wake, interviewing seemingly everyone. But no. The reporter didn’t suspect anything. And neither did any of the other attendees. They were trading in all the same empty aphorisms people always did when they were around death. It didn’t seem to occur to anyone that this might have been anything other than a tragic, stupid accident, no different than if she died in a plane crash or a head-on collision or any of the other capricious ways a life can suddenly end. Soon her body would be in the ground and her death would be forgotten by all but a small handful of friends and family.
By Monday afternoon, he finally allowed himself to relax completely. By early Monday evening, he was celebrating with a stiff drink. He had gotten away with it.
CHAPTER 2
In the forty minutes I had to write the remaining three hundred words of my feature obit on Nancy, I mostly ignored the thought that I ought to be writing a story about a homicide instead.
I told myself that, in all likelihood, wacky old Jeanne was just letting her imagination get the best of her. Sure, Nancy was having “problems at work.” News flash: we all have problems at work. The only people who don’t are the unemployed.
If Nancy was still among the aspirating, Jeanne wouldn’t have given that late-night phone call another thought. Death has this tendency to take ordinary words and mundane conversations and magnify them ten-thousandfold, because it makes them the last words and the last conversation. Really, how many times have you heard someone say, with utmost gravity, “That was the last thing she ever said to me.”
So Jeanne was just taking those final utterances—which Nancy never intended to be profound—and blowing them out of proportion, letting them lead her mind to some frightening place. Grief does strange things to people’s heads. And hippies are notorious for being predisposed toward conspiracy theories.
Then again, so are newspaper reporters. So, yes, I was a little curious what made Jeanne think Nancy’s death was something other than what it seemed.
I studied that 510 number in my phone for a few seconds, debating whether I should call it. In my younger days, I was the kind of hard-charging reporter who probably would have. But now, in the dotage of my early thirties, I had finally gained the wisdom necessary to let it rest for a while. Wooing sources is not unlike Friday night at the bar. Sometimes you have to play a little hard to get.
So I mentally shelved Jeanne Nygard and concentrated on writing Nancy the send-off she deserved. Naturally, it ended up being a bit long, but I had a reputation for overwriting to uphold. With exactly three minutes to spare, I hit the button that sent it over to the copy desk, where my elegant prose would have to withstand the ritualistic assault known as “editing.”
Then I stood and quickly surveyed the newsroom. Unlike most workplaces in America, newspapers have eschewed cubicles, partitions, walls, or any other attempts to divide space into discrete units. The Eagle-Examiner newsroom—sometimes called “the nest,” because of the whole, you know, eagle thing—is just a great plane of desks. It’s set up that way so we can yell at each other, unhindered by any barriers that might break up the sound.
Only a handful of editors get actual offices, and even those are walled-in glass for maximum transparency. I selected the fourth office from the left and ambled over to find the assistant managing editor for local news sitting in her chair, tucked in a convoluted ball, engrossed in her computer screen.
“Hey, I’m filed,” I said.
“I’m overjoyed,” Tina replied. And although she didn’t appear to remove her attention from the screen long enough to look at me, she added, “It’s a good thing you’re wearing that suit.”
“And why is that?”
She finally lifted her eyes.
“I got free tickets to the symphony tonight and you’re my date.”
“I am?”
“Yes. You may now
By Monday afternoon, he finally allowed himself to relax completely. By early Monday evening, he was celebrating with a stiff drink. He had gotten away with it.
CHAPTER 2
In the forty minutes I had to write the remaining three hundred words of my feature obit on Nancy, I mostly ignored the thought that I ought to be writing a story about a homicide instead.
I told myself that, in all likelihood, wacky old Jeanne was just letting her imagination get the best of her. Sure, Nancy was having “problems at work.” News flash: we all have problems at work. The only people who don’t are the unemployed.
If Nancy was still among the aspirating, Jeanne wouldn’t have given that late-night phone call another thought. Death has this tendency to take ordinary words and mundane conversations and magnify them ten-thousandfold, because it makes them the last words and the last conversation. Really, how many times have you heard someone say, with utmost gravity, “That was the last thing she ever said to me.”
So Jeanne was just taking those final utterances—which Nancy never intended to be profound—and blowing them out of proportion, letting them lead her mind to some frightening place. Grief does strange things to people’s heads. And hippies are notorious for being predisposed toward conspiracy theories.
Then again, so are newspaper reporters. So, yes, I was a little curious what made Jeanne think Nancy’s death was something other than what it seemed.
I studied that 510 number in my phone for a few seconds, debating whether I should call it. In my younger days, I was the kind of hard-charging reporter who probably would have. But now, in the dotage of my early thirties, I had finally gained the wisdom necessary to let it rest for a while. Wooing sources is not unlike Friday night at the bar. Sometimes you have to play a little hard to get.
So I mentally shelved Jeanne Nygard and concentrated on writing Nancy the send-off she deserved. Naturally, it ended up being a bit long, but I had a reputation for overwriting to uphold. With exactly three minutes to spare, I hit the button that sent it over to the copy desk, where my elegant prose would have to withstand the ritualistic assault known as “editing.”
Then I stood and quickly surveyed the newsroom. Unlike most workplaces in America, newspapers have eschewed cubicles, partitions, walls, or any other attempts to divide space into discrete units. The Eagle-Examiner newsroom—sometimes called “the nest,” because of the whole, you know, eagle thing—is just a great plane of desks. It’s set up that way so we can yell at each other, unhindered by any barriers that might break up the sound.
Only a handful of editors get actual offices, and even those are walled-in glass for maximum transparency. I selected the fourth office from the left and ambled over to find the assistant managing editor for local news sitting in her chair, tucked in a convoluted ball, engrossed in her computer screen.
“Hey, I’m filed,” I said.
“I’m overjoyed,” Tina replied. And although she didn’t appear to remove her attention from the screen long enough to look at me, she added, “It’s a good thing you’re wearing that suit.”
“And why is that?”
She finally lifted her eyes.
“I got free tickets to the symphony tonight and you’re my date.”
“I am?”
“Yes. You may now
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