The column I recently wrote about Michael Hainey’s new book, After Visiting Friends, ran three weeks before Hainey was due to Chicago to promote it, and therefore—in the view of his Scribner publicist—two weeks too soon. When the time comes, I’ll get back to the book on my blog, I told her.

Here I am. Hainey’s father was 35 and the night copy desk chief of the Sun-Times when he died suddenly and mysteriously in the spring of 1970; Mike Hainey, who was six years old then, grounds his book in his quest to learn what really happened. I joined the Sun-Times about six weeks later, and because I’ve always known what Mike Hainey wanted so badly to find out, and because I remember everyone from the paper whom he tried to find out from, I finished his book feeling not just moved but proprietary. I wanted to introduce After Visiting Friends to Chicago. And if I could write intelligently but not reveal the mystery—well, I’d set an example.