First I met Leonard, he was in one of his fugue states.
For a time I pretended to be an author and a screenwriter, hovering over keys, staining them with the oil from my fingers, neglecting my wife, distrusting any voice that did not ring--fuck it--I would find myself wandering on highways near the median and have to manage a way back across traffic.
And in his rare moments of lucidity, he was plotting to kill me.

Once, within a critique of Gaugin's Portrait of the Artist with Idol, I found a plea to the reader to crack my head open with a carpenter's tool.

I felt certain I would die here, if not by his hand then perhaps by yours.
And this morning I opened the door to my room and found his corpse. It had been dragged there and posed.
There are several possible suspects, and it may not be plain to us whether to accuse or to congratulate the guilty. It is even quite possible that Leonard met his end seperately, over a span of years, at the hands of each of them.
There shall inevitably emerge various deaths to consider.
Leonard's Mad Death
I began, in turn, to beg the reader to destroy him. We wrestled openly. And ultimately I had to retreat, he having won the affections of the reader by proving me a vile liar. I lived under a bridge in Texas, and eventually crossed the oceans to hide among the rice paddies of rural Japan. Both he and his readers pursued.
Our first meeting had seemed only chance, but I slowly began to realize that Leonard had somehow gotten onto the page and had been narrating with all the emptiness that comes with dissociative disorders.
He was living on his own in Berlin, and someone had handed him a copy of Bushido to narrate. I said hello, but he felt he should have gone first.
Eyewitness accounts of his departure may tend to confuse the facts of our investigation... nevertheless, statements must be taken