Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [115]
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That this debatable technique had been taught by one of her college professors tended to mitigate in her mind its deceitfulness. The professor, who taught a class in television interviewing, had cited a New York radio talk show host of yesteryear, Long John Nebel, known for his acerbic on-air approach to guests, especially those for whom he had little regard. The guest would spend preshow time in the Green Room signing releases and talking with Nebel’s producer. At some point, the producer would ask, “Is there anything you don’t want John to get into on the show, anything you’d just as soon not make public?” The guest might cite some incident in his life that would be embarrassing to have broadcast to thousands of listeners. Unknown to the guest, there was a microphone in the Green Room, and Nebel, sitting in his office, heard every word. At an appropriate moment in the show, the guest could count on being asked about the very thing he wished to avoid.
“This may seem unfair to you,” the professor had lectured, “just as running the camera before an interview without the interviewee’s knowledge might strike you as, well, mendacious. But your job as a journalist is to get the story, the real story. Once someone agrees to sit for an interview, it isn’t necessary to give him or her an official signal that you’re starting. In fact, it’s best not to. Grab whatever you can, however you can, and sleep well at night knowing you’ve gone after and gotten the truth. And always remember that the person agreeing to the interview is looking for something out of it, too. Catching them off-guard helps ensure that you’ll be capturing who they really are, without the spin they’ll put on things during the more structured interview.” It was one of the most popular courses at the university until the professor was eventually fired for, as the university’s provost put it, “misleading our students.” By that time, Roberta had graduated and had begun her career.
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“Yes,” Michael said. “Marjorie Jones. You want to talk about her?”
“If it’s all right with you.”
“It isn’t easy,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “If you’d rather not—”
“Oh, no, no restrictions, Robbie. Complete honesty is crucial, I was told over and over. I will talk about anything and anyone you wish.”
“One of the things I’d like to ask is how it feels to kill someone.”
The camera continued to roll, the microphone picking up every word.
“How it feels?” He became pensive, head back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. He came forward and leaned toward her. “In my case, rage, and fear of being found out and punished by my parents preceded the act. As the act continued, the rage abated. I suppose there was some pleasure in it, but I really don’t recall specifically.”
Carlos and Margo were now totally immersed in what they were hearing. This guy who played beautiful guitar and was a good cook had murdered somebody named Marjorie Jones? What was Roberta onto? Her uncle? She’d sworn them to secrecy on the way over to the apartment. Now they knew why.
“Do you want to start the interview now?” he asked Roberta.
“If you’re ready.”
“As ready as I will ever be,” he said, drawing the back of his hand across his brow in an exaggerated display.
Roberta turned to Carlos and Margo. “Ready?” she asked.
“Ready,” they said in unison, the camera and Nagra tape recorder still rolling.
Roberta held up her hand. “Before we begin,” she said, “I’d like to get something from you about what’s happening right here in Washington, D.C. You know that a serial killer is walking the streets.”
“Of course. I’ve read your father’s articles about it.”
She hesitated as though grappling with whether to ask the next question. “All right,” she said, “I’ll be direct. With a serial killer roaming the streets, do you ever think that because of your past, you might be considered a suspect?” She didn’t allow him to reply. “Do you think that because