know how it worked. I decided to do it the Denver way. To be blunt.
“You can get into the computer anyway, right?”
I nodded at the terminal to his left. He looked over at me for a moment before responding.
“No fucking way. I’m no Deep Throat, Jack. This isn’t about anything other than a crime story. That’s the bottom line. You just want to get there ahead of the FBI.”
“You’re a reporter.”
“Former reporter. I work here now and I’m not going to jeopardize my—”
“You know it’s a story that has to be told. If Ford’s in there on the phone with the FBI, they’ll be out here by tomorrow and the story will be gone. You know how hard it was to get stuff from them. You were there. This ends completely right here or is published as some half-assed story in a year or maybe longer with more conjecture than facts. That’s if you don’t get me on that computer.”
“I said no.”
“Look, you’re right. All it is is a story that I want. The big scoop. But I deserve it. You know I do. The FBI wouldn’t be coming around if it wasn’t for me. But I’m getting shut out . . . Think about it. Think if it was you. Think if it was your brother that this happened to.”
“I have and I just said no.”
I stood up.
“Well, if you change your—”
“I won’t.”
“Look, when I leave here, I’m going to check in at the Hilton. The one where Reagan got shot.”
That’s all I said as I left him there and he didn’t say another word.
15
Passing the time in my room at the Hilton I updated my computer files on what little I had learned at the foundation and then called Greg Glenn to fill him in on everything that had transpired in Chicago and Washington. When I was done, he whistled loudly and I pictured him leaning back in the chair, thinking of the possibilities.
It was a fact that I already had a good story, but I was unhappy. I wanted to stay on the leading edge of it. I didn’t want to have to rely on the FBI and other investigators to tell me what they felt like telling me. I wanted to investigate. I had written countless stories about murder investigations but each time I was always an outsider looking in.
This time I was inside and wanted to stay there. I was riding the front of the wave. I realized that my excitement must be the same as Sean felt when he was on a case. In the hunt, as he called it.
“You there, Jack?”
“What? Yeah, I was just thinking of something else.”
“When can we do the story?”
“Depends. Tomorrow’s Friday. Give me till tomorrow. I have this feeling about the foundation guy. But if I don’t hear anything by mid-morning tomorrow I’ll try the FBI. I’ve got a name of a guy. If that doesn’t get me anywhere I’ll come back and write the story Saturday for Sunday.”
Sunday was the biggest circulation day. I knew Glenn would want to go big with it on a Sunday.
“Well,” he said, “even if we have to settle for that, what you’ve got is a hell of a lot. You’ve got a nationwide investigation of a serial killer of cops who’s been operating with impunity for who knows how long. This will—”
“It’s not that strong. Nothing is confirmed. Right now it’s a two-state investigation into the possibility of a cop killer.”
“It’s still damn good. And once the FBI is in, it’s nationwide. We’ll have the New York Times, the Post, all of them following our ass.”
Following my ass, I felt like saying but didn’t. Glenn’s words revealed the real truth behind most journalism. There wasn’t much that was altruistic about it anymore. It wasn’t about public service and the people’s right to know. It was about competition, kicking ass and taking names, what paper had the story and which one was left behind. And which one got the Pulitzer at the end of the year. It was a dim view but after as many years as I had been at it, my view pretty much wasn’t anything else but cynical.
Still, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t savor the idea of busting out a national story and watching everybody follow. I just didn’t like talking about it out loud like Glenn. And there was Sean, too. I was not losing sight of that. I wanted the man who did this