Case! Listen to me, I 'm starting to even sound like a detective! For the past few months, though, I've felt more like one than ever before. I've been querying here and there, searching for the tiny threads that would support the big threads which would tie the whole thing together when I finally took all the information to the York County district attorney. There I go again, sounding like a damned cop! I have to keep reminding myself that I'm not a cop, nor a detective, nor a private investigator. In reality, I'm only a reporter for the Boston Times, and my editor has been very patient with me--so far. We've been working together for twelve years now, and besides being my good friend, Al McGilly has learned to trust my instincts, and I usually come through. But this story deals with some very important people, and I've spent nearly two months on it already, so Al is getting a little antsy--it''s not his fault, though, since he gets the pressure from above, from the big boys. And they are not about to risk a big lawsuit and all sorts of negative publicity unless they have enough evidence to actually convict these unscrupulous mothers who were the main objects of my desire. So yesterday at lunch, over a corned beef on rye and a pitcher of Killian's Red, Al laid it out for me. "Get the facts, and get them fast," he told me in no uncertain terms, "or the boys in the penthouse suite are going to pull the plug on the whole deal." So I figured a few clouds of second-hand smoke would be much more agreeable than to get called upstairs and taken off the story or maybe even fired.

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