Parker 02 - The Guilty (28 page)

your keester."

"That's fair," I said, pulling the tape recorder from my

bag. "Now let's get started. Tell me everything you know

about Brushy Bill Roberts, why you believe he was Billy the

Kid, and leave nothing out."

36

When I arrived at the
Gazette,
the newsroom was abuzz in

a way I'd never seen it before in my brief tenure at the paper.

The stringers seemed a little louder, the phone calls a little

more urgent. A palpable electricity ran through the place.

The whole organization seemed galvanized, charged, like a

black cloud had been dragged away to let the sun back in.

It wasn't a minute after I stepped off the elevator when

Wallace came jogging up to me. His hair was slightly askew

and his right ear was red as though he'd been pressing a

phone to it the whole morning.

"Henry, glad you're here," he said, catching his breath.

"Come with me. And don't say a word unless I tell you to."

I opened my mouth to ask what was happening, but Wallace

held up a finger and said, "Not one word."

I followed Wallace, quickly realizing that he wasn't

leading me toward his office or my desk, but to the conference room at the end of the floor. The Kemper Room. In over

a year working at the paper I'd never set foot in it.

I desperately wanted to ask Wallace what was so important that he'd grant me access to such hallowed ground, but

on the off chance he'd change his mind I stayed quiet.

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Jason Pinter

The room was named after Peter Kemper, the
Gazette'
s

editor-in-chief from 1978 to 1984, but was more commonly

known among the
Gazette
staff as the War Room. Every

morning the editors from each department would gather in the

War Room to go over the next day's stories. Each section

editor would fight, scratch and claw for page one space, better

coverage for their department. Each day every editor left the

room either thrilled or disappointed. Then they would return

the next day to keep up their good run, or dig their way out

of the hole. Had they been shafted the day before they'd use

pity points. If they'd been granted better placement, they'd

claim sales were up due to them.

The War Room was where other bureaus such as Washington and Los Angeles would call in to battle for their share of

the table scraps, often frustrated with their perceived lack of

respect from the New York home office.

Jack would fill me in on War Room gossip from time to

time. He took a little too much pleasure in recalling the

greatest stories ever, like the time Metro editor Jacquelyn

Mills had a story negged and threw a glass of pomegranate

juice in the editor-in-chief's face. The time Wallace himself

told an editor that his stories showed as much life as Jimmy

Hoffa, and smelled worse. Between New York and outside

bureaus there was a natural conflict; reporters in Washington

felt the ebb and flow of the political arena was the spark of

the journalistic world, while the reporters in New York felt

they were the center of the information universe. Los Angelenos felt their coverage of red-carpet shenanigans trumped

all, that popular culture and celebrity scandal whet readers'

appetites. They didn't win the battles very often.

As the War Room came into sight, I counted a dozen or so

editors already seated, cups of coffee and bottles of water in

The Guilty

237

various stages of being sipped or ignored. Far as I could tell,

I would be the youngest person in the room by a good ten years.

When Wallace threw open the door, a dozen pairs of eyes

focused on me. Not to mention the speakerphone in the

middle of the conference table whose red "on" light meant

another half dozen were listening in. And the guy in the corner

with a pen and pad who was presumably there to take

minutes. I coughed into my hand. Smiled meekly. The editors

in attendance didn't seem to care much about meek smiles.

Wallace stated, "Henry, you know everyone here." I didn't,

but remembered Wallace's "shut the hell up" rule. "Folks, this

is Henry Parker. As you know Henry's been the lead on the

Paradis murder story and the subsequent victims of this killer

as well. He was attacked in his home yesterday, but as you

can see he's alive and well."

"And glad to be here," I added. Wallace nodded his

approval.

"Terrific scoops so far," said a man I believed to be the Arts

editor. He had a neatly trimmed beard and thin glasses, a polite

ink stain at the bottom of his shirt pocket. I'd only met him once,

at the holiday party last year, the details of which ended up

being reported on every gossip website between here and

Mumbai. It's well known that the arts editors always offered

exclusive scoops to gossip rags in exchange for the rags making

the
Gazette
seem like a hip place to work. If the definition of

hip was Jack warbling Kenny Rogers while Wallace played

acoustic guitar, both men having consumed their body weight

in JD, then yes, I suppose you could call the
Gazette
a hip place

to work.

I took an empty seat, trying hard not to meet any of the

stares directed my way. I noticed several people staring at my

bandaged hand, which I self-consciously tucked underneath

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Jason Pinter

the table. Wallace sat down at the head, and finally the eyes

left me for more succulent meat.

"As I'm sure you're aware of this morning," Wallace said,

"the reaction to Henry's story about the link between this

killer and Billy the Kid has been off the charts. Based on our

website traffic, it is the
Gazette'
s most e-mailed article since

we expanded our web capabilities three years ago. We've

received dozens of phone calls, many supportive, many not

so much, not to mention queries from at least three film scouts

inquiring about film rights to the story. Needless to say we've

struck a nerve with this article, and considering the demand

I'd like each section to consider reporting on the phenomenon from a different societal perspective."

After a quick tug at his goatee, the arts editor piped in. "We

can do an overview of the most famous movies, music, television shows and books to explore the legend of Billy the Kid.

An IMBD search came back with at least two dozen films

where the Kid was either a main or substantial supporting

character. And you'd be surprised how often his name is

dropped in contemporary music and literature."

Deborah Gotkowski, the business editor, said, "I have a call

in to the tourism bureau at Fort Sumner. I'd like to know how

much revenue they take in on a yearly basis from their various

museums and tourist attractions, then analyze that data and

compare it to the ten cities who receive the largest percentage of their revenue from one specific tourist attraction."

Jonas Levinson, the science editor, said, "We can do a

comprehensive look at the DNA techniques Professor Vance

was attempting to use, and determine whether they could

actually tie Catherine Antrim to the alleged remains. That

would have to have been some groundbreaking stuff."

I heard a loud grunt from the corner. It came from a large

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239

man wearing a rumpled sports jacket and a white shirt with

a moon-shaped mustard stain. Frank Rourke was the

Gazette'
s sports editor, a man I'd never met, though I did

enjoy his recent articles about steroid abuse in baseball.

Unlike most city sportswriters, Frank wrote from a fan's perspective rather than writing as if he was the moral axis of the

sports universe. He never chided athletes for their faults. That

would have been the pot calling the kettle black, considering

Frank had written two books--one about his marriage as a

full-time sportswriter, the second about his divorce as a fulltime sportswriter.

"I think the Knicks are looking to acquire a backup point

guard for a playoff push. Maybe I can claim this Bonney guy

is coming up in trade talks."

"You should do that," Jonas said. "I bet most of your

readers would believe it, too."

"My readers could beat your readers to death with one arm

tied behind their back."

"I could throw your readers a tube steak and they'd forget

all about it."

Frank leaned forward, half his body over the table. "Are

you calling my readers stupid?"

Jonas shrugged. "If the GED fits."

"Fuck you, and fuck this kid, Parker," Rourke spat. "I've

been at this paper twelve years, I ain't never been so much as

given a handkerchief by you assholes. Now we're sucking his

dick about all this 'groundbreaking' reporting? Please. Once

this twelve-year-old milk monitor earns his stripes he can

come in here. Until then I'm not listening to this shit."

Rourke stood up and made a grand spectacle of tucking in

his shirt, shooting his cuffs and storming out. There was

silence for a moment. Jonas's face showed a combination of

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Jason Pinter

pride and white-as-a-ghost fear, as though Rourke might be

waiting for him at his desk with a pair of brass knuckles.

"Are we through?" Wallace said. "Because time is wasting

and every other paper in town is looking for us to trip so they

can pass us. I want a push on all fronts. Our early morning

newsstand numbers are our highest in six months. Henry, I

want you to stay on the murders. Jonas, I want you to look

into the attempts made by Largo Vance and others to test the

DNA contained in Billy the Kid's grave. Deborah, you look

into the effects it could have on the present day economics of

Fort Sumner and other towns such as Hamilton that are supported by this industry. I want all discoveries to be shared

directly with the office of Chief Carruthers." Wallace paused

a moment. "Most importantly, there's still a killer out there.

If we can, in any way, aid the investigation and incarceration

of this sick man, we owe it to the citizens of New York to do

so. Err on the side of caution. If you think you have something that would be of use to investigating officers, run it by

me and I'll make the final call. But get out there and report

your asses off, and have your staff do the same. This is a story

that reaches back over a century. And if you're like me, you

all have that feeling, your pulses are racing a bit, you have

that
zing
in your step because you know you're on the verge

of a great discovery. Grab it. Let's make a great paper. Good

luck."

And with that, Wallace dismissed us. I walked out with

him. He put his arm around my shoulders, made it clear so

the newsroom could see. This public display of solidarity

was to let the newsroom know he was on my side.

"You're the lead dog on this," Wallace said, soft enough

so only I could hear it. "But stay the hell out of the battle zone.

The job of a journalist is to report the news, not become it.

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241

I've read too many briefs regarding your run-ins and injuries

this past year."

"That's not my fault," I said, agitation in my voice, my

blood pressure rising. "What happened last year was out of

my hands. What happened yesterday won't happen again."

"You say that like a stupid kid playing in traffic just sure

he won't get hit by a car. Until he does. You're a reporter,

Henry, nothing more. It is your job to
write
and
investigate

the news. Neither Harvey Hillerman nor I want to see your

name appear in the
Gazette
in any capacity except as a byline

for the foreseeable future. If you can't comply with that, we

can find a position here that will keep you safely behind a

desk. Evelyn's assistant recently left to get her MBA, I'd be

happy to put in a good word."

Being Evelyn's assistant held the same appeal to me as

mopping up the public toilets at Shea Stadium. I knew

where Wallace was coming from, but if a freak wanted to

break into my house and Ginsu my hand, there was only so

much I could do about it. Then again, if the
Gazette
had to

keep defending me, readers would be smart enough to

realize that the lady doth protest too much. It would only

be a matter of time before my byline overshadowed the

story I was telling.

"I'll be careful," I told Wallace. "This is too important to

me. I won't muck it up."

"You're damn right you won't. So report it right. Now

get to work."

I went back to my desk, mentally riffling through all the

work I had to do in order to get a fuller picture of Brushy Bill.

As I walked past the other desks, I noticed most of my coworkers were gathered by the pantry. As I rounded the corner,

they made an awkward attempt to stop giggling. I started

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