My name is Len Brimer.
I write for theDaily News.
I was given your number by a woman from your squad.
No comment for now.
Im still trying to run down some leads.
No, you dont understand.
Im not calling as a reporter.
Im actually involved in the case.
At least, maybe.
That jumper from the hotel?
I think I was on my way to meet him before he died.
What do you mean, you think?
Its a kind of a long story.
Before Alfred Hitchcock could show up, I crossed the sidewalk to a Garment District pub called The Liffey.
Brimer showed up a little later.
He was a tall dude, six four, six five; in his thirties; balding but athletic-looking.
Wearing black wind pants and a gray Hofstra hoodie, he looked like a basketball coach.
Okay, Detective, heres what happened, Len Brimer began after we were seated in a booth.
That I was a reporter or whatever.
That sounds weird enough, I said as the waitress brought me a Bud Light pint.
It gets weirder, Brimer said.
A huge story about the government?
Like a whistle-blower sort of thing?
He was vague, but that was the kind of gist I got, Brimer said, nodding.
That it had to be me.
And also not to tell a soul.
He was adamant about that.
He sounded pretty paranoid.
Did he have any sort of accent?
From New York, you think?
Maybe not New York, but he sounded normal.
So I go there and nothing.
I talked to the bartender.
She said she remembered him, but he left.
I even spoke to the desk clerk to see if hed left a message.
But there was nothing.
What time did you get there?
Yeah, we think he was already dead by then.
I knew it, Brimer said, scrunching his face as he stared down at the table.
I tell ya, I feel like crap.
Did you speak to your brother about any Charlie in his frat?
So now our mystery man was some kind of whistle-blower?
