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Whimper. Whine. The huff-huff of strangled breath followed by muffled sobs.
Milo mouthed, “What the?”
I wrote:Waiton a Post-it.
We sat there as March cried. Tried to catch his breath. Coughed. Finally succeeded. “Total. Jerk. Stupid. Sorry.”
I wrote:Limited sympathy.
Milo said, “It’s okay, sir.”
“It’s not okay,” said Doug March. “I need. To learn. This isn’t. The. First time.”
“You’ve been married before?”
“No. Girlfriends. College. Got played. Didn’t learn.” March moaned. “I need to learn.Needto.”
Milo said, “I’m sure you will.”
“Doesn’t look like it. Okay. Thanks.”
Ask what you want. Use his name.
Milo said, “Do you mind if I ask you a question on a whole other subject, Doug?”
Long sigh. “I did something else stupid?”
“Not at all. Do you know a man named Richard Barlett?”
“He’s the one? Who…”
“He may be another victim, Doug.”
“Ofthe onewho?”
“It’s possible.”
“If you’re asking,” said March, “it’s more than possible, you don’t do things randomly. I see that now—sorry for what I said this morning, I was totally out of line.”
“No big deal, forget it,” said Milo. “So you don’t know Richard Barlett?”
“Never heard of him. Was he also one of Meagin’s…distractions?”
“There’s no evidence of that.”
“But the same person may have killed him.”
“Like I said, we’re looking into all possibilities. Here’s another name: Nicole Fontenot.”
“Sounds French.”
“From New Orleans. Ever been there?”
“In college,” said Doug March. “Spring break between freshman and sophomore.”
“So about ten years ago.”
“Let’s see…nine. Thought the place was gross.”
