The Loneliest Man On Earth Ray Sprigle

The big story! And that with the cozy corner barbecue in Westmoreland County, Pennsylvania. At 1am. You, Kiva. Yeah, that's right. Okay, let's have it. Well, what are you doing? The cash register, Kiva, the cash register.

Wait. What are you waiting for? He's... He's laying on the cash register. Well, push him off! You got a hand, say to his money and that register. There was money and that register. $8. The three men left leaving Keever behind. Dead.

For Pennsylvania. The story of a murder and of a reporter who befriended the loanliest man on earth. For Pennsylvania. The story isn't actually happened. Ray Spriggo's story as he lived it. This was before you won the Pulitzer Prize race, Riggle, reporter for the Pittsburgh Post Gazette, before your brilliant and humane work on behalf of the underprivileged of America.

But even then, a few years back, the same unmistakable signs were there, the perception, the respect for facts, the sympathy for other human beings. The woman at your desk, sitting on the edge of her chair, was 35.

Maybe she was younger. What she'd been through made her look like. Well, 35. And the story came out haulingly. As if it hurt to open the wound, she carried. Her name was Hortense Grayson. That name, Grayson, doesn't mean much to you, Mr. Scrigle.

I don't think so. No, I guess almost nobody remembers. Six years ago, Mr. Sprigle, my husband was arrested for robbery. He broke into a doctor's office and he and two other men. Clem Grayson. That's right.

You said robbery. He's in for murder. That's right, Mr. Sprigle. He has a life sentence for murder. A murder he never committed. Maybe I ought to tell you first why I came to you. You see, your name...