It was old school, just as he liked it.
A typewriter and a stack of paper. This would be the saga of the decade! Of the century! Tales of intrigue, adventure, romance (although he'd keep Rigsby and Van Pelt out of it), and ultimately genius detective work. The highest bidding publisher would get exclusive print rights to the finished manuscript The Demise of Red John. The typebars clacked as the words flowed, depicting his actions with the greatest glory.
He reread the words and then ripped the paper from the platen.
Maybe he'd leave writing the memoir to Lisbon.
