Final Jeopardy

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I sat on my living-room sofa at five o’clock in the morning with a copy of the mock-up of the front page of the day’s New York Post in my hand, looking at my own obituary.

The headline I was reading had been prepared hours earlier, when the cops thought that it was my head that had been blown apart by a rifle blast on a quiet country road in a little Massachusetts town called Chilmark.

“SEX PROSECUTOR SLAIN – FBI, STATE TROOPERS JOIN SEARCH FOR KILLER‘

Mike Chapman sat opposite me as he worked on his second egg sandwich and lukewarm cup of coffee. He had brought them along with the news story, and in the fashion of an experienced Homicide detective he continued chewing even as he described to me the details of the murder scene – bullet holes, blood spatter, and body bag.

“Good thing you’ve been a source for so many stories at the Post all these years. It’s a very complimentary obit…"

He stopped eating long enough for that familiar grin to emerge, then added, “And a great picture of you – looks like they airbrushed most of your wrinkles out. Your phone’ll be ringing off the hook once all those lonely guys in this city realize you’re still alive – maybe you’ll get lucky.”

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