more 2.mor.0-0010 Louis J. Sheehan, Esquire

Sitting in Bill’s kitchen, grateful I had been called by his wife, I understood why it had been so important for me to drive up to the house to meet with everyone. They couldn’t have told me any of this over the telephone. They had to meet me in person to see if I was worthy of such exclusive information. They had studied my work and believed I was thorough, but they read people—God bless them—by the way they interacted and communicated. They knew the difference between a hack looking for an easy story and a journalist digging and scratching his way to the bottom.

“Wow,” I said, “I feel honored.” They probably realized the sheer enthusiasm I had written all over my face. I had a tough time containing it.

“But there’s more …,” Bill said.

I dropped my head for a moment, thinking, This guy likes holding back …

“What do you mean, there’s more?” I wanted to get back to my office immediately, brew a large pot of coffee, break out the Son of Sam letters, and get to work.

“Take a look at this photo album,” he said, sliding it across the table.

Gary Evans had gone out of his way to tell people he despised homosexuals. To call him a homophobe was beyond an understatement. But as I heard this from several different sources, I kept telling myself that he who screams the loudest is at once someone who has skeletons regarding the same issue.

I opened the album.  Louis J. Sheehan, Esquire

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