“It’s sealed, taped to the bathroom mirror.”
Ray got up.
“No!” I said. “I told you, it’s sealed.”
“So we’ll reseal it!” Ray said, heading for the bathroom.
“It’s for his eyes only,” I said, getting up and going after him. I don’t want you reading it!”
“I bet it’s a love letter!” Ray shot ahead of me.
“It is not!”
Ray got to the mirror first and snatched the middle envelope of the three, the one clearly addressed to Captain Feliciano.
“Ha-ha!” Ray said, backing up to stand in the bathtub. “I’ve got it.” He ripped open the envelope, started reading it, and began to laugh. “Oh, this is great! I love suicide notes!”
“Give it to me!” I said, reaching out for it.
Ray snatched it away and started reading it aloud:
“ ‘Dear Tony’ — Tony, eh? You two are that buddy-buddy? You don’t call him captain? Oh, well, never mind — ‘Dear Tony, What you see is the end result of my wasted life. I don’t know what ever kept me going this long. I guess it was you. You were always there for me when the going got tough. If it weren’t for you, I don’t think I would have even lasted this far.’ — Oh, Tom, this is a riot! — ‘But it’s all catching up with me, Tony. I’m a bad cop, and you know it. I can’t walk into any situation without my gun going off and leaving somebody dead. No matter what you say, this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. Someone should have taken me off into a room somewhere and punished me.’ — Oh, now you’re asking Captain Tony for a spanking! Tom’s been a bad boy! — ‘I don’t deserve to wear this badge. But what else can I do? This was my last chance. If I’m a failure at this, I’ll be a failure at everything else. I’ve failed at life. I’ve got no choice but to end it. Sorry for being such a screwup. Don’t bother sending flowers to the funeral. Save the money for yourself and Stella. Good-bye forever— Tom.’ ”
“Give that to me,” I said, finally snatching it away.
“Tom, that is so precious!” Ray said. “Can I have a copy? I could just run this down to the Kinko’s around the corner—”
“No. Get away from me.”
“Oh, Tom! Don’t be like that!”
“I think you’re the one who’s got the hots for me, Ray,” I said, heading back to the kitchen table.
“I shall but love thee better after death,” Ray said. “That’s Elizabeth Barrett Browning, you know.”
“I used to own a Browning,” I said.
I put the letter back in the envelope, resealed it with cellophane tape, and posted it back up on the bathroom mirror.
“What do the other letters say?”
“More of the same. Don’t you dare touch them.”
I grabbed Ray’s collar and threw him out of the bathroom.
“Hey!” he said.
“In fact, I think you’d better leave.”
“Oh, no, Tom. I’ve got to stay and make sure you follow through with this. You might turn back, for all I know. I’d hate to come back here tomorrow and find you’re still alive.”
“Beat it. Out. Sayonara. Asti Spumante.”
I gave him a push toward the front door.
“I knew it,” he said. “You’re chicken. You don’t want me around because you’re too chicken to go through with it. You’re not man enough. You don’t have what it takes to put that gun in your mouth and blow the back of your head off. You’re more of a pansy than I am, Thomas.”
“Shut up,” I said.
“Pansy, pansy, pansy,”
“I said shut up!”
“The minute I’m out that door, you’re going to turn around and pout and say, ‘Oh my God! What was I thinking? I can’t go through with it! I love life so much! Life is so good!’ And then you’re going to put your gun away, lock it up in its box, get it out of your sight, and try to get it out of your mind. You’ll go back into your bathroom, rip those suicide notes off the mirror, tear them into confetti, and flush them down the toilet. You’ll look at yourself in the mirror and thank your lucky stars that your gun jammed and you’re still alive. Only I bet it didn’t jam on its own. You fixed it up that way.”
“I did not,” I protested.
“Did too,” Ray said. “It wouldn’t be so hard. You knew just what to do to make that bullet lodge there in the chamber. Maybe you did it unconsciously. Whatever, you didn’t want to do it. Why not? Because you’re weak! You’re not a man at all. You’re just a fluffy little kitten, playing a fun game with a bright, shiny toy. And when the kitten gets tired of playing, it curls up in its little basket and falls asleep. Beddy-bye. Nighty-night. Sweet dreams, little kitty.”
I held Ray by the front of his shirt and gave him a left uppercut to the jaw. He swayed, but I held him up.
“Oh, Tom,” he said. “You didn’t have to hurt me. But the fact that you did only proves my point. What I’m saying is true. You don’t have what it takes to kill yourself. You’re pathetic.”
I let go of Ray, went back to the kitchen table, and stared at the gun. I picked it up and put the last of the parts in place. I slammed the clip firmly into the grip and loaded one more slug directly into the chamber.
“It’s all set to go, now,” I said.
Rubbing his jaw, Ray came back and sat down across from me.
“You sure you’re going to be able to do it?” he asked.
“Sure, I’m sure.”
“If you can’t quite manage it, you could let me.”
“No thanks. I can do it myself.”
“No one would ever know,” Ray said. “I could kill you myself, and no one would ever know. Just by putting that gun in my hands and letting me do the job, why, I’d be a murderer. But you’ve got those notes all neatly prepared — for your landlord, your captain, your mother — and no one would ever suspect a thing. I’ve got no connection to you. We’ve never seen each other before. The only person who knows you called is me, and I won’t tell anyone!”
“That won’t be necessary. I can take care of myself.”
“I’m not so sure,” Ray said. “Let’s see you do it.”
“You better stand back,” I said, turning the Glock around toward me, just outside my mouth. “It might get messy.”
“I know where to sit to get out of the way,” Ray said. “I’ve done this dozens of times.”
“You’ve what?”
“You don’t believe me? You think you’re the only special person in the universe? That’s not the first time I’ve run that ad, you know. You’re a cop, you’re probably aware of how many people commit suicide in this city every year. A lot of them call for help. Some call me. I try to talk them through it over the phone, but every once in a while I get a really special case — like you — and no matter what time of day or night it is, I drop what I’m doing and come over to see how I can help. I was asleep when you called tonight, did you know that? Yet I hopped out of bed and came on over. How’s that for dedication?”
“Then it’s not really a twenty-four-hour help line, is it? When you’re over here helping me, you’re not taking calls.”
“I can only help one person at a time, you know.”
I had the muzzle almost to my mouth, but I was curious:
“How many suicides have you witnessed, exactly?”
“I’ve lost count. Funny, isn’t it? You’d think that a guy like me would keep a log or something to keep track, but I don’t bother with it. Each customer deserves my undivided attention. I don’t want them ending up just another statistic. I don’t always just witness, you know. Sometimes I assist. It’s perfectly legal, you know.”
“Bull.”
“Assisted suicide? Of course it is! Dr. Kevorkian paved the way. I bet he’s lost count of all his assisted suicides.”