"What is it you wish to report?"

"I have told you, if you could call for the officer, I shall give all the particulars." I was standing in the Middle District police station house.

After several exchanges similar to this, the police clerk brought out an intelligent-looking officer from the next room. All of my urges to see something done had returned forcefully, but with an entirely different bent. As I stood in front of the police officer and narrated the events of the last weeks, I felt a wave of relief. After what I'd seen at the Brooks house, after having breathed the last traces of destruction and looked upon the sleepy, now-vacant windows and the scarred tree trunks, I knew that this had surpassed me.

The officer examined the newspaper cuttings I handed to him as I explained the questions the press had neglected or misunderstood.

"Mr. Clark, I know not what can be done. If there were reason to believe there had been some wrongful act associated with this…"

I grasped the officer's shoulder as though I had found a lost friend. "You believe so?"

He looked back faintly.

"Whether there was a wrongful act," I repeated his words. "It is precisely the sort of question for which you must find an answer, my good officer. Just that! Hear me. He was found wearing clothes that did not fit him. He was shouting out for a ‘Reynolds.' I know not who that could be. The house he went to upon his arrival burnt down, perhaps near the very same hour he arrived at it. And I believe a man, one I had never seen before, tried to frighten me from inquiring into these matters. Officer, this mystery must not remain untreated a moment longer!"

"This article," he said, returning to the newspaper cutting, "says Poe was a writer."

Progress! "My favorite author. In fact, if you are a magazine reader, I would wager you have come upon his literary work." I listed some of Poe's best-known magazine contributions: "The Murders in the Rue Morgue," "The Mystery of Marie Rogêt," "The Purloined Letter," "‘Thou Art the Man,'" "The Gold-Bug"…I thought the subject matter of these tales of mystery, dealing in crime and murder, might hold special interest to a police officer.

"That was his name?" The clerk who had greeted me upon my entrance interrupted as I recited my list. "Poe?"

"Poe." I agreed, probably too sharply. The phenomenon had always vexed me. Many of Poe's stories and poems achieved great fame, yet managed to deprive the writer of personal celebrity by overshadowing him. How many people had I encountered who could proudly recite all of "The Raven" and several of the popular verses parodying it ("The Turkey," for instance) but could not name the author? Poe attracted readers who enjoyed but refused to admire; it was as though his works had swallowed him up whole.

The clerk repeated the word "Poe," laughing as though the name itself contained great, illicit wit. "You've read some of that, Officer White. That story"-he turned chummily to his superior-"where the bodies are found bloody and mangled in a locked room, the Paris police can't turn anything up, and don't you know, it ends up all of it was done by a sailor's damned runaway ape! Imagine that!" As though part of the story itself, the clerk now slouched over like a simian.

Officer White frowned.

"There is the funny French fellow," the clerk continued, "that looks at things with all his fancy logicizing, who knows the truth at once about everything."

"Yes, that is Monsieur Dupin!" I added.

"I do remember the story now," said White. "I shall say this, Mr. Clark. You couldn't use that higgledy-piggledy talk from those stories to catch the most ordinary Baltimore thief." Officer White topped this comment with a coarse laugh. The clerk, at a loss at first, then imitated his example in a higher pitch, so that there were two men laughing while there I stood, somber as the undertaker in war.

I had little doubt that there were an infinite number of talents these police officers could have learned, or tried to learn, from Poe's tales-indeed, the prefect of police whom Dupin embarrassed in the stories had more aptitude than my present companions for understanding that which is classed as mysterious, inexplicable, unavoidable.

"Have the newspapers agreed with you that there is more to find?"

"Not yet. I have pressed the editors, and will continue to use my influence to do so," I promised.

Officer White's eyes wandered skeptically as I gave him further details. But he ruminated on our talk and, to my surprise, agreed it was a matter for the police to examine. He advised in the meantime that I dismiss it from my mind and not speak of it to anyone else.

Nothing particular occurred for several days after that. Peter and I prospered with some important clients who had recently retained our services. I'd see Hattie at a dinner or on Baltimore Street as she strolled on her aunt's arm, and we would exchange tidings. I would be blissfully lost in her restful voice. Then one day I received a message from Officer White to call on him. I rushed over to the station house.

Officer White greeted me at once. From the twitch of his grin he seemed eager to tell me something. I inquired if he had made progress.

"Oh, there has been much of it. Yes, I should say ‘progress'!" He searched a drawer and then handed me the newspaper clippings I had left in his possession.

"Officer, but you may wish to refer to these further in your examination."

"There will be no examination, Mr. Clark," he said conclusively as he settled back into his chair. Only then did I notice another man gathering his hat and walking stick from a table. He had his back to me, but then turned around.

"Mr. Clark." Neilson Poe greeted me quietly, after a slow blink as though making an effort to remember my name.

"I called on Mr. Neilson Poe," Officer White said, gesturing with satisfaction at this guest. "He is known to us from the police courts as one of our most highly esteemed citizens and was a cousin to the deceased. You gentlemen are acquainted? Mr. Poe was kind enough to discuss your concerns with me, Mr. Clark," Officer White continued. I already knew what would come next. "Mr. Poe believes there is no need for any examination. He stands quite content with what is known about his cousin's premature death."

"But, Mr. Poe," I argued, "you yourself said you were not able to learn what had happened in Edgar Poe's final days! You see there is some great mystery!"

Neilson Poe was busy covering himself in his cloak. As I looked upon him, I thought of his demeanor during our meeting and his manner toward his cousin. "I'm afraid there's nothing more I can tell you about the end," he had said to me in his office chambers. But, I now considered, did he mean he knew nothing else or he would tell me nothing else?

I leaned in close to where Officer White sat, trying to confide in him. "Officer, you cannot-Neilson believes Edgar Poe is better dead than alive!" But Officer White cut me short.

"And Mr. Herring here agrees with Mr. Poe," he went on. "Perhaps you know him-the lumber merchant? He is another one of Mr. Poe's cousins, and he was the first relative to be present at the Fourth Ward polls, which were at Ryan's hotel, the day Mr. Poe was found delirious there."

Henry Herring stood at the door of the station house, waiting for Neilson Poe. At the mention of his early presence upon Edgar Poe's discovery, Herring dropped his head. He was of a stouter build and shorter stature than Neilson, and wore a dour expression. He took my hand stiffly and without the least interest. I knew him immediately as another one of these four negligent mourners at Poe's lonely burial.

"Let the dead rest," Neilson Poe said to me. "Your interest strikes me as morbid. Perhaps you are like my cousin more than in handwriting alone." Neilson Poe bid us all a quiet good afternoon and walked briskly out the door.