Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [78]
What are you getting at? Wilcox wondered.
Morehouse addressed Wilcox directly now, his index finger poised to lend weight to his words. “Now, you listen to me, Joe Wilcox. You may not like what’s happened to this business over the years any more than I do. You don’t like Hawthorne and his ilk and neither do I. But times have changed big time. We don’t as much report the news any more as we turn it into a story that has marketability. Sales, Joe, the bottom line, ad revenue, increased circulation, dollars and cents, that’s where it’s at these days, and like it or not, we either embrace that reality, or we get out of the way before the Hawthornes of the world run us over.”
“I know you’re right, Paul,” Wilcox said. “The news business isn’t what it was when I saw myself as the next Ed Murrow or Ernie Pyle. But I won’t take a backseat to anyone, including guys like Hawthorne. Especially guys like Hawthorne.”
Morehouse grunted and resumed his chair behind the desk. “We’re in a fight to survive, Joe, like the airlines. People no longer automatically open their daily newspaper every morning and catch up on the news. There’s cable and the networks, the bloggers on the Internet, the radio talk shows and the Matt Drudges of the world. We’re losing ground every day. That’s why we have to give readers what they want, in this case a reason to buy the Trib.”
Wilcox said nothing, and an awkward silence settled over the office.
“I’m putting Hawthorne on the serial killer story, Joe.”
Wilcox fairly came out of his chair. “You’re what?”
“Putting Hawthorne on the story. I know you two don’t get along, so I’m not suggesting you work together. You go ahead and continue to work your sources, and do the writing. He can’t hold a candle to you when it comes to that. But he’ll be working his contacts, too.” He slid a sheet of paper across the desk. Wilcox picked it up and read a statement from the mayor, in which he called upon the city’s women to go about their daily lives as usual, but to also exercise prudence and caution until the killer is brought to justice.
Wilcox threw the paper down on the desk. “Why didn’t he give this to me?” he demanded.
“For the same reason you won’t have anything to do with him, Joe. You guys act like you hate each other.” Wilcox tried to say something but Morehouse said, “I don’t give a goddamn whether you and Hawthorne ever say a word to each other. What I do care about is following through on the serial killer story we initiated. You catch your daughter on the noon news, Joe?”
“Roberta? No. Why?”
“She reported that AP is investigating the possibility that there may be a connection between Jean’s murder and what her roommate does for a living.”
“That’s unconscionable,” Wilcox said.
Morehouse came forward. He’d been calm until this moment. Now, his face reddened and his voice mirrored his anger. “I asked you, Joe, about that connection with Kaporis’s roommate, and you told me nothing panned out. You lied. I called Jillian and Lansden in and asked them about it. Lansden said she’d told you that the roommate—what’s her name? Pruit?—worked for the Starlight agency. Did she?”
“No. She said the guy at the agency hesitated or something when she mentioned Pruit’s name. That was it.”
“So, where did AP come up with it?”
“Ask somebody at AP.”
“Ask your daughter.”
“Yeah, I will. Is that it?”
“I could say don’t let me down, Joe. Take what Hawthorne gives you, work your own side of the street, and keep this serial killer story on the front page. Better yet, Joe, don’t let yourself down. Make me a hero upstairs and we’ll both go out in a blaze of glory.”
Morehouse watched his veteran reporter slowly get out of the chair and go to the door. His hand was on the knob when Morehouse said, “Believe me, Joe, I don’t like this any more than you