Free Right To Die - Jeremiah Healy by Jeremiah Healy Page A

Andrus's
people?"
    "Nah. Just sent the notes on through. They even
did that Sherlock thing, the computer search out to 1010 Commonwealth
there?"
    Neely suddenly straightened a little. "Look,
Cuddy, I'm no brain trust, but I know what's what, okay? I keep up
with things the best I can. The staties didn't find no match with any
of the prints they got on file."
    "I give you some names, will you run them
through too?"
    "See if anybody's got a sheet?"
    "Yes."
    "Sure, I'll do that. Sure." He rifled his
pockets for a pad and pen. I gave him O'Brien, Doleman. and Yary from
the threat files, then Walter Strock as well.
    Neely scratched his forehead. "Strock?"
    "Something?"
    "Not sure. I'll run it. You got social security
numbers on any of these guys?"
    "No."
    "How about D.O.B.s?"
    "Just the addresses."
    "Even so, gonna get a hell of a list for the
O'Brien, although thank Christ it ain't 'John' or 'James,' computer'd
be burping all fuckin' night. I'll still give it a try for you."
    The waitress came over with a bowl of salted peanuts.
Neely thanked her, his fingers plowing through the nuts like the
blades of a backhoe.
    He said, "Anything else you need?"
    I decided to follow Murphy's advice. "You get
many of these threat things, Neely'?"
    "Aw, you know how it is. Runs in cycles. Broad
like this Andrus, though, she probably could hire a stevedore, haul
them away for her."
    I told him about the drawerful of folders.
    "That's my point. I get one of these, I end up
chasing after scumbags write the kinda fan mail you wouldn't wish on
Geraldo there. Jesus, Cuddy, every day some shithead sees somebody
new on the tube, he decides to make the lady his personal project,
you know? Guy can barely read the labels in a Seven-Eleven writes a
love poem. I then jerks off into the envelope before he licks it.
Whaddaya gonna do?"
    "Okay if I follow up on the names? Go talk to
them?"
    "Fine. Let me just tell you, think about what
you want to have happen here."
    "What do you mean?"
    "Start with the Secret Service, okay?"
    The Secret Service. "Okay."
    "Now, they got thousands of guys, no shit, got
nothing better to do than guard a couple of big shots like the
President and all, maybe total with the Kennedy kids and Truman's
widow, total twenny, twenny-five."
    The Kennedy children were now over-age, and Mrs.
Truman left us in the early eighties, but I didn't want to wreck
Neely's train of thought.
    "And even the Secret Service can't keep track of
all the scumbags writing letters and making phone calls. The calling,
I gotta admit, that's gonna slow down some, now they got these
computers, you can see the number the guy's at with this little
screen thing on your phone there. 'Course, soon's the scumbag union
finds out about the screens, they'll just call from some pay phone
and a different one every time.
    "But your letter-writing scumbags, now, they're
different. All's you got is the handwriting and the postmark and
maybe, just maybe, the saliva or cum juice or whatever the fuck other
fluid they leave on the envelope, right? Only there's got to be
enough of that for some other kind of test that even 1010 don't do
but has to farm out. So, you see what I'm saying here?"
    "Even with better physical evidence, not much
chance of actually tracing the sender."
    "Right, right. And not only that. What does your
client really want?"
    "Want?"
    "Yeah. She want the scumbag to just stop or she
want him hung by the balls too?"
    "Probably both."
    "Yeah, well, probably the best you're gonna be
able to do for her is scare him off. Even if you catch the guy in the
act somehow, what's a judge gonna do with him? Twenty days down to
Bridgewater for observation in the rooms with the cushy walls? Shit,
we're letting real bad dudes walk now, there ain't enough cells in
all the slams to hold 'em."
    "Good point."
    "Yeah. Hey, look, I don't wanna come across like
some lug, got no feelings. Jesus, I was the one getting these notes,
especially the one by hand in the mailbox there, I'd be