That long-ago discussion fell into my mind that evening, as I considered what to do about Rupert’s letter. Journalistically, the right thing to do was obviously to try to confirm the information. Abelard was running for president. The possibility that he had serious psychological problems requiring medication was relevant information for voters in judging his fitness for office. But on a personal and emotional level I was uncomfortable at the prospect of reporting and publishing such information. Even a politician had a right to some privacy, especially where there was no evidence that his public performance had suffered. I was also aware that this was the second time I had received a zinger like this from Rupert Cohen. It made me nervous.

But that was all abstract, talk-show stuff. I knew very well what I would do in practice. I would “report the story out,” as we like to say in the business. I would find out if Rupert’s tip was true, and sort out the moral issues later. Actually, I wouldn’t even do that. I would let my editors sort out the moral issues. I wondered whether I should tell Dirk or the bureau chief and decided: Not yet. I wanted to control the information a little longer.

But how to pursue the story? If I called people in Abelard’s office, they would immediately push the panic button and tell the senator and his campaign manager. Everybody would go to general quarters and I would have to admit that I didn’t yet have evidence of anything. So that approach made no sense. I could try some of Abelard’s old friends in Pennsylvania, or people who had worked for him at the company he had founded in Erie. But that would run the same risk of premature disclosure. The answer, inevitably, was to do just what Dirk had cynically suggested back at the Club Down Under. I should talk to Abelard’s enemies—specifically, the people who had run against him. If Cohen’s tip had any truth, they might know about it.

Abelard’s most recent reelection race had been in 1992, against a Democratic state senator named Hap Winstead, and the Mirror’s news-retrieval system quickly found a story that identified Winstead’s campaign manager. He was a Pittsburgh lawyer named Tom DeFazio.

So I called Mr. DeFazio at his law office and told his secretary that I was a reporter for The New York Mirror. I have noticed over the years that almost anyone will take your call if you identify yourself that way. I don’t know if it’s vanity, or curiosity, or perhaps even a sense of civic responsibility. But it’s touching—especially since in many cases these folks would be wiser to hang up.

DeFazio came on the line. “What can I do for you, Mr. Truell?” he asked. “You going after me, or somebody else?” He was a comedian, a regular guy.