Kevin Murray, retired, one-time police chief of a small midwestern city, turned on his electric typewriter and began his third letter of the day. “Dear Abbie Hoffman, It says in the newspapers you killed yourself because you weren’t getting enough attention. Makes sense. More sense than most of what you said. . . .”
“God’s own sieve,” Murray called himself, leaking from every orifice, even words, words piling up, tumbling and jostling in his head, no one listening or answering; hence the letters, ten-page letters to the newspapers, to second cousins he wouldn’t tip a cap to if they met on the street (they never answered), to the President, his cabinet, and the Security Council.
