily.

MacCauley gave Frank a reproachful look and continued. "The box also contained a newly issued passport and a plane ticket for a trip around the world. In the bedroom, there were two packed suitcases. These aren’t the kinds of things you’d expect to find if a person were planning to commit suicide. By the way, Perkins mentioned to the travel agent that he could afford to do some traveling because recently he had unexpectedly received a substantial amount of money.

"We traced the gun that was used in the killing. It was purchased at a gun shop five days after the second letter was dated by a man using the name George Perkins. The salesman reported that he was a little suspicious at the time because the customer wore a baseball cap pulled down over his face and seemed to be very nervous. He described a white male, mid to late thirties, six feet tall, one hundred and seventy-five pounds. You fit the description. I’m confident the salesman will give a positive identification."

Frank finally saw an opportunity to dispute the accusation. "Hold it right there," he said excitedly. "You need to provide identification to buy a gun. I couldn’t have gotten one using George’s name."

MacCauley shook his head slowly. "You only need a driver’s license. There’s a big market for fake IDs. Teenagers want them so they can buy alcohol. I’m sure you didn’t have any difficulty finding someone who could supply you with the license you needed."

"Get me to a phone," Frank demanded. "I want to call my lawyer."