The Guilty - Jason Pinter [83]
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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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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toward them to see what was up, but then smelled something
unmistakable in the air.
I looked over at my desk, noticed a paper bag sitting on
my keyboard. As I got closer I noticed that a) my desk smelled
absolutely rancid, and b) there was a small brown splotch at
the bottom of the bag. I didn't need to get any closer to know
somebody had put a bag full of shit on my desk.
I forced a smile, picked up the bag, walked it to the pantry.
The other reporters parted as I approached. I dropped it in the
trash, washed my hand, and said, "Looks like someone forgot
their lunch."
I wasn't laughing as I returned to my desk. A killer was
still out there. And despite what Wallace hoped,