OSWALD'S bedroom felt more like a fortress than a place of rest that morning, curtains half drawn, blocking out the bright midmorning sun that tried to force its way in. The only light inside was the glow of the lamp on his reading desk, but even that seemed too harsh for the mood that clouded the room.

He sat on the edge of the massive bed, now clothed in a long robe. His forearms rested on his knees, head lowered, fingers clamped together so tight the knuckles whitened. A half-finished glass of whiskey perched on the side table, untouched since the previous night. Beside it, his phone buzzed for the...