"What makes you think I'm writing the letters?"
"Tell him," Salerno said impatiently. "Maybe he'll listen to reason."
"Will you behave yourself if I show you?" Fink asked.
Lennox nodded. There was a last fanfare off and then dead silence as the dress ended. Fink took a manila envelope out of his pocket and produced the poison pen letters. He unfolded one and pointed to the hysterical scrawl.
"See? Five words to a line. In every letter. Five words to a line, no more, no less. That's an old telegrapher's habit, from counting ten word messages. We checked this program. You're the only ex-telegrapher working it. You're a professional telegrapher from twenty years back, when you were a kid in this town on Long Island."
"Islip," Lennox croaked. "Yes."
"And we found your prints in the envelopes."
"I handled the envelopes," Lennox said desperately. "When Grabinett showed me the letters."
"I didn't say on the envelopes. I said in the envelopes. We found your prints inside, under the flap, but the envelopes were slit open at the end. The only one who could leave prints inside there is the one that put the letter in the envelope and sealed it. Now come on, Lennox. Don't make it tough."
"For God's sake, Bob! How could I write them and not know about it? I was scared. I was out of my mind trying to find who it was. How could it be me?"