by A. C. Fuller
"This is from a panel discussion at the digital journalism conference." I tapped the screen. "That's him on the left. In the center is Jonah Greenberg, media critic from NYU. On the right"—I pointed—"Jakira Omadwa. She's like the Anderson Cooper of South Africa. Anchor of the biggest news program in the country."
I unpaused the video, where Burnside was in the middle of an answer about how journalism has changed. "…And that's a problem. Of course there are some exceptions, but many journalists have turned into pundits. Why isn't it enough to report the news anymore? Report. What. Happened. I understand there's room for opinion and analysis, but most American journalists have come down with the disease of future punditry. It's not enough to say what happened, they have to say what will happen next. And, in case you haven't noticed, they're wrong more than half the time. In my view, reporters have limited time and energy, and now we burn much of it on half-assed speculation when we should be using all of it talking to sources, doing research, knocking on doors."
I paused the video and swigged the last sip of my cold coffee. "He was certainly old school."
"Play that one," Greta said, pointing to a video called "Holden Burnside Rips Social Media." In the clip, he appeared to be answering a question from an audience member at a lecture at Columbia University.
"Why am I not on social media? Well, there are personal reasons and professional reasons. Professionally, I don't break news McNuggets. Right? I'm not in the business of getting out a tiny, insignificant detail eight seconds before someone else. Also, I don't find it fulfilling to win mini-arguments online, or give hot takes about the news as it breaks. Twitter in particular brings out the worst in journalists because it forces people who naturally think complex thoughts to express them in their most condensed—and usually most stupid—form. Frankly, I think most journalists who participate are harming themselves and the profession. But why don't I get on social media to connect with friends and family, share pictures of my cats or what I had for lunch, and so on? Believe me, my publishers have asked me to. 'Connect with fans,' they say. 'Just share little updates about your day. People will love it,' they assure me. What they really mean is, 'We'll sell more books.'" He thought for a moment, pacing the small wooden stage. "In a room full of young people, about ten percent of whom are staring at their phones as I speak, I know this will make me sound like a calcified old man, but here goes. I choose not to participate because the rise of social media has led to a slow, steady decline in the quality of human life. Those who use it, I fear, create hundreds of superficial relationships that contain little of the real stuff that makes being human meaningful. And since we don't really know most of the people we interact with, it allows us not to get to know ourselves, which is the greatest tragedy that can befall a human life."
I paused the video.
"He's right," Greta said. "I mean about not knowing ourselves. But I think he's wrong that social media causes that. People blame every new technology for social problems. He's right in general, though."
I'd told Greta that Burnside was working on a book, but not what it was about. The last line of his answer reminded me. "He was working on a book about himself, you know. I guess he was following his own advice. Getting to know himself."
"Like an autobiography?"
"Sort of. I'm not sure. I think it was more of a memoir about his life in journalism."
"How far along was he?"
"Don't know. Wish I did."
"Cool though. Normal to reflect on your life as you age."
I refilled my coffee, lapped the kitchen table, then sat again. "It's weird. I think many people write memoirs and autobiographies because they want to get their side of the story out, present their decisions in the best light. Flatter themselves. From what he said—not certain, though—Burnside was doing the opposite. Investigating his own life like a scandal he was about to break."
"You can bet his publisher is scrambling for his notes."
Cleo's faint cry rose from the bedroom and Greta stood abruptly.
"I'll get her." I chugged the last of the coffee and pulled Greta into a hug. She curved into my body gently. "I want some time with her before I go." I kissed her. "I want some with you when I get home."
Greta pulled back. "What? Go where?"
"I need to head to work soon." Another cry, louder this time. "Daddy's coming Cleo."
I heard Greta sigh deeply as I went to the bedroom.
It wasn't a lie. Bird had texted me earlier, asking me to drop in and sign some things. So I did need to go to the office.
Not that I had any intention of doing so.
Chapter 5
I'd been waiting twenty minutes when Shannon appeared in the doorway wearing a scowl. I couldn't tell if it was aimed at me or the upscale coffeeshop.
Her outfit hadn't changed. Blue jeans, white t-shirt, black leather jacket. On the drizzly street at midnight, the leather jacket hadn't been out of place, but in a hip café bathed in rare fall sunshine, she looked like someone from a different era.
She spotted me and approached my table, dodging strollers and laptop cords on the way. "You're buying the coffee, right?"
"Um, sure."
"We can't all afford six-dollar beverages made of beans and milk. And this meeting was your idea." She'd said it like the whole meeting was an imposition, like she expected me to waste her time. She was right, though. The meeting had been my idea and I hadn't mentioned any details when I set it up.
I paid for her extra-large, quad-shot mocha with double whipped cream. A seven-dollar drink. When we sat, she said, "I'm not cheap. I'm just broke. This mocha is my lunch. Thanks."
"Don't mention it."
She took a tiny sip. "So, what do you wanna talk about? Burnside, I assume."
She said it like an accusation. It gave me the feeling she hated me. "I'm sorry. Have I done something to offend you?"
"I'm not crazy about rich people."
I chuckled uncomfortably. "I…I'm not…what?"
"Get to it, Alex, what do you want?"
This wasn't going how I expected, so I did get right to it. "I'm curious. You mentioned you'd only publish about Burnside if you found something interesting. You didn't have anything about him on your site as of this morning. That mean you didn't find anything?"
She grabbed her mocha and slid her chair back suddenly. "Screw you!"
"What?" I was taken aback, genuinely not knowing what I'd done to offend her. "I'm sorry. What's the deal?"
She glared at me for a few seconds. "Alex, I know who you are and I know what this is."
"Are you thinking I'm trying to…what?…flirt with you, sleep with you? I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You're trying to scoop me. You think this is the first time an older man from a big, fancy publication has tried to glom onto one of my stories, steal my work, and take credit while cutting me out of the deal? I'm not here for that BS."
"I—"
"You want me to tell you everything I've learned to save you the trouble of doing any actual reporting."
"Shannon, I promise that's not the case. Can you take the mocha as a sign of my good will and hear me out? Please."
"You don't have a story in the pipeline about Burnside?"
"I got back from his funeral late last night. I haven't even been to the office yet. I don't have any story. But I do have information. My gut says you and I are actually on the same page, and we both have information the other doesn't."
Shannon wasn't crazy about eye contact, but she perked up at the mention of Burnside's funeral. She had a way of looking toward my face but a little to the left, head cocked slightly as though trying to hear me better with her right ear. When I'd mentioned the funeral, she'd straightened out and stared right at me without meeting my eyes. I knew she revered Burnside and his work. Despite the strong journalism-outsider vibe she put out, I think she'd have killed to attend his funeral.
She scooched her chair in. "I'm listening."
Shannon was clearly a no-nonsense kind of person, so I just put it out there. "The lack of a notebook at the scene bothers me. His wife said he never, ever went anywhere without it. He relied on it. I imagine it comforted him. Hard for me to believe he'd take it out of his pocket before jumping. Of course, there are other reasonable explanations for that, but it stuck with me. Then I found out he'd recently agreed to appear at a big journalism conference. Again, could be explanations for that. Long story short, I think he was murdered. I don't know who or why. I don't have a shred of evidence. But I'm convinced I'm right."
Shannon took another tiny sip of the mocha, a sip so small it was obvious she was rationing it. When she'd said it was her lunch, she meant it literally. She slid the drink away. "I'm convinced, too. Here's how this is going to go, since I still don't trust you and, like I said—"
"You're not crazy about rich people?"
"Exactly. So here's how this is going to go. First, you tell me everything you know. Then, if I want, I'll tell you what I know if you give me your word you won't use any of it in a story."
"Not exactly a fair trade." I offered what I thought was a charming smile, but she wasn't charmed.
"Take it or leave it."
"Fine."
She placed her phone on the table. "No offense, but I've been screwed by guys like you enough to know I need proof. I'm going to press record, and I need you to say you won't use any of my info in a story on Burnside. Legally, I can't stop you. But I want to know I can publicly shame you if you screw me over."
Potential internet shame was more threatening than a lawsuit. She had me cornered, but that was fine. I had no ill intentions.
She pressed record on an app like the whole process was the most normal thing in the world. "Is this really how things are done now? I feel old."
She glared at me.
"Fine, fine. I, Alex Vane promise you, Shannon Brass, that I will not use any information you give me in any stories."
Satisfied, she returned the phone to her jacket and took another minuscule sip of the mocha.
"Okay," I said, "can we get into it now?"
She nodded.
"I've already told you about why I think it wasn't suicide. But there could be something from the dinner, something I didn't notice at the time. Maybe you'll pick up a detail I missed."
For the next twenty minutes, I told Shannon everything I remembered about my conversation with Burnside. She was familiar with my stories—the big ones Burnside had asked about—and proved it by peppering me with follow-up questions. In some cases, she knew more details about my stories than I did, clearly having gone back and read them recently. In addition to the stories about the murder back in New York City and the eventual suicide of Denver Bice, she knew all about the big pieces The Barker had run over the last couple years. Specifically, she knew about the time Quinn Rivers and I stopped Family Media Holdings from censoring the U.S. media on behalf of China, and the time I helped dismantle a good portion of the intelligence infrastructure of our country.
When she finally gave me an opening, I turned the questioning on her. "That was the dinner. Now, your turn. What did you find out from people at the scene?"
"Nothing."
"Really? Nothing?"
"No one saw anything suspicious. From what I pieced together, he was in the room most of the morning, picked up a sandwich and a coffee from the corner deli for lunch, then returned to his room. Clerk at the deli had gone home when I went to the deli that night, but I interviewed him the next day. He remembered Burnside, said he'd ordered a custom sandwich. Salami and turkey on rye. Black coffee. Left him a dollar tip. That was it. Nothing unusual. From what I've read about him, Burnside often ate in his hotel rooms, especially when working on a book. My guess is he spent the day in his room writing."
"Maybe something I mentioned at the dinner led him down some path, or clarified something for him."
"Possible. From what you said, he was cagey at dinner."
"That's how he always was. I think of it as him being a good reporter. Say enough to keep the source talking, but don't give away your hand. He told me enough about his book to get me interested and sharing, but not enough that I actually know anything about it."
Shannon smiled for the first time. "He was good, wasn't he?"
"The best." We sat in silence. I'd like to think Shannon was reveling in her memories of Burnside, as I was. Then a question occurred to me. "If you didn't find anything interesting, no signs of foul play, why do you think something nefarious is going on here?"
"Two reasons. First, because I believe that what drove him is what drives me. A love for the truth, a crazed desire to cut through the crap and assert that, yes, there is a reality, there are facts. That the endless stream of online content and opinions can be combated with truth. From what you said, he was working on a huge story. There's no way he kills himself before breaking it."
"The second reason?"
She took a slow sip of her mocha and leaned away. "I wasn't at the hotel by accident. I didn't go there after I heard about his death. He died five minutes before I was supposed to meet him. If he killed himself, it means he would literally rather die than talk with me, and I'm not ready to believe that."
The coffeeshop had thinned out during our conversation, but her eyes darted from table to table as she studied the remaining patrons. "Can we get out of here?"
We walked west toward Elliott Bay and the busy Seattle waterfront, home of the famous Pike Place Market and the ferries that carry thousands of people back and forth from Seattle to Bremerton and Bainbridge Island. I got the sense that, whatever Shannon was about to say, she didn't want to be within earshot of anyone else. When we hit the water, we turned south, entering a formerly industrial neighborhood that was now home to the Seahawks and Mariners stadiums.
Finally, she spoke. "It was totally random that I even knew he was in town. I emailed him a year or two ago after I read his Iran-Contra book. I wasn't even born when that happened, so much of it was news to me. I complimented him on the book, said I was a young journalist, and asked if he had any advice for me. Fangirl stuff." Shannon looked away, embarrassed, before she continued. "A week or two later, he emailed me back. Thanked me, gave me the line: notebook, don't burn sources, if your mother says she loves you, all that. We emailed back and forth, usually with a week or two between messages. He clearly wasn't someone who checked his email often. At one point I asked him how I could hear about it if he was ever gonna do a book talk or a guest lecture in Seattle. Did he have Facebook, or a mailing list, or anything? He said he didn't. His publisher handled that. Plus he didn't have any books or trips planned, but he promised to let me know if he was ever in town. I assumed it was just something he said. Like, there was no way he'd remember. I let it go at that. He didn't owe me anything."
A group of women came out of a furniture store as we passed. Shannon eyed them skeptically and waited until they were a few yards away before continuing. "A week ago, he emailed me out of the blue. Said he was coming to town to do some research—he didn't say a word about what he was researching—and he'd be happy to chat. Normally, I wouldn't just meet a random guy in his Airbnb at night, but I knew he wasn't a sleazeball, so I agreed. Eight o'clock. He gave me the address and I showed up."
Shannon went quiet and led us to a bench on the corner outside Centurylink Field. Her face was pinched, like she was trying to hold it together, and I decided not to press the conversation.
Greta and I had attended a couple games and concerts at the stadium, and the streets were always packed with people ready to fill its 70,000 capacity. Now, in the middle of a weekday with no games going on, the area had an eerie, deserted feeling.
Clouds moved to block the sun. The short break in the rain had ended and a cold drizzle began. Shannon didn't seem to care. "I walked the three miles from my apartment. Got there about five minutes before eight." She closed her eyes. "It was weird. I turned onto the block just as I heard a horrible
sound. The worst sound I've ever heard. It must have been his body hitting the pavement. A kind of crack-thud. The apartment building is in the middle of the block and his body was on the sidewalk, which was otherwise clear. I saw it like a runway. Turned the corner, straight line down the block with a body. I sprinted up, saw the blood pooling."
"It's raining pretty hard," I said. "Want to go…somewhere. I can get us a Lyft or an Uber back to my office or something."
She ignored the question. "I didn't know it was Burnside at first. Once I was about ten feet away I glanced up and I was sure I saw a shadow move behind a curtain. I did. I mean, I know I did. Then I looked more closely at the body and saw it was Burnside. I called the police immediately. It was weird. For about a minute I was alone with the body. Just me and Burnside, his blood running over the curb into the gutter. I looked up again. I knew Burnside was on the seventeenth floor and I counted. I tried to count. I was sure I saw a shadow but I wasn't sure if it was on the sixteenth floor, the seventeenth, or eighteenth. The front desk guy came from the building. I said we should watch the door. If someone threw him off the balcony we might see them leave. Police showed up a few minutes later. No one had come out the door."
Her eyes still closed, she seemed to be reliving each moment as she told it.
"That's what happened," she concluded. "But that doesn't give us any more information than we had before."
"And you definitely didn't see a notebook on the ground, in the gutter, anywhere near the body?"
"Nope."
"Because the most plausible explanation is that he had it on him and it flew out of his pocket during the fall."
"It didn't. I would have seen it."
"And the second most plausible explanation is that someone took it, or destroyed it, before murdering him."
She tapped the bench. "Yup."