He looked off across the cafeteria. He had an annoying habit of not looking at you when you disagreed with him. When we were little, I would jump on him when he did it and punch him on the back. I couldn't do that anymore, though many times I wanted to.

"Sean, this is a good story. You have-"

"I don't have to do anything and I don't give a shit what kind of story it is. This one is bad, Jack. Okay? I can't stop thinking about it. And I'm not going to help you sell newspapers with it."

"C'mon, man, I'm a writer. Look at me. I don't care if it sells papers or not. The story is the thing. I don't give a shit about the paper. You know how I feel about that."

He finally turned back to me.

"Now you know how I feel about this case," he said.

I was silent a moment and took out a cigarette. I was down to maybe half a pack a day back then and could have skipped it but I knew it bothered him. So I smoked when I wanted to work on him.

"This isn't a smoking section, Jack."

"Then turn me in. At least you'll be arresting somebody."

"Why are you such an asshole when you don't get what you want?"

"Why are you? You aren't going to clear it, are you? That's what this is all about. You don't want me digging around and writing about your failure. You're giving up."

"Jack, don't try the below-the-belt shit. You know it's never worked."

He was right. It never had.

"Then what? You just want to keep this little horror story for yourself? That it?"

"Yeah, something like that. You could say that."

In the car with Wexler and St. Louis I sat with my arms crossed. It was comforting. Almost as if I were holding myself together. The more I thought about my brother the more the whole thing made no sense to me. I knew the Lofton case had weighed on him but not to the point that he'd want to take his own life. Not Sean.