Strangled - Brian McGrory [144]
Martin continued, “We have to run big on this, every conceivable angle, and then some. We’re still printing the Phantom Fiend’s miniature manifesto. In the mainbar, which you’re writing, play up the initial suspicions of Foley, what you said to Hal Harrison to kick this whole thing off. The Elizabeth Riggs driver’s license deal. Touch on the Vinny Mongillo allegations, just in case others do. We were at this thing first; we want that to be easily apparent in our coverage.”
I only nodded. Peter Martin’s every instinct was exactly right, as they almost always are. But my instincts were holding me back, preventing me from going full bore on Mac Foley in the story. Was it because of the fact I lost the initial newsbreak, and now wanted to be counterintuitive, because in the end, that’s mostly what reporters are — at least good reporters — counterintuitive, obstinate pricks? Or was it because of my dealings with Foley, in which I never got a whiff of anything especially wrong? Or was it these little pieces that still floated around in my head, nothing ever quite coming together?
“I’ll do it,” I said.
“You don’t sound excited,” Martin responded. “Jack, this is huge. We’ve been the paper of record on this story; we have to remain the paper of record. Whomp it up. While you’re writing, I’ve got Vinny and about four others working the phones for anything we can learn about the investigation, and anything we can learn about Foley’s life and career. Let’s do it.”
He clapped his hands together and walked away, nearly skipping toward his office. I looked down at Huck; Huck looked up at me.
“I wouldn’t mind switching places with you right about now,” I told him.
He struggled slowly to his feet from his long and deserving nap. He licked my knee, then casually placed two paws on my lap as if he was about to climb onto my chair.
“I didn’t mean that literally,” I said, laughing. He groaned again as he flopped back down on the floor.
At seven o’clock, Peter Martin approached me gingerly, less because of the dog than the hour. It was deadline, after deadline, even, and he had been watching from a safe and secure distance for the past four hours as Jack Flynn — that being me — did what he did best: write stories.
Vinny Mongillo fed me great details on, among other things, the cops raiding Mac Foley’s house, and how they found Elizabeth Riggs’s wallet in the trash can of a next-door neighbor. A couple of other Record reporters, Linus Pershing and Cray Dalton — no one in this business is named Billy and Bobby anymore — fed me reaction from Strangler victims past and present. As I finished the story, I begrudgingly began to like it, if not for content than for style, proving that old newspaper adage that the best story a reporter’s ever done is the one he or she just wrote.
Still, I felt uneasy. I felt uneasy about the fact that Mac Foley was still being detained, even though formal charges had yet to be filed. I felt uneasy that Hal Harrison hadn’t even hinted at what those charges might be. I felt most uneasy of all about my own role, essentially leading Harrison to Foley’s house, where some incriminating evidence was discovered — or perhaps planted. Now, there’s a thought.
At that point, I was talking myself out of the story all over again, still nagged by all those disparate pieces in my head refusing to form a whole.
“You ready to let go?”
That was Martin, three paces away, looking at me expectantly. I clicked a button on my computer that transported the story from my queue to his, essentially taking it out of my hands. I should have felt good about that, another deadline successfully behind me, a blockbuster front-page story ahead. I felt anything but.
“All yours,” I said. And Martin, to his considerable credit, was as sober in his departure as he was in his arrival.
“All right, Fair Hair, I’m thinking of the thinnest-crust pizza we can find, with fresh mushrooms, maybe a little oregano, the cheese melted just perfectly so, all of it washed down