Strangled - Brian McGrory [72]
Martin added, “Your reaction was my reaction, but it might not be the right reaction. You and I might be too old-fashioned in the age of FOX News and the Internet. And this may not be the last of it.”
We both sat there in the middle of the newsroom, quietly now. In the distance, the copy desk was in the throes of another deadline, with pasty-faced copy editors nearly delirious in the discovery of a misplaced semicolon or a wrong middle initial.
Martin said, “There’s word of a press conference tomorrow morning at police headquarters. Nine o’clock. I think you’ll want to be there. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day.”
At that point, neither one of us had any idea just how big the day would be.
21
If there was ever a moment’s doubt about the national appeal of the Phantom Fiend story, it was rapidly put to rest when Toby glided up to the front of Boston Police headquarters at Schroeder Plaza at 8:45 in the morning to drop me off for the commissioner’s press conference.
Television satellite trucks lined Tremont Street on the outskirts of Boston’s Roxbury section, long trucks, huge trucks, with the outsized insignias of various networks — from CNN to FOX News to the big three of NBC, ABC, and CBS — emblazoned on the sides. In the narrow gaps between satellite trucks were the smaller vans owned by affiliate stations in Boston, Hartford, Springfield, Providence, and Portland, Maine.
I swear to God, it was all part of one huge traveling carnival, same trucks driving the same people facing the same pressures to cover the same stories. The only thing that changed was the location, whether a remote Indian reservation in Minnesota for a school shooting, or an Atlanta suburb for a missing bride (not Maggie), or the California coast for the guy who murdered his pregnant wife. Could be Waco, could be Ruby Ridge, could be wherever — and it always was. The only guarantee in this media age is that when one blockbuster story is ending, another one is just gaining legs someplace else. There’s no other choice: the executives at MSNBC aren’t going to broadcast ten hours a day of nothingness, even if it sometimes seems like that’s exactly what they do.
And now the show had traveled to my backyard, courtesy of, well, me, though not really. I was an incidental, if somewhat pivotal player, an unintentional conduit between a murderer and the city that he seemed to be killing off one woman at a time. As I stepped out of the Navigator, I hoped my colleagues from the national press corps could and would leave me the hell alone. I really did. Many reporters — hell, most reporters — would bask in the limelight created by the Phantom Fiend. I didn’t need it. I didn’t want it, not least because I really do have a face made for newspaper work. I would only put up with the publicity if it furthered the cause of me breaking more news.
The sidewalk along Tremont Street outside the glassy headquarters was a sideshow in that aforementioned carnival. One man with hair like Johnny Damon’s, which also meant he had hair like Jesus, was handing out prayer cards and chanting, “God save our city.” A middle-aged woman sold T-shirts that read THE PHANTOM IS A YANKEES FAN. Another young vendor plied shirts that simply said THE PHANTOM SUCKS. A twentysomething guy with dreadlocks sold those cheap plastic bracelets — these were black — that charities are always using now for fund-raising.
“Who benefits from these?” I asked him.
He looked at me carefully for a long moment, shrugged, and said, “I do.”
Good answer. I bought one for two dollars and stuck it in my pocket, yet another contribution to the American Dream.
Speaking of which, by the time I hit the revolving front door, any dream I had of being anonymous in this unfolding story was quickly broken. There were, I don’t know, maybe twenty, probably closer to thirty,