by John Luciew
“Yeah, it sounds familiar,” I finally said. “I was trying to convince her not to run anything.”
“Apparently, it worked like a charm,” Sharps said icily. “Was this before or after you connected O’Connell’s death to the series? Says here, and I quote, ‘Tellis reacted with shock and surprise to the apparent accidental death of a Buffalo TV reporter, seeming to know immediately that it was connected to the series of murdered journalists, all with ties to Harrisburg’.”
“It was a reaction,” I said. “I was shocked. And I did know it was connected. I didn’t say so, not in so many words. But I guess Cassie read my face.”
“She did more than that,” Sharps went on. “She has it all. Everything about the murders replicating stories from reporters’ pasts.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, my faculties returning. “I didn’t tell her about that. I didn’t give her any of it.”
“Well, she knows about it now,” Sharps assured me. “Jordan must have herself one helluva source.”
“Shit,” I said. “Langhorne’s gonna think it came from me.”
“Probably, but we’re past that now,” Sharps said. “We need a story. Our own story. Macy’s the lead writer. We can’t afford to have your name on the byline, not after your quotes in the New York Times. But I’d appreciate your help, and Macy could sure as hell use it. Least you could have done was let us know about O’Connell. You knew Jordan had the story. You could have given us a head’s up.”
“I’m sorry, Bill. I screwed up.”
“Guess it never pays to hold a story,” Sharps said. He was reproaching himself now. He had gone against his own instincts, everything he knew as a journalist. And he was regretting it.
“No. We were right,” I told him. “Cassie was wrong. Sometimes, the stories aren’t as important as we think they are.”
“Tell that to the New York Times,” Sharps ruefully said. “They got the story spread all over their Web site and all over their front page. They’re calling it the ‘Media Murders.’ Dontcha just love that? Nice and catchy.”
“There’s still the question of why,” I pointed out. “No one knows why this guy’s doing it.”
“No. Cassie has that, too. Got it right from the profile, apparently. Seems the FBI thinks the guy’s telling a story. He’s turning the tables so the media gets a taste of its own medicine.”
My scalp prickled because it made sense, perfect sense. The killer had been turning the tables all along. He’d been re-creating stories so reporters could suffer in ways they had written about. I wondered what story he had picked out for me.
“So you’ll come in, Telly?” Sharps asked. “You’ll help out?”
“I’m sure as hell not gonna stay here and wait for the media to return to my door,” I said. “I just don’t know how much help I’ll be. Not if Langhorne thinks I leaked the case. But I’ll be there.”
Chapter 47
I didn’t waste any time trying to dig out my snowbound Fiesta. Not only was it buried under nearly a foot of powder, it was barricaded behind a reinforced wall of packed snow and ice created when the plow trucks barreled up my narrow street. I didn’t bother with the rental, either. It was similarly snowed under.
It would be a walking day, and I prepared for it this time. I donned long underwear beneath my polyester pants. I wore a second sweater under my overcoat, and I pulled rubber boots over my shoes.
Few sidewalks had been shoveled in the early morning, so I walked in the street. At least they’d been plowed. I walked those slushy streets all the way to the paper, where I had no story to write and precious few sources to tap. Just questions. Always questions.
I spent the better part of the morning trying to raise Dave Langhorne. I dialed his cell phone, his office, even his home. I got voicemail and answering machine recordings, and left messages all around. As each hour passed without a response, I made another round of calls and left another set of messages, each one more desperate and pleading than the last. I begged him to call me and I swore up and down that I had nothing to do with the story in the New York Times.
When I wasn’t on the phone, I kept an eye and ear on the television on the city desk. The Times story had ignited another media firestorm. The cable news networks had switched to wall-to-wall coverage of the media murders. There were armies of reporters in Buffalo and Harrisburg. Media calls were even pouring into the Herald. Rumors flew around the newsroom that there were dozens of requests to interview me. Supposedly, producers wanted me for everything from the Today show to Larry King Live. But Publisher Angus Merrin had appointed himself the paper’s spokesman. He would make his debut as Larry King’s guest that evening.
Events were unfolding quickly. TV coverage flashed news from Buffalo, where police had discovered the plow truck that killed O’Connell. The truck had been abandoned in a snowy parking lot in downtown Buffalo, its shiny plow still stained red. The blood hadn’t even dried. It froze instead. And it remained a bright red on the shiny, metal blade. The stains were clearly visible in the video feed showing police and crime scene techs crawling all over the behemoth truck. There was no mention of any note inside the truck. But I was sure it was there.
Next, the scene shifted to a stately home in a manor development. The camera focused on the door of the house as a disembodied hand used the knocker. The door slowly opened, and a familiar face peeked out. It was Eddie Moore.
His cheeks looked hollow as his jaw hung open. His mouth formed a circle as his face registered shock at the media ambush on his own property. His look of anguish made me cringe, and his torment at the hands of the media pack made me sick.
Later, video feed showed Eddie backing out of his driveway in his Mercedes SUV. I could see him mouthing words, waving his hands and pounding on the car horn as he tried to get the media mob to move so he could make his escape. Next to him in the passenger seat, his fragile wife lowered her head and clamped her hands over her ears. The press didn’t get one usable comment from any of it, but the cable news channels aired it just the same.
Me? I had seen enough. I wandered back to my desk to keep vigil near my phone. I desperately needed to talk to Langhorne. Not for a story. Not for a new morsel of information to feed the media monster. But rather to help end all this.
My phone finally rang and I snatched it from its cradle. “Tellis.”
“I have someone down here to see you.” It wasn’t Langhorne, just a security guard stationed in the newspaper’s lobby. I felt myself deflate as my enthusiasm drained away.
“He won’t give me his name. Says he used to work here. Says I should know who he is.” Just then, I heard jostling and a familiar voice came on the line.
“Telly, it’s me. Let me up,” Eddie Moore said.
There was more rustling as Eddie handed back the phone. “Well?” the guard asked me.
“Yeah, send him up.” I heard reluctance in my voice. I really didn’t want to see Eddie. Not after all he’d been put through by the media. Not after what I had withheld from him about his daughter’s death.
“We’re supposed to make them empty their pockets, then use the metal detector wand on them,” the guard was saying. “Security’s beefed up on account of the murders. We’re supposed to be on high alert.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “Eddie’s okay. He used to work here. Just send him up.”
I left my desk to wait for Eddie by the elevator. It was the same place I had received him the afternoon I wrote his daughter’s obituary. That was just five days ago, but it seemed like forever. Debbie Moore hadn’t even been put to rest. The memorial service was set for tomorrow. There would be no viewing. What little was left had been cremated.
The elevator opened, revealing my old friend. His well-manicured looks were gone. His unshaven face was thick with a white beard. His usually well-barbered hair was greasy and stringy. Worse were his eyes. They were red, weary, and sunk deep into his face. Underneath were coal-black lines.
Eddie stepped out of the elevator
and stood right in front of me. He was taller and he loomed over me.
“Is it true?” he asked.
“We should go in the fishbowl and talk.” My tone was discreet, confidential.
“Is it true, Telly? Just tell me if it’s true?” Eddie’s voice was rising. I could tell he was about to lose it.
“Not here,” I said in a firm whisper. I took him by the arm and started guiding him toward the glass-enclosed interview room, located in the rear of the newsroom.
We were about halfway there, when Eddie stopped. He looked out at the newsroom as if it were a strange, foreign land. His face was pure bewilderment, like an unlucky traveler cast into another dimension on one of those old “Twilight Zone” episodes.
People in the newsroom didn’t notice him. The place was its usual controlled chaos of journalists doing their own thing -- typing, chatting, clicking mouse buttons, talking on the phone, talking to each other, watching TV news. All of them went about their business until Eddie spoke.
“Was it worth it?” he said. His voice was low at first, as if pondering his own question. But as he kept talking, his voice rose until he was shouting across the newsroom.
“Is it worth it?” he yelled. “I’m asking all of you. Is it worth it?”
Eddie Moore’s voice stilled the newsroom. Reporters in the middle of phone conversations cupped their hands over mouthpieces and rose from their desks for a better look. Editors glanced up from computer screens. Copy editors peered over open copies of the morning paper.
I sidled up to Eddie, still trying to steer him toward the privacy of the fishbowl. He would have none of it.
“Well, is it?” he shouted again. “Some maniac took my daughter on account of something I wrote for this paper twenty-nine years ago. He burned her because of me. Because of my lousy pad and pen. Over something I typed at my desk. Over a story this newspaper printed in its pages. Now I’m asking you, was it worth it? Would any of you make that trade?”
The newsroom was full of stone-faced journalists. My colleagues were still, and the place was quiet. The once-bustling newsroom could have been a church.
But not everyone was frozen by Eddie’s outburst. I saw Brett Macy inching closer with a micro-cassette player in hand, determined to gather quotes for his story. Photographer Wally Greenfield was there in the crowd, too. Subtly, he raised a camera to his eye and began snapping pictures. His movements were so quick and discreet, the act was like a slight of hand. But I had seen it. Even in Eddie’s old newsroom, they would not let him grieve. Just like the merciless pack in front of his home, this room full of journalists wanted to take from him. They wanted to steal his words and use his image.
“C’mon, Eddie,” I said, trying again.
He turned toward me. “And you? You knew. You knew all about this crazy killer. But you didn’t see fit to tell an old friend. What was it? The information just too hot? Too precious to you? Too useful? When it comes to news, loyalty doesn’t mean a damn thing, does it? Family doesn’t matter, either. Does it?”
What could I say? I had no words. I hung my head.
But Eddie wasn’t done. He looked out at the newsroom. “How many of you have destroyed a marriage or disappointed a child because you’d rather be here? How many? Oh yeah, you say it’s the work. That’s what we tell ourselves, isn’t it? That’s the explanation we feed our wives. It’s the apology we try on our children. But it’s not true.”
Eddie’s red, bloodshot eyes scanned the roomful of journalists. “We want to be here. We need it. We’re junkies for it.” Eddie extended an arm, then squeezed the inside of his elbow with his opposite hand, as if shooting a needle into a vein.
“It’s the only place we feel alive. But I’m here to tell you, there’s a price. I paid it. Decades later someone came to collect the bill. You’ll pay, too. Sooner or later, you’ll all pay.”
Eddie seemed to deflate then. It was as if he had expended all his energy shouting his harsh words. I moved to his side and put a hand on his back. “Let’s go to the office, Eddie.”
“No,” he said. “I’m done here. I just came to see the place one last time. I wanted to see what I traded my daughter for.”
“Don’t blame yourself.”
“Why not?” Eddie’s painful eyes found me. “It’s true isn’t it? The killer came after Debbie as retribution for some journalistic sin from my past. He didn’t come for me like the others because I hung it up. I wasn’t a reporter anymore. And this guy, he only kills reporters. So he came for the next best thing. My daughter. The little girl I practically raised in this newsroom. The little girl I sat behind my typewriter and infected with this disease. It’s all true, Telly. I know it is. I just have one question. When were you going to tell me?”
“I don’t know, Eddie.” I shook my head, then looked away.
“I do. You weren’t. You were going to put it in the paper so I could read all about it. It’s how we do things in this business. Only, someone beat you to it.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Better luck next time,” Eddie said. “If there is a next time. If you have a next time. If this madman doesn't get you first.”
Eddie’s stare was like a cold shadow as he appraised me one final time. His eyes were those of a man who had lost his heart. A man capable of anything.
He turned away. I began following him. “I know my way out,” he said, turning back one last time. “I walked away from this place twenty years ago, but I never really got out. Today, I’m finally getting out. For good.”
“Eddie,” I called to him as he walked away. “I want to help.”
But he just kept walking. All I could do was watch, along with the rest of the newsroom.
Eddie Moore’s tall form waited for the elevator, then disappeared behind its stainless steel doors.
When Eddie was gone, I turned back to the newsroom. My colleagues were watching me now. I walked directly to Brett Macy. The young reporter was still fiddling with his tape recorder, seeing what it had picked up.
As I approached, I heard Eddie Moore’s tinny recorded voice. Macy clicked it off and glanced at me. “That was, like, weird,” he said. “The guy just lost it.”
I ignored his comments. “Sharps says I’m supposed to work with you on the follow.”
“I wouldn’t mind another interview,” Macy said.
“Sure. Hand me the tape recorder. I have a statement.”
Macy looked puzzled but he did as I asked. I pushed the record button on the instrument and a red light came on. I raised it to my mouth and began speaking.
“This is Frank Tellis. I have a statement. Brett Macy is the biggest cock-sucking, shit-smelling reporter I’ve ever had the misfortune to work with. I predict he’ll go very, very far in this business. God help us all.”
Macy smiled uneasily, probably thinking it was some kind of joke.
“Okay, Telly,” he said. “Here’s a question for you. Why was that old reporter so mad at you just now?”
“Because I was an asshole. But not as big an asshole as you.”
With that, I clicked off the recorder. “Interview’s over, Macy. Now you’ll just have to go out and do your own reporting.”
“Hey,” the reporter protested. “I wasn’t done.”
“Oh, you’re done all right.”
I pressed the eject button on the recorder, and the tiny cassette popped into my palm. Macy could only watch as I handed him back the empty recorder, then took the tip of a pen and dug out the shiny, brown tape inside the cassette. Once I snagged it, I kept pulling the tape. I unwound a good ten yards of it, ruining the delicate, magnetized words it contained. Eddie Moore’s comments were gone.
“Hey,” Macy cried. “My tape. My interview.”
Macy grabbed for it. I tossed him the cassette body, but kept hold of the tape, unwinding still more and crumbling it in my hand.
Next, I went to see Wally Greenfield in the photo department. He was manipulating his beloved images on a compu
ter screen. I walked up him from behind. He didn’t turn around.
“I saw what you did,” I said.
“What can I say? It’s instinct.” The photographer didn’t take his eyes away from the images on his screen. “I see something happening, I lift a camera to my eye. I can’t help it.”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use the pictures.”
“Lighting’s off, anyway,” Wally said, still not turning from the screen, which glowed with images of Eddie. “Composition’s not great, either.”
I looked at the pictures. There were no lighting or composition problems, just gripping photos of Eddie’s pained and anguished face.
“Thanks,” I said, and patted him on the shoulder.
I turned to see Bill Sharps headed my way. He was holding Macy’s empty recorder and his mutilated tape. The pouting reporter was trailing right behind.
“What’s this about you ruining Macy’s interview?” Sharps confronted me.
“There was no interview. Eddie’s comments were off the record. He just needed to get a few things off his chest.”
“What about the tape?” Sharps held up the plastic cassette that had spewed yards of shiny, brown ribbon.
“Oh that?” I shrugged. “Brett wanted me to record a comment for his story. I tried, but I really don’t know how to work those damned things. I must’ve pushed the wrong button or something. I’m really sorry. I’ll buy him a new tape.”
“That’s not what happened,” Macy protested.
“Telly, this is not helpful,” Sharps said. “Not on a day when we have national news in our backyard.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I promised I’d help and I will. I can’t raise Langhorne, but maybe I can get the next best thing.” I began walking away from them.
“Where’s he going?” Macy protested to Sharps.
“I’m going where the news is,” I called back to them. “It’s called reporting. You ought to try it sometime.”