The Guilty Part 2

What kind of reporter are you?

"Good. Then Evelyn will be expecting your copy in sixty minutes."

"I'm a lucky man."

Evelyn Waterstone was the Gazette' Gazette' s battle-ax of a Metro s battle-ax of a Metro desk editor. All stories that focused within the five boroughs were doled out by her, met with her approval, and she had final edit. She was notorious for fighting for front-page s.p.a.ce, claiming that New York was the country's central nervous system, and that most relevant stories stemmed from there.

So far she had treated me with kid gloves. Which left me uneasy. She always seemed to be much tougher on the other young journalists, the interns, the people who hadn't paid their dues. The fact that she liked me was fairly disconcerting. Like someone who smiled to your face while they held a Ginsu behind their back.

"Leave out the stuff about slug caliber and shooter vantage points," Wallace said. "Too much conjecture. Let the Dispatch Dispatch be forced to make retractions. We need to play this clean."

"I'll get it done," I said, trying to convince not only Wallace but myself.

"Don't worry, I spoke to Evelyn before you got here.

She's aware of the time-sensitive nature, and is waiting for your e-mail. I'm asking you to play in the same scuzzy ballpark the Dispatch Dispatch does, only you bat clean. You have an does, only you bat clean. You have an 32.hour. Find an angle the Dispatch Dispatch will miss. The entire country will miss. The entire country is going to be talking about Athena's murder, and we need to give them something n.o.body else will. I don't want any baseless conjecture. I don't want any name-calling. I don't want to stoop to their level. I want you to report this story the way a Gazette Gazette reporter would." reporter would."

I nodded. Had no intention of doing it any other way. Since I returned to the Gazette Gazette full time, I'd worked my a.s.s off in full time, I'd worked my a.s.s off in an effort to prove I could hack it at that level. My first goround had been sidetracked by a slight case of murder. I'd spent the better part of a year trying to live down my own story, and now it was time to return to what I did best. To what I was born to do. Find the stories n.o.body else could.

I looked back at the crime scene. Saw where the body had fallen. A ballistics expert used a pencil to trace an invisible line from the top of a brownstone several blocks away to the spot where the bullet had struck Athena. This club had security cameras outside, meaning Athena's death had undoubtedly been captured live and in color.

All those cameras. All those witnesses. No doubt a dozen people or more had taken cell phone photos and videos of her murder. Who knew how many ghouls would post them publicly? Whoever had killed Athena couldn't have picked a more public place. It was as if the killer wanted people to see it, to record it, to spread his mayhem. It didn't make my job any easier, that's for sure. There would be a cacophony of noise tomorrow, and I needed to find a pitch that could rise above it.

I looked at the brownstone being eyed by the tech. Checked my watch. Under an hour to find a story. Didn't have to be the whole ball of yarn, just a strong thread. Sometimes a thread was all you needed.

4.

I pushed my way through the throng of eager reporters. Felt more than one elbow jab my ribs. I wasn't naive enough to think they were accidental. Much of the NYC press corps still burned because of the publicity I'd received from my murder rap. Grizzled vets who resented the book and film deals I'd turned down. It was a Catch-22. They would have hated me just as much if I'd taken the money. The spotlight of fame exposed every jealous and spiteful emotion from those who wished they had it, and from those who wanted nothing to do with it.

I saw Curtis Sheffield on the cop side of the tape, holding back photographers and issuing "no comments" like they were going out of style. Curt Sheffield was a young black officer, two years out of the academy and the kind of cop who'd be one of New York's finest for years to come. Fit, tall, with a smile that got female witnesses offering more than their side of the story. I'd interviewed Curt a few months ago for a story on the NYPD's developing new body armor, how the upgrade was long overdue, and how based on gunshot wound studies the new vests, when implemented across the country, would likely save up to thirty lives a year.

34.Curt was glad the department finally kicked in the dough to save lives, but offered sincere remorse for the lives that had already been lost. He'd been honest and eloquent, and it was clear the public good was his pa.s.sion. The department had recognized this--and recognized that his face would look good on a poster--and within weeks Curt was the centerpiece of a new NYPD recruitment campaign.

Despite our naturally combative professions, I considered Curt a friend. He was a great source because he knew any information he pa.s.sed along would be treated with respect. A few weeks after the recruitment drive started, Curt admitted that most cops weren't big fans of do I know you do I know you looks. They looks. They don't like getting recognized in movie theaters or getting asked for autographs. So we had something in common.

Curt saw me as I battled the wave of gawkers barricaded behind police tape. He walked over fast, a stern look in his eye.

"Hey, back off," he said, approaching a grizzled paparazzo trying to sneak his camera beneath the tape. He eyed me, popped his head to the left. Come over here. Come over here.

I followed him off to the side. Another cop held back the ma.s.ses so we could talk in private.

"You believe this s.h.i.+t?" Curt said. "Don't know what's worse, cleaning up this mess or having Athena Paradis's stupid song stuck in my head while her blood is drying on the sidewalk."

"I'd say they're both pretty bad."

"Yeah. Pretty bad," he said, distracted. He was chewing gum. His jaw was working overtime, anything to keep his mind occupied.

"So you a.s.signed to this mess?" I asked.

"You aren't a.s.signed to s.h.i.+tstorms, they just happen to rain when you're walking by." Curt smacked his gum.

35."Big story," he continued. "Not just any girl got killed here tonight."

"Don't I know it." I leaned in. "Listen, man, if I had to guess, Athena was killed by a high-powered rifle. Highcaliber slug." I pointed at the outcropping of rooftops surrounding the Kitten Club. "Your killer shot from the roof of one of these buildings. Guess it's up to your forensics and spatter people to figure out the angle and trajectory."

"Like Deadwood out here. Everybody saw everything, but n.o.body saw nothing. Know what I mean?"

"Yeah. Figure some sick a.s.shole with a video cell phone will upload this to YouTube any minute now." I looked around, saw half a dozen half-drunk and half-asleep club goers fiddling on cell phones and BlackBerries. "Maybe sooner than later."

Curt kept chewing, nodded. "You see that building over there?" He flicked his head north.

"Which one?"

"Don't know," he said, eyes locked on to mine. "Maybe redbrick or something."

I looked again. There was a redbrick building two blocks north and one block west of us. I could make it out through the early morning haze.

"Seen a lot of my boys in blue checking it out. Trying not to cause a stir."

"That right?"

Curt nodded. "Hate to see those c.o.c.kroaches at the Dispatch get the bra.s.s ring. You know they had a reporter over get the bra.s.s ring. You know they had a reporter over here from their gossip section, offered to write me up as one of NYC's hottest bachelors if I planted a bug in our briefing room? f.u.c.king parasites."

"h.e.l.l, you'd be lucky to break the top hundred."

"Yeah, tell that to my girlfriend. I'd be on patrol with a 36.GPS monitor up my a.s.s the second she thinks my eyes start wandering." Curt looked around, coughed into his hand.

"Can't say I was a fan of Athena's, you know, work, work, but but Christ, the girl was only twenty-two."

"No kidding," I said. We stayed silent for a moment, then I remembered my deadline. "Hey, drinks on me this week. If I don't hit my deadline which is in, oh about six minutes, I'll be out of work and you'll have to pick up the tab."

"Then get the h.e.l.l out of here." He clapped me on the shoulder. "Take it easy, Parker."

After saying goodbye I hung back for a minute. I didn't want to let anyone else know I had a possible scoop. Then I waded back into the soup of reporters, stuffed my hands in my pockets and headed north.

Two patrolmen jogged by me. I slowed down. There were several cops huddling outside of the redbrick building Curt had pointed out. As I got closer I heard radio activity. I stopped at the corner and peeked around.

A cop stood by the awning, a walkie-talkie in his hand. A plainclothes cop, probably from Forensic Investigation, strode up and spoke to him for a minute, then ducked inside. I took a breath, waited until the cop was alone, then rounded the corner and approached him.

"Help you?" he said. Nothing to see here, move along. Nothing to see here, move along.

"Henry Parker, New York Gazette. New York Gazette. " I showed him my press " I showed him my press credentials. Might as well have been a slab of lemon, the way his face scrunched up.

"Go on, get out of here."

"Something going on inside this building?" The cop locked eyes with me, then spoke deliberately.

"You know you don't have a whole lot of fans in the law enforcement community."

37.I nodded. Even though charges had never been brought for the murder of Officer John Fredrickson, if not for me he'd still be alive. And even though he was dirty as sin, that was something no cop or Fed would ever forget.

"Crime scene is over on Thirteenth." He jerked his thumb back where I'd come from. "You want a better view of the crime scene, might I suggest walking to the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge and then jumping off."

I laughed, pretended it didn't affect me. "I saw several officers entering and exiting this site."

"You saw wrong."

"Officer..." I said, looking at his badge. "Officer Lemansky. I know this is the building the killer shot Athena Paradis from. You and I both know this murder is going to make both of our lives a living h.e.l.l until the killer is caught.

All differences aside, the story is huge, and it won't go away just because you tell me to. Whether it's the Gazette, Gazette, the the Dispatch or the or the National Enquirer, National Enquirer, you're going to have reporters up your a.s.s until this psycho is caught. Do you read the you're going to have reporters up your a.s.s until this psycho is caught. Do you read the newspaper?"

He nodded. "So what?"

"So you must have read that story the Dispatch Dispatch ran last ran last week. Detective Pedro Alvarez, killed in the line of duty. Did you know him?"

Lemansky's silence was an affirmative.

"So you know the Dispatch Dispatch ran a front-page story two ran a front-page story two days after his death. About his mistress. Lena something, right?"

Officer Lemansky sniffed. He shuffled his feet.

"f.u.c.king parasites," he said. "Madeleine deserved better than seeing her family's name dragged through the mud." He looked at me. "Alvarez was a good cop and a good husband. If 38.it wasn't for people like you he'd still be remembered that way."

I had my opening.

"I don't work for the Dispatch. Dispatch. I'm not interested in smear I'm not interested in smear campaigns and ruining families to sell papers. If you don't talk to me, another reporter will get the story. You've read the Gazette. So you can talk to me right here, right now, or I can't So you can talk to me right here, right now, or I can't promise what tomorrow's headline will be in the Dispatch. Dispatch.

But I can promise you what the headline will be in the Gazette. " "

Lemansky was searching my eyes for the truth. Whether he could trust me. I knew he could.

He nodded. "I give you something, it came from an anonymous source. I get quoted, or you do anything to go back on what you just said, I don't care if the papers start claiming we're f.u.c.king aliens from Mars, you'll get a mouthful of broken teeth before you ever get another story."

I said, "You have my word."

He looked around. I thought about Curt. Knew the cops just wanted to make sure the right thing was done.

"Forensics is saying they found a note scrawled up on the roof, below the ledge they think the shooter rested the gun on.

They're a.n.a.lyzing it, but they say he wrote in block using a Sharpie so it's pretty much useless. They're sifting through about a ton of loose gravel up there, could take days to find anything else."

"The note," I said, speaking softly, half to calm the cop and half to slow down my heart. "What did it say?"

The cop looked around again. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

"Some lab rat pa.s.sed copies around, asked if anyone had ever heard of someone talking like this before. I didn't know, 39.but..." He licked his lips. His eyes danced around, like somebody was about to leap from the morning shadows.

He handed it to me.

"Get out of here," he said. "And remember what you said."

I nodded, took the paper and walked off.

I waited until I'd gone about three blocks and was out of the line of sight from the building. Then I opened my hand.

It was a simple piece of paper on which was written a single sentence. And if Lemansky was correct, besides a murdered girl, this was all the killer left behind.

I read the sentence. Felt my breath catch in my throat.

Right then I knew why Officer Lemansky was scared. I knew what my angle was. A chill of fear ran up my spine, similar to the one I felt last year when I was accused of murder.

And I knew that Athena Paradis wouldn't be the last victim.

5.

I was sitting in Wallace Langston's office as he read a printout of the article. My palms were coated with sweat and my eyelids felt like they were being dragged down with two-ton weights. Evelyn had posted the text of my article at 4:22 a.m., holding it up just to confirm my source.

When I told her the quote the killer had left at the scene, she paused.

"Why do I recognize that line?" she asked.

I took a breath before answering. "Because I wrote it."

The slip of paper Officer Lemansky gave me had one simple sentence on it. It read: The only difference between the innocent and the guilty is that the guilty are the only ones who believe in their cause.

I had written that line several weeks after being cleared of the murder of John Fredrickson. When I was on the run, when the whole world saw me as a murderer, other than Amanda I was the only one who knew and believed in the truth. The article was in response to those who'd been so quick to pa.s.s 41.judgment, including the Gazette' Gazette' s own Paulina Cole. I was s own Paulina Cole. I was happy to hear when she left for the Dispatch. Dispatch. I couldn't I couldn't imagine going to work every day, sitting next to someone who printed such vileness without knowing the truth.

When the world a.s.sumed I was guilty, they looked at me as a degenerate, someone to whom committing murder was justified.

And now a killer had taken my words, used them to support whatever twisted reasoning goes through the mind of someone willing to steal an innocent life.

The killer knew he was guilty. Only he didn't care. He had a cause. Causes don't simply end. Murderers don't simply lose interest. There were more victims out there.

"This came out well," Wallace said, mainly to fill the silence. We both knew the copy wasn't great, but contained all confirmed and pertinent facts and was as good as could be expected from a reporter running on Red Bull and a deadline.

He put the papers down on top of a copy of the morning edition of the Dispatch. Dispatch. Wallace had it delivered every day, Wallace had it delivered every day, though I couldn't remember him ever reading it.