The events chronicled below took place in 1981, long before personal computers and cell phones. And was written at the time all the shit went down.
There is probably no such thing as the perfect crime because people just cannot keep their big yaps shut—like me. The fog is rolling in off the bay and it’s starting to get cold, so I had better get my story down while I can still sit outside.
Let me explain. I’m here at the Sir Francis Drake Hotel in San Francisco. I just had a bellhop run out and buy me a portable typewriter and set it up on my balcony facing famous San Francisco Bay, which is where I ended up after committing my perfect crime.
It all started a week ago today. There was really nothing to distinguish that Saturday from any other in recent memory, except I had…
View original post 3,962 more words