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After a few weeks, I just drained the small savings we had, climbed in my old GMC pickup truck, and drove away. The truck finally gave up the ghost somewhere on the southern Oregon coast, I walked off and left it. Months passed, then a couple of years. I was drunk most of the time, and messed up on other things, to this day I couldn’t tell you what. I found a small group of others that hung out on the East side of Portland. One day became another, we would go out and sit on the sidewalk and beg quarters from passersby. Most would walk around us, not seeing. A few would hand us change, and there were lots of places where we could get a meal for free. One spring morning in 1978 I was sitting there, half sick and hungover, trying to get enough change for a bottle. Through the blur I noticed some white stockings, I looked up and this lady in a nurse’s uniform was standing there saying something to me. I was mumbling something about out of work or too hurt to work, all I really remember. The detective had slipped up in that respect. That tiny slip gave him renewed hope. MacIntosh was fishing, he didn't have enough to go on and he was desperate for Kenny to break. That knowledge helped stiffen his resolve and he continued to repeat his answers."I didn't order anyone to harm Mr MacGhee. I did not ask the Hamiltons or this Jason Welsh to do anything, certainly not to murder someone. The details in my notebook are all about my idea for a novel."His growing sense of relief and renewed hope was suddenly punctured. Like the experienced interrogator that he was, Drew had let the suspect build up a false sense of security and then he moved dramatically to rip it away."How do you explain this then?" he asked, putting a single sheet of A4 paper in front of Kenny.Kenny blanched as he quickly skimmed the words on the page. Somehow the detective had managed to get hold of his first e-mail to Mark MacGhee."This is an e-mail from you to the journalist. Your own words condemn you.
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