The Stolen - Jason Pinter [25]
the Gazette, the front page held up and turned my way so
I could see it. He slapped it with his hand and said,
"Knocked it out of the park, Henry. Of course you know
I plan to take full credit for this. I've already told the
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whole newsroom you couldn't find an acorn in a squirrel's
paw without my help."
"And just when people were starting to respect me," I
said. "You think this will convince Rourke to hold off
making another shit bag?"
Last year, the Gazette's sports editor, a rough-andtumble jackass named Frank Rourke, decided it would be
funny to leave a paper bag full of shit on my desk. Apparently this was the highlight of the week for a lot of journos.
And a month later Jack forwarded me the Photoshop
image of my face superimposed onto that of a dog taking
a big, steaming poop. That's when I became convinced that
the more literate some people are, the more puerile their
sense of humor was.
"You should be proud, Henry. Big interview like that,
not to mention the sensitive subject matter, you could have
had all the media watchdogs all over you if you'd messed
up. You want people talking about the story itself before
the quality of the coverage. Best kind of press for a reporter
is no press."
"That's a trick I haven't quite mastered yet," I said.
"It'll come," Jack offered. "You have the brains and the
talent. Just keep doing what you were born to do and the
rest will come."
"It felt good to be in there," I said.
"I bet," Jack said, and I knew he must have written a
million stories like it. "Good mixture of fastballs and softballs. Nobody wanted you to give the Linwood kid the
third degree, but there are a lot of unanswered questions."
"That's one thing that's strange. All those questions,
and yet I'm the only one asking them."
"What do you mean?"
"This Linwood story, it's really just incredible. I mean,
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this family, the Linwoods, it's like the sun has finally
come out after a thousand years of darkness. Now they
just want to move on with their lives, let Danny be a kid
again. But nobody knows where he went, who took him,
and why he can't remember a thing before the day he
came back."
"So you think he'll, what, just be left alone now?" Jack
said. "Uh-uh. Now's when the vultures start circling.
Long-lost relatives come out of the woodwork. An uncle
somewhere who claims to be Daniel's best friend even
though he hasn't seen the kid in years, wants some of the
money folks donated. Some cousin will write a book about
how Danny wasn't such a good kid, maybe he picked his
nose when he was a toddler and put gum in a girl's hair.
It's sad how much money there is in the misery of others."
I had to shake my head. I knew Jack was right, but after
my interview I hoped the cops would pick up the slack,
ask the really tough questions. Though Danny was technically a ten-year-old boy, he'd forever be known as the
one who came back. Even strangers would hesitate a
second, wondering where they knew his name from. And
without that closure, the questions would never cease.
"You know, it's funny," I said. "All this commotion
over Daniel returning, yet the cops have no leads and
nobody really seems to be digging that hard. Even Shelly
Linwood herself seemed unconcerned as to why the cops
weren't doing more."
"When your dog runs away, then shows up an hour
later, do you really care where it went? You're just happy
the thing's back."
"This isn't a dog, Jack. It's a child. Somebody took him
and kept him for almost five years."
"Yeah, somebody took him. And then either they got
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bored of him or he managed to get away. And the world
keeps on spinning."
"That's your answer?"
"I don't need to answer," Jack said. "It's not my kid, and
it's not my story."
"You don't think it's weird that Danny doesn't remember a minute of what happened? Or where he went?"
"Strange things occur every day in this world, sport.
Just last Thursday I went to get a glass of iced tea, turned
out the pitcher was empty. Now, I