"My biography project on Dr. Peterson is over half-done," I told Rebecca. "Guess I've earned an honest ten thousand dollars so far. But to be perfectly honest, this whole Pete Peterson thing is making me sick."
"Why?" Rebecca asked.
How could I tell her without getting into my theory that he was murdered?
"It's his goofiness that's the real problem. It's wearing off on me."
I told her about Pete's goofy call-ins to the radio talk shows, about his goofy appearances on the local TV news and about his quixotic letters to the editor. I told her how he had pissed off physicians at the medical center, had pissed off the dean, and had been getting ready to make trouble for the meat-packing industry. I finished by telling her that he was a crackpot loner with delusions of grandeur.