Next, I decided to do something I’d been planning on since this morning – take a spin by the New York Times to talk with Cathy Calvin. It was time for us to have a little sit-down. Or, I guess, smack-down would be more precise. I wanted to know a couple of things. Mainly, where the hell did she get off making up theories and implying that I was her source?

After fighting my way through the crosstown traffic to 42nd Street, I remembered that the Times wasn’t there anymore. I had to think about it before I could place them in their brand-new corporate headquarters on 40th.

I informed the security guy in the shiny new lobby that I was there to see Calvin. He looked up her name and told me she was on the twenty-first floor.

“Wait a second,” he said, as I headed for the elevators. “I need to give you your pass.”

I flashed him my gold shield, clipped to my tie.

“Brought my own,” I said.

The twenty-first floor was deeper than I’d ever been in enemy territory. Along its halls, my shield earned me looks that were divided among shocked, nervous, and dirty. I found Calvin at a cubicle, typing furiously on a keyboard.

“More lies for the late city final?” I said.

She swiveled around toward me, flustered. “-Mike – hey, great to see you.” She put on a friendly smile, but I shut her down cold.

“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t even start about how GQ I look. Just tell me why you’re trying to get me fired. Mad because I wouldn’t spill my guts?”

Her smile disappeared. “I’m not trying… to get you fired,” she stammered.

“I don’t care if you want to make up an unrevealed source. That’s a personal decision. But when you imply that the source is me, it becomes my business.”

“How dare you accuse me of making up something!”

I had to hand it to Calvin on one count – she knew that the best defense was a good offense.

“So you’re saying I did tell you about the killer?” I said. “When was that, exactly? Maybe you have a tape recording or notes to refresh my memory?”

“God, how conceited you are,” she said witheringly. “Did you ever consider just once that maybe there were other sources in the world besides you?”

“So who? Who else could have given you all that ‘it’s just one killer’ and ‘changing outfits to avoid capture’ crap?”

Her face suddenly took on an uncertain expression. “Look, I don’t know if I can talk about this,” she said, standing. “I need to clear it with my? -”

I put a hand on her shoulder and sat her back down again, not roughly but not too gently either. “I’m trying to catch a killer here,” I said. “You better tell me what you know. Everything. Right now.”

Calvin bit her lip, then closed her eyes. “It was him.”

“Him? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I gripped the arms of her chair and leaned my face close to hers. “Open up, Cathy. My patience has worn real thin these last couple of days.”

She was shaken now, I saw with grim satisfaction.

“The killer,” she whispered.

I stared at her in disbelief, feeling like I’d been punched in the face.

“He e-mailed me yesterday afternoon,” Calvin said. “Said he wanted to set the record straight, so there wouldn’t be any confusion. I thought he was just a kook, but then he started describing everything. The what, when, where, and even why.”

I stifled my outrage long enough to get some information. “Tell me the why,” I said. I already knew the what, when, and where.

“He pushed the girl under the train and killed the Polo clerk and the Twenty-one maître d’ because, quote, ‘He’s out to teach this goddamn hole some manners,’ unquote. He also said that regular, decent people didn’t have to worry, but if you were an asshole, your days were numbered.”

“Who the hell do you people think you are, withholding this from the NYPD?” I said. “You can’t possibly be this stupid.”

“Calm down, Mike. My editors have been meeting all day to decide whether we should bring it to you guys. Last I heard, they were leaning toward full disclosure. And here. This will sweeten the deal.” She took a printed sheet of paper off her desk and held it out to me. “It’s his ‘mission statement,’ as he called it. He wants us to publish it.”

I ripped the paper out of her hand.

THE PROBLEM

Some people say the problem today is materialism. I disagree. There is nothing inherently wrong with things, nothing wrong with having money, or with being beautiful or appreciating beauty.

What is wrong is flaunting your things, your wealth, your beauty.

That is the disease.

I love our society, our country. Never before in the history of man has a nation been dedicated to human freedom. But human freedom requires dignity: respect for oneself and for those around them.

In that sense, we have grossly veered off course. Most of us know deep down that the way we behave is wrong. Yet because there are rarely any consequences, we go through with committing our daily acts of disgrace and disrespect.

That’s why I’ve decided to start providing the proper motivation.

The penalty for obnoxiousness is now death.

I can be anyone. That person next to you on the train as you turn up your iPod, the person behind you in the restaurant as you take out your cell phone.

Think twice before you try to pull something you know for a fact you shouldn’t be doing.

I am watching.

Best wishes,

The Teacher

I reread it three times before I put it back down.

It took me only another second to decide my next course of action – to give Cathy Calvin a shake-up that she’d remember for the rest of her life. I unhooked my handcuffs from my belt and chicken-winged her arm behind her back.

“What are you doing?” she cried, now in panic mode.

“Just what you think,” I said. “They’ll read you your rights at the station.”

Her squeals of protest continued, and as I pinched down the second cuff on her slender wrist, a bunch of middle-aged white guys in rolled-up shirt sleeves and bow ties came tromping down the hall.

“I’m the city desk editor,” one of them said. “What in the name of hell is going on here?”

“I’m the city cop,” I said, “and I’m arresting this person for obstruction of justice.”

“You can’t do that,” one of the younger Ivy Leaguers said, stepping in front of me. “Ever hear of something called the First Amendment?”

“Unfortunately, I have,” I said. “I hate that one. You ever hear of something called a paddy wagon? Because that’s where you’re going to be sitting if you don’t get out of my way. Hey, why don’t you all come and finish your editorial meeting at Central Booking?”

Shocked and angered though they were, the reality of the situation prevailed. They backed off, and I perp-walked Calvin past them.

“Shut up and don’t struggle, or I’ll add a resisting charge,” I told her. At least she was smart enough to know she’d better not push me any further. She sniffled and watched me with big tearful eyes, but she didn’t argue anymore.

When the security guy in the lobby saw us, he jumped to his feet, looking astounded.

“Found her. Thanks,” I said.

Outside, I bent Calvin over the hood of my Chevy and left her there while I stepped out of earshot and made a couple of phone calls. They were just to check up on the status of the case, but I wanted her to think that I was arranging her booking.