Deadline (30 page)

“It’s even possible someone was going after my other friend, Finney, or me.”

“We’ve thought of that. Our surveillance on you was originally for information, but we’ve told our agents to give you protection too. Other people are tailing you, we know that. But if they wanted you dead, they’ve had ample opportunity. We give it a 95 percent chance that Dr. Lowell was the sole target. The kingpins probably ordered a hit by an out-of-town trigger man who’s long gone, although I’ve got to admit using a hacksaw isn’t their style. Who knows? Anyway, you’re probably not in danger. But we’d hate to be proven wrong by a bullet in your head.”

“Yeah, I’m not real excited about that either.”

“Who else have you talked to? What else have you found out?”

The photos and the surveillance told him they knew exactly where he’d been, so he figured he’d better tell them the general stuff. He told them about talking to Sue and Mary Ann. That he’d be talking to some of the abortion protesters next week. He even told them about the possibility of betrayed husbands or women scorned. He decided it was a little late to be protecting Doc’s reputation.

After another forty minutes of probing and note taking, Sutter put down his pen.

“Jake, we appreciate your honesty. I’d like to ask your ongoing cooperation. We’re going to be contacting you periodically. We’ll update you on our investigation, tell you everything we’re authorized to. In return, we’d like you to update us on what you know. You could come across exactly what we need to put these guys away.”

“So, do I just drop by to chat? Or do I wave a red hanky to your surveillance guys?”

Sutter smiled. “It’s essential you don’t come by here, or you could blow the investigation. You didn’t ask about the other people tailing you.”

“I was working up to it.”

“Our surveillance agents, Mayhew’s been one of them, have noticed some of the same bystanders happen to show up around you in different parts of town. Not a coincidence. Today they weren’t around, I don’t know why, so we made our move. They didn’t tail us here. We have ways of knowing. Bottom line, I’m not even going to give you our phone number. It’s just too risky. We’ll call you regularly, at your office usually. Until then, be careful. And, please, remember your agreement. We wouldn’t want to prosecute you, but we would if you forced our hand.”

Mayhew nodded, as if doing so put real weight behind Sutter’s threat.

“Remember, we’re on the same team, Jake. We want to get the guys that took out your friends. We want them as bad as you do.”

Somehow Jake doubted that, but he was sure Sutter meant it anyway.

“Okay. Am I free to go?”

“Of course. We’ll escort you out.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I
t was 2:45 Monday afternoon, three hours after Jake finished his column. He dreaded what awaited him in fifteen minutes. But first he had to return a call to Ollie.

“Detective Chandler would like you to hold a minute, Mr. Woods.” It was the familiar voice of the detective bureau receptionist.

“Sure.”

“Actually, his exact words were, “Tell him to hold on to his shorts, I’m coming.”’ Jake smiled. He was enough of a regular now she felt free to actually quote Ollie.

No stranger to holding, Jake used the time to contemplate his bizarre weekend. Despite his initial skepticism, there was no doubting Sutter and Mayhew were FBI. And as wild as the organized crime scenario sounded at first, the more Sutter explained it, the more it had the ring of truth. From his years as an investigative reporter, Jake had developed a gut instinct about what was true and what wasn’t. The FBI’s hypothesis was disturbing but plausible.

Meanwhile he had other, more ordinary suspects to pursue. Now he also had the added dimension of looking over his shoulder, realizing at any time he could be followed not only by FBI agents, his self-appointed guardian angels, but others, potentially ruthless people fully capable of playing hard ball if they didn’t like his nosing around. The game took on a new complexion. The stakes had been raised.

“Chandler here.”

“Your favorite reporter checking in for duty.”

“Try again. That doesn’t carry much weight. Sort of like favorite tax collector.”

“Understood. What’s up?”

“I’m snowed under, that’s what’s up. Crime takes no holiday. I remember when murders used to be rare in this city. I’m having a hard time recalling which leads go with which investigation. Let’s see, you’re on the strangled high-class hooker case, right?”

“Funny, Ollie.”

“Okay, I got the file. Hang on.”

Jake noticed Ollie’s voice, usually loud despite its thinness, reduce almost to a whisper. Obviously he didn’t want to advertise he was sharing information with anyone outside the department. Jake realized again Ollie was taking a risk trusting him, which made him feel even worse about holding back on the FBI’s involvement. But what choice did he have?

“More news from the boys in crime lab. They’ve really earned their bagels on this one. You know that little piece of fabric they found under the car? Well, they identified the fabric type—80 percent cotton, 20 percent polyester. They say it’s a basic sweatshirt type material, which narrows it down to a few million items. But they ran a chemical analysis and identified the dye lot.”

Ollie paused as if Jake should immediately respond.

“Which means…?”

Ollie sighed, as a master with a slow pupil.

“Which means, every manufacturer keeps detailed records on clothing it produces, including dye lot information and what retail stores it sells the clothing to. That’s no big help if it’s a line of clothing sold to lots of different stores everywhere, or if it’s sold to one national chain, say K-Mart, and they ship it all over the place. All you know then is your killer could have bought his clothes in Orlando, Florida or Gresham, Oregon or three hundred other cities in between. But our strand of fabric was much more isolated. This particular dye lot was processed by a small manufacturer and all sent to Regent’s.”

“Regent’s? That’s just a local chain, isn’t it?”

“Exactly. Only five stores, every one within twenty miles of where we sit.”

“So, what does that prove?”

“It doesn’t prove anything. But it strongly suggests whoever did it is local. Shops locally, lives locally. Bought his blue sweat shirt or sweat pants at Regent’s.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You don’t sound too excited. Well, granted, it doesn’t tell us a lot, but it’s one more piece in the puzzle. If we come up with suspects we can watch them, study their shopping habits, maybe even find our blue sweats with a nice little hole, maybe an oil stain.” Jake could almost hear Ollie salivate. “But we’ve got a long way to go here. Got anything more for me, Jake?”

“Nope, sorry. Listen, I’ve got to run to a meeting. I’ll call you if I come up with anything. And thanks for telling me this stuff. I really appreciate it.”

Jake hung up under a load of guilt. He wanted to discuss everything with Ollie. But he’d vowed not to. He’d have to sift all this out for himself. How did Ollie’s new evidence jibe with the FBI’s theory of an out-of-town hit man hired by organized crime? Besides, he still couldn’t picture a hit man with a hack saw. On the other hand, maybe that was the whole point—if a head shot was an obvious professional murder, why not stage an apparent accident which, even if discovered, would look like the job of an amateur? Jake could make a case for every possibility, but nothing seemed right. His head spun like one of those carnival squirrel cages he and Doc and Finney used to cram into every summer at the Benton County Fair.

Normally he’d be column brainstorming, sneaking out early to play some golf, or taking an extra long walk in the city this clear crisp afternoon. Instead, he found himself walking toward a
Trib
conference room, to one of his least favorite activities, made all the more odious by this rare November sunshine flooding into the
Trib
from every outside window. Jake shook his head in resignation. A committee meeting.

Managing editor Jess Foley presided at the long rectangular table in the
Trib’s
biggest editorial conference room. Every day he met with all the
Trib’s
department heads, getting fifteen to twenty of their nominations for what deserved to make A-1. Exactly one would get the top billing, the main headline, and four or five others would get a less prominent role on page one, expanding on later pages. The prototype diplomat, Jess showed the same respect for the Travel and Living and Sports departments as he did for Metro, Foreign, Politics, and Business. Jess wasn’t a curmudgeon like Winston, but shared the same dedication to the newspaper, and a much larger picture of how the components worked together. If the
Tribune
was a symphony orchestra, Jess Foley was the conductor. He also chaired a few key committees, including the one now assembled.

“Okay, first let’s welcome our newest member. Everybody knows Jake, right? We thought it was about time we got a general columnist on the committee. We need opinions here, and columnists have opinions to spare. Welcome, Jake.”

Jake nodded. Most of the eight others smiled, especially Clarence, his favorite sports columnist and occasional partner in pranks. Jake had known for a month he’d be joining this committee, but with every spare moment off the job going to the investigation he didn’t need anything new right now. Nonetheless, here he sat on the “Multicultural Concerns Committee,” with only a vague understanding of what it did.

“Whenever we add a new member, it’s a good time to remind ourselves what we’re about.” Jess sounded like a college professor working with a group of masters students.

“Two years ago we were getting a lot of feedback from groups that felt slighted and misrepresented. That’s when we started diversity training for editors, then reporters. At first this was voluntary, as you recall, but we found those who didn’t choose to attend needed it most. We needed some sort of structure to assure diversity was being respected. Hence, this committee. As you know, some other papers are doing the same, and it seems to be working well.”

“So,” Jess eyeballed Jake now, “we try to stay on top of what’s coming down the pike in our different departments, things that could affect the image of minority groups. Also, we evaluate what’s already in print and give input to editors and reporters when necessary. We’re a diverse group ourselves, and I think we’ve done well to arrive at as much consensus as we have, all things considered.”

Jess looked down now, and from a few facial expressions Jake caught his first clues this committee was not a big happy family. Clarence in particular seemed uncomfortable.

“Anyway Jake, you’ll get a feel for what we do here. Jump in any time. Okay, Peter, let’s start with a report on the New York conference.”

Peter Sallont, a promising young reporter assigned to politics, struck Jake as someone making a mark at the
Trib.
Peter made no bones about his sexual orientation, right down to his bumper sticker, “Gay and Proud of It.” He’d written a few pieces on the homosexual rights issue, including the one Sue complained about. Jake wasn’t about to tell Sue Peter was gay. She’d never understand.

“Well, seven of us from the
Trib
, including three on this committee, got back Saturday from The National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association conference.” Peter spoke excitedly. “Myra and Pamela and I all agree it was incredible, a real highlight. It was a great investment on the part of the
Trib
to send us.”

Peter looked at two women Jake didn’t know. Both smiled and nodded their agreement.

“A $40,000 grant from the
New York Times
underwrote the conference. It was attended and co-sponsored by evening news anchors from NBC, CBS, PBS, CNN, and representatives from
Time, USA Today, Newsday
, and Knight-Ridder, among others. All sorts of key newspapers were represented. There’s six hundred gay journalists in the Association, and it’s growing rapidly. The networks and newspapers all pledged they’ll continue to recruit and hire more gays and lesbians. It was tremendous. We’re all looking forward to going back next year and bringing some others from the
Trib.”

Myra and Pamela added a few comments, while Jake watched Peter unfold a full page from section D of the
Trib
, from a few days earlier.

“Jess, this seems a good time to point out this piece on the history of AIDS. Some of it’s okay, especially the parts about condom use and how everyone can get AIDS, young or old, heterosexual or homosexual. But there’s a few sentences here that are totally out of line.”

Nods from Pamela and Myra and a couple of others accompanied this, suggesting to Jake it had been discussed before the meeting.

“Listen to this—“The AIDS epidemic originally surfaced in the gay community in 1981, and at first was largely confined to the most promiscuous gay males. It spread primarily through anal intercourse with numerous sexual partners, and was greatly exacerbated by the disease ridden climate of gay bath houses in larger cities, notably New York and San Francisco. This same environment had already produced a meteoric rise in herpes, syphilis and gonorrhea, as well as lesser known STDs, and now became the fountainhead of AIDS. The deadly disease started spreading outside the gay community as homosexuals shared needles, donated blood and were involved in sexual relationships with bisexuals, who in turn spread the disease to exclusive heterosexuals.”

Peter looked at the committee as if nothing more need be said.

Jess asked, “So your concern is, it blames the gay community for AIDS?”

“That’s exactly what it does. Now, as I said, the rest of the article is pretty good, but that paragraph just feeds the prejudices of the ‘AIDS is a judgment from God’ crowd. I got a number of calls from people who were offended. I noticed some letters on the editorial page too.”

Again, there was a chorus of nods.

“What’s your recommendation, Peter?”

“That we send a memo to the reporter and editor involved and caution them to be more careful in the future. This is something that shouldn’t have been written in the first place, and should never have slipped by the editor. If they’re not sure what’s appropriate and what isn’t, they should submit it to us beforehand. That’s what we’re here for.”

“Okay, does the memo sound good to everybody?” Most of the heads nodded. Jake noticed Clarence’s didn’t. “Peter, would you draft it for us? Maybe you and I can just sign it on behalf of the committee. I may follow up personally, with the editor at least. That okay?” The same heads nodded again.

Pamela added, “I’d suggest we send them to one of the Gay Understanding Workshops. A lot of businesses are doing them for their employees. They’re all over the city.

“Good idea,” Peter said. “The Gay Task Force has a list of all the scheduled workshops in the next few months. I’ll enclose them with the memo. Maybe I’ll give them some of the materials we picked up in New York too.”

Jess looked down at his legal pad. “Okay, Jody, what have you got?” Jody Mendez was a talented reporter from Metro.

“With the Domingo trial coming up we’ve got some concerns. The race riots were the context for this thing, and it isn’t fair to talk about Domingo’s alleged crimes without dealing with the community’s responsibility for creating the racial climate that produced Domingo’s actions.”

Domingo was half Hispanic, half black, and had been claimed by both communities, Jake recalled.

“Agreed,” Myra added. “We need some balance. People are still stinging from
Trib
pieces that seemed to justify police brutality against Hispanics and African-Americans.”

After a moment’s pause, Clarence spoke up. “Well, I always tell myself I’m going to be quiet, but it never works. Several of you are thinking this, but you won’t say it, so I will. Namely, when has this paper
ever
justified police brutality? In every editorial and column and news piece I’ve ever seen, we’ve bent over backwards to condemn police brutality. If anything, we’ve managed to get cops saddled with the brutality label when there’s been no solid evidence.”

A few angry glances left Clarence apparently unfazed.
Ollie would like this guy
.

“The implication that we’ve got to make up for being pro-police brutality in the past is ridiculous. As for the Domingo situation, when a black man beats the tar out of a black shop owner while pulling off an armed robbery in a black community, how can you call that the product of racial indignation? It’s his own race for crying out loud! The man is a
criminal
, not a victim! And let’s not forget that one of the two officers accused of brutality was black—who knows, maybe he was especially mad because it was a black victim. I know it’s not customary to be concerned about the
victim’s
race, but it’s worth a thought.”