Ruettimann had visited Hereaux at a time when he knew his friend would be alone. In the modest but cozy living room, Ruettimann handed Hereaux a heavy brown accordion file. He wrote a name down on a scrap of paper, the name of a local journalist.
“If anything happens to me,” Ruettimann said, “give this to the reporter.”
After Ruettimann’s death, Hereaux took the file down off his desk. Inside was a thick stack of loose-leaf documents, a manila folder stuffed with letters, and a catalog-size clasp envelope labeled “Reports.”
Written in black permanent marker in the margin of the envelope was the reporter’s name: mine.
See more #longreads from Jessica Lussenhop
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