Email log -- 7/29/20XX

The following email was found on a laptop inside the abandoned vehicle of a missing journalist:

Date: 7/29/20xx, 6:17pm
To: Spencer (swinterroth@---.edu)
From: DSaintsing (d.g.saint@---.com)
Subject: the single most fucked up day in my life

Hey. Tried to call you, but got your voice mail. I didn't leave a message because I just remembered you were teaching a late class. My head is so scrambled I can't think. I thought about driving all the way down there to see you tonight so you could maybe just punch me and tell me to stop being stupid. But I swear this whole thing has got me terrified. You know me -- I don't get rattled, but this, well, let me just tell you what happened.

I was actually in my office for a change, trying to finish up a couple of articles that the editor's punk-ass assistant held up for no reason except he doesn't like me (I think he's jealous actually, or maybe he's in love with me -- don't worry, my heart -- and other, um, parts, will always be yours.). I got a phone call around 3:30 from a police detective saying basically if I didn't get my ass over to where they were and talk to them, they'd get a warrant and arrest me. That was enough to freak me out right there, but I still figured there'd be a logical explanation. It's not like I've never had to deal with cops before when some politician or other gets sick of me asking questions and trying to do my job. The detective wouldn't tell me anything over the phone except that they'd arrest me if I didn't cooperate. So I met them out by the Washington Monument. I kept running through things in my head of what they could possibly want with me, and nothing really made much sense. Of course, when I found out what it was, things made even less sense.

I called Nathan on the way. He wanted to panic -- thought I'd done something like our dad did and was going to end up in jail for it (I'm not that insane yet). But he said he'd meet me there -- for moral support more than legal advice. It's good to have a lawyer for a big brother.

Well, here's where things get real fun. Turns out the cops were narcotics officers. They asked me if I knew a guy named Chester. Nope. You know, all the people I get to meet every day through work and I've never met anyone named Chester. They asked me if I knew a guy named Robert, and well, yeah, I actually know a number of Roberts, but they didn't give me a last name, so that probably had nothing to do with anything. Chester, it seems, is a very reliable informant of their (i.e. junkie who doesn't want to do time) who said I tried to sell him coccaine. Yeah, that's right, I'm a drug dealer now. You didn't know that about me, huh? Neither did I! They didn't seem to want to believe me when I said I didn't know what the hell they were talking about. I mean, this Chester dickhead supposedly lives in a trailer behind some tavern in Alexandria that I've never heard of. Haven't been to a bar since I was in college -- my idea of night life these days is listening to you read me dirty poetry over the phone until two in the morning (we should do that again sometime -- really soon -- or maybe not over the phone.) Of course, at this point, I'm more than freaked out, and Nathan was starting to get pissed. I might have been in shock -- at a loss for words, which I never am. I just kept telling them the same thing over and over. I don't know Chester. I don't know this bar. I don't fucking sell drugs. They said they had my car on surveillance video. They kept asking me if I let someone use my car. They were more prepared to believe this jackass informant than they were me. Eventually, they got tired of listening to me tell the truth and left.

I was too shaken up to drive at that point, so Nathan and I just hung around for a while. And then he started to question me, too -- my own brother! He knows me better than that. I could have punched him for that except I was shaking too hard for that. When I felt calm enough to drive, I followed Nathan back to his place for dinner, and I kept going through all the questions the narcs asked me and I wondered if they've been watching me, tapping my phone, hacking into my computer (if so, I really, really hope they skipped some of our more descriptive exchanges). I kept looking in my rearview mirror to see if I was being tailed. I'm still a little nervous about answering the phone. I got a call when I got back to my apartment. I heard a click on the line, but no one was there. Cars sit in the parking lot with headlights on all the time, but now I wonder if the drivers are cops. I don't know how long it will take me to shake this paranoia, but right now it doesn't feel like it'll ever go away.

Anyway, one of the narcs left a message on my cell phone during dinner. He said they checked the phone records and were no longer interested in me. All that trauma for nothing. I'm glad I didn't answer the phone. The only thing I would have said to him is fuck you. I know, I know, they're doing their job, and that's fine, but fuck! I swear, if I ever meet Chester, I'll kick his fucking teeth in.

Call me when you can. I want to come down and see you this weekend so I can hide in your bed and blubber unabashedly and see if you can think of some way to distract me from this awful nibbling paranoia.

Love you,
Danny