The Silent Hour by Michael Koryta Page A

leaned
back and spread his hands, a what-more-do-you-need gesture.
        I
looked down at the file, stared at Harrison's photograph for a few seconds,
then snapped the folder shut and tossed it on the desk. "You got Graham's
number—"
        
        
        I
called from the office, with Ken listening to my half of the conversation.
        He
didn't hear much. I'd barely begun my explanation when Graham interrupted.
        "Yes."
        "You
still have them—" "No."
        "Damn
it. That's okay, though. That's okay. You said you're in Cleveland—"
"That's right. Now I only—"
        "About
a two-hour drive," he said as if I hadn't spoken. "I have a few
things to finish up, take maybe an hour, then I can head your way. You give me
your address, I can be up there by two, two thirty at the latest." "I
can tell you everything over the phone." "No, no. I'll come up."
        So I
gave him the address. When I hung up, Ken said, "Seem interested—"
"Enough to make a two-hour drive without even hearing the whole
story," I said, and that made Ken smile. Odd. I didn't feel like smiling at
all.
    ----
        

Chapter Eleven
        
        Quinn
Graham arrived just before two, and it didn't take him long to make me feel
like a fool. He was probably in his late thirties, black, with a shaved head
and a thin goatee. Not tall but powerful, with heavy arms and a substantial
chest.
        "So
Harrison explained in the first letter that he was a convicted murderer, and
you chose not to keep that letter or any that followed it—" he asked about
thirty seconds after exchanging greetings.
        "That's
right."
        He
didn't shake his head or make a snort of disgust or a wiseass remark. He looked
at me thoughtfully.
        "Okay.
Probably wanted to get it out of your sight. Is that it— Yeah, I don't blame
you for that, but I wish you'd held on to them. It's a police thing, though.
People with experience tend to be more concerned with potential evidence."
        "I
know," I said. "I used to be a police detective."
        "Oh—"
he said and gave me more of that stare, as if he were thinking it was no real
surprise that I wasn't still a police detective.
        "I
remember the letters quite well, though," I said, "and while I do
wish
        I'd
kept them, I'm not sure how much evidentiary value they would have
offered."
        "We
could have analyzed the language, given it to a profiler. Harrison might have
even been crazy enough to incorporate some sort of code."
        All
right, I was an idiot. What else to say— I waited for him.
        "Well,
they're gone now," he said. "Nothing to do about that."
        "Exactly."
        "You
say you remember them well, so let's hear what you remember."
        I
took him through the sequence as best as I remembered it, offering approximate
dates for the letters, describing each message. Then I told him about
Harrison's visit, the simplicity of his request, and the few brief hours I'd
invested into working his case.
        "Now
when you told him off and said you were done," Graham said, scribbling
notes onto a leather-bound legal pad on his lap, "was that in person or on
the phone—"
        "In
person." I told him about that final meeting.
        "Since
then, no communication—"
        "He
mailed a check."
        Graham
lifted his head. "I assume you cashed it—"
        I
shook my head.
        "Did
you keep that at least—"
        Another
shake.
        He
frowned and scribbled a few more words onto the pad. "So you have no
record of your relationship with Harrison— That's what I'm understanding— No
record at all—"
        "No,
I do not. As I said, I wasn't expecting it would lead to a meeting like this. I
just wanted to end it."
        "So
how did it lead to this meeting—" he asked, looking at Ken for the
first time. "I've spoken to Kenny here, but how is it that the two of you
found each