The Client by John Grisham

Memphis in five or six hours, stopped once for gas, stopped to buy the gun, and drove off and shot himself. Maybe he stopped for lunch, maybe to buy whiskey, maybe a lot of things. We’re digging.”
    “Why Memphis?” Wally Boxx asked. Foltrigg nodded, obviously approving the question.
    “Because he was born here,” McThune said solemnly while staring at Foltrigg, as if everyone prefers to die in the place of their birth. It was a humorous response delivered by a serious face, and Foltrigg missed it all. McThune had heard he was not too bright.
    “Evidently, the family moved away when he was achild,” he explained after a pause. “He went to college at Rice and law school at Tulane.”
    “We were in law school together,” Fink said proudly.
    “That’s great. The note was handwritten and dated today, or yesterday I should say. Handwritten with a black felt tip pen of some sort—the pen wasn’t found on him or in the car.” McThune picked up a sheet of paper and leaned across the desk. “Here. This is the original. Be careful with it.”
    Wally Boxx leaped at it and handed it to Foltrigg, who studied it. McThune rubbed his eyes and continued. “Just funeral arrangements and directions to his secretary. Look at the bottom. It looks as though he tried to add something with a blue ballpoint pen, but the pen was out of ink.”
    Foltrigg’s nose got closer to the note. “It says ‘Mark, Mark where are,’ and I can’t make out the rest of it.”
    “Right. The handwriting is awful and the pen ran out of ink, but our expert says the same thing. ‘Mark, Mark where are.’ He also thinks that Clifford was drunk or stoned or something when he tried to write this. We found the pen in the car. Cheap Bic. No doubt it’s the pen. He has no children, nephews, brothers, uncles, or cousins by the name of Mark. We’re checking his close friends—his secretary said he had none—but as of now we haven’t found a Mark.”
    “So what does it mean?”
    “There’s one other thing. A few hours ago, Mark Sway rode to the hospital with a Memphis cop by the name of Hardy. Along the way, he let it slip that Romey said or did something. Romey. Short for Jerome, according to Mr. Clifford’s secretary. In fact, she saidmore people called him Romey than Jerome. How would the kid know the nickname unless Mr. Clifford himself told him?”
    Foltrigg listened with his mouth open. “What do you think?” he asked.
    “Well, my theory is that the kid was in the car before Clifford shot himself, and that he was there for some time because of all the prints, and that he and Clifford talked about something. Then, at some point, the kid leaves the car, Clifford tries to add something to his note, and shoots himself. The kid is scared. His little brother goes into shock, and here we are.”
    “Why would the kid lie?”
    “One, he’s scared. Two, he’s a kid. Three, maybe Clifford told him something he doesn’t need to know.”
    McThune’s delivery was perfect, and the dramatic punch line left a heavy silence in the room. Foltrigg was frozen. Boxx and Fink stared blankly at the desk with open mouths.
    Because his boss was temporarily at a loss, Wally Boxx moved in defensively and asked a stupid question. “Why do you think this?”
    McThune’s patience with U.S. attorneys and their little flunkies had been exhausted about twenty years earlier. He’d seen them come and go. He’d learned to play their games and manipulate their egos. He knew the best way to handle their banalities was simply to respond. “Because of the note, the prints, and the lies. The poor kid doesn’t know what to do.”
    Foltrigg placed the note on the desk, and cleared his throat. “Have you talked to the kid?”
    “No. I went to the hospital two hours ago, but did not see him. Sergeant Hardy of the Memphis PD talked to him.”
    “Do you plan to?”
    “Yes, in a few hours. Trumann and I will go to the hospital around nine or so and talk to the kid and