The Guilty hp-2 Read online

  "That's fair," I said, pulling the tape recorder from my bag. "Now let's get started. Tell me everything you know about Brushy Bill Roberts, why you believe he was Billy the

  Kid, and leave nothing out."

  When I arrived at the Gazette, the newsroom was abuzz in a way I'd never seen it before in my brief tenure at the paper.

  The stringers seemed a little louder, the phone calls a little more urgent. A palpable electricity ran through the place.

  The whole organization seemed galvanized, charged, like a black cloud had been dragged away to let the sun back in.

  It wasn't a minute after I stepped off the elevator when

  Wallace came jogging up to me. His hair was slightly askew and his right ear was red as though he'd been pressing a phone to it the whole morning.

  "Henry, glad you're here," he said, catching his breath.

  "Come with me. And don't say a word unless I tell you to."

  I opened my mouth to ask what was happening, but Wallace held up a finger and said, "Not one word."

  I followed Wallace, quickly realizing that he wasn't leading me toward his office or my desk, but to the conference room at the end of the floor. The Kemper Room. In over a year working at the paper I'd never set foot in it.

  I desperately wanted to ask Wallace what was so important that he'd grant me access to such hallowed ground, but on the off chance he'd change his mind I stayed quiet.

  The room was named after Peter Kemper, the Gazette' s editor-in-chief from 1978 to 1984, but was more commonly known among the Gazette staff as the War Room. Every morning the editors from each department would gather in the

  War Room to go over the next day's stories. Each section editor would fight, scratch and claw for page one space, better coverage for their department. Each day every editor left the room either thrilled or disappointed. Then they would return the next day to keep up their good run, or dig their way out of the hole. Had they been shafted the day before they'd use pity points. If they'd been granted better placement, they'd claim sales were up due to them.

  The War Room was where other bureaus such as Washington and Los Angeles would call in to battle for their share of the table scraps, often frustrated with their perceived lack of respect from the New York home office.

  Jack would fill me in on War Room gossip from time to time. He took a little too much pleasure in recalling the greatest stories ever, like the time Metro editor Jacquelyn

  Mills had a story negged and threw a glass of pomegranate juice in the editor-in-chief's face. The time Wallace himself told an editor that his stories showed as much life as Jimmy

  Hoffa, and smelled worse. Between New York and outside bureaus there was a natural conflict; reporters in Washington felt the ebb and flow of the political arena was the spark of the journalistic world, while the reporters in New York felt they were the center of the information universe. Los Angelenos felt their coverage of red-carpet shenanigans trumped all, that popular culture and celebrity scandal whet readers' appetites. They didn't win the battles very often.

  As the War Room came into sight, I counted a dozen or so editors already seated, cups of coffee and bottles of water in various stages of being sipped or ignored. Far as I could tell,

  I would be the youngest person in the room by a good ten years.

  When Wallace threw open the door, a dozen pairs of eyes focused on me. Not to mention the speakerphone in the middle of the conference table whose red "on" light meant another half dozen were listening in. And the guy in the corner with a pen and pad who was presumably there to take minutes. I coughed into my hand. Smiled meekly. The editors in attendance didn't seem to care much about meek smiles.

  Wallace stated, "Henry, you know everyone here." I didn't, but remembered Wallace's "shut the hell up" rule. "Folks, this is Henry Parker. As you know Henry's been the lead on the

  Paradis murder story and the subsequent victims of this killer as well. He was attacked in his home yesterday, but as you can see he's alive and well."

  "And glad to be here," I added. Wallace nodded his approval.

  "Terrific scoops so far," said a man I believed to be the Arts editor. He had a neatly trimmed beard and thin glasses, a polite ink stain at the bottom of his shirt pocket. I'd only met him once, at the holiday party last year, the details of which ended up being reported on every gossip website between here and

  Mumbai. It's well known that the arts editors always offered exclusive scoops to gossip rags in exchange for the rags making the Gazette seem like a hip place to work. If the definition of hip was Jack warbling Kenny Rogers while Wallace played acoustic guitar, both men having consumed their body weight in JD, then yes, I suppose you could call the Gazette a hip place to work.

  I took an empty seat, trying hard not to meet any of the stares directed my way. I noticed several people staring at my bandaged hand, which I self-consciously tucked underneath the table. Wallace sat down at the head, and finally the eyes left me for more succulent meat.

  "As I'm sure you're aware of this morning," Wallace said,

  "the reaction to Henry's story about the link between this killer and Billy the Kid has been off the charts. Based on our website traffic, it is the Gazette' s most e-mailed article since we expanded our web capabilities three years ago. We've received dozens of phone calls, many supportive, many not so much, not to mention queries from at least three film scouts inquiring about film rights to the story. Needless to say we've struck a nerve with this article, and considering the demand

  I'd like each section to consider reporting on the phenomenon from a different societal perspective."

  After a quick tug at his goatee, the arts editor piped in. "We can do an overview of the most famous movies, music, television shows and books to explore the legend of Billy the Kid.

  An IMBD search came back with at least two dozen films where the Kid was either a main or substantial supporting character. And you'd be surprised how often his name is dropped in contemporary music and literature."

  Deborah Gotkowski, the business editor, said, "I have a call in to the tourism bureau at Fort Sumner. I'd like to know how much revenue they take in on a yearly basis from their various museums and tourist attractions, then analyze that data and compare it to the ten cities who receive the largest percentage of their revenue from one specific tourist attraction."

  Jonas Levinson, the science editor, said, "We can do a comprehensive look at the DNA techniques Professor Vance was attempting to use, and determine whether they could actually tie Catherine Antrim to the alleged remains. That would have to have been some groundbreaking stuff."

  I heard a loud grunt from the corner. It came from a large man wearing a rumpled sports jacket and a white shirt with a moon-shaped mustard stain. Frank Rourke was the

  Gazette' s sports editor, a man I'd never met, though I did enjoy his recent articles about steroid abuse in baseball.

  Unlike most city sportswriters, Frank wrote from a fan's perspective rather than writing as if he was the moral axis of the sports universe. He never chided athletes for their faults. That would have been the pot calling the kettle black, considering

  Frank had written two books-one about his marriage as a full-time sportswriter, the second about his divorce as a fulltime sportswriter.

  "I think the Knicks are looking to acquire a backup point guard for a playoff push. Maybe I can claim this Bonney guy is coming up in trade talks."

  "You should do that," Jonas said. "I bet most of your readers would believe it, too."

  "My readers could beat your readers to death with one arm tied behind their back."

  "I could throw your readers a tube steak and they'd forget all about it."

  Frank leaned forward, half his body over the table. "Are you calling my readers stupid?"

  Jonas shrugged. "If the GED fits."

  "Fuck you, and fuck this kid, Parker," Rourke spat. "I've been at this paper twelve years, I ain't never been so much as given a handkerchief by yo
u assholes. Now we're sucking his dick about all this 'groundbreaking' reporting? Please. Once this twelve-year-old milk monitor earns his stripes he can come in here. Until then I'm not listening to this shit."

  Rourke stood up and made a grand spectacle of tucking in his shirt, shooting his cuffs and storming out. There was silence for a moment. Jonas's face showed a combination of pride and white-as-a-ghost fear, as though Rourke might be waiting for him at his desk with a pair of brass knuckles.

  "Are we through?" Wallace said. "Because time is wasting and every other paper in town is looking for us to trip so they can pass us. I want a push on all fronts. Our early morning newsstand numbers are our highest in six months. Henry, I want you to stay on the murders. Jonas, I want you to look into the attempts made by Largo Vance and others to test the

  DNA contained in Billy the Kid's grave. Deborah, you look into the effects it could have on the present day economics of

  Fort Sumner and other towns such as Hamilton that are supported by this industry. I want all discoveries to be shared directly with the office of Chief Carruthers." Wallace paused a moment. "Most importantly, there's still a killer out there.

  If we can, in any way, aid the investigation and incarceration of this sick man, we owe it to the citizens of New York to do so. Err on the side of caution. If you think you have something that would be of use to investigating officers, run it by me and I'll make the final call. But get out there and report your asses off, and have your staff do the same. This is a story that reaches back over a century. And if you're like me, you all have that feeling, your pulses are racing a bit, you have that zing in your step because you know you're on the verge of a great discovery. Grab it. Let's make a great paper. Good luck."

  And with that, Wallace dismissed us. I walked out with him. He put his arm around my shoulders, made it clear so the newsroom could see. This public display of solidarity was to let the newsroom know he was on my side.

  "You're the lead dog on this," Wallace said, soft enough so only I could hear it. "But stay the hell out of the battle zone.

  The job of a journalist is to report the news, not become it.

  I've read too many briefs regarding your run-ins and injuries this past year."

  "That's not my fault," I said, agitation in my voice, my blood pressure rising. "What happened last year was out of my hands. What happened yesterday won't happen again."

  "You say that like a stupid kid playing in traffic just sure he won't get hit by a car. Until he does. You're a reporter,

  Henry, nothing more. It is your job to write and investigate the news. Neither Harvey Hillerman nor I want to see your name appear in the Gazette in any capacity except as a byline for the foreseeable future. If you can't comply with that, we can find a position here that will keep you safely behind a desk. Evelyn's assistant recently left to get her MBA, I'd be happy to put in a good word."

  Being Evelyn's assistant held the same appeal to me as mopping up the public toilets at Shea Stadium. I knew where Wallace was coming from, but if a freak wanted to break into my house and Ginsu my hand, there was only so much I could do about it. Then again, if the Gazette had to keep defending me, readers would be smart enough to realize that the lady doth protest too much. It would only be a matter of time before my byline overshadowed the story I was telling.

  "I'll be careful," I told Wallace. "This is too important to me. I won't muck it up."

  "You're damn right you won't. So report it right. Now get to work."

  I went back to my desk, mentally riffling through all the work I had to do in order to get a fuller picture of Brushy Bill.

  As I walked past the other desks, I noticed most of my coworkers were gathered by the pantry. As I rounded the corner, they made an awkward attempt to stop giggling. I started toward them to see what was up, but then smelled something unmistakable in the air.

  I looked over at my desk, noticed a paper bag sitting on my keyboard. As I got closer I noticed that a) my desk smelled absolutely rancid, and b) there was a small brown splotch at the bottom of the bag. I didn't need to get any closer to know somebody had put a bag full of shit on my desk.

  I forced a smile, picked up the bag, walked it to the pantry.

  The other reporters parted as I approached. I dropped it in the trash, washed my hand, and said, "Looks like someone forgot their lunch."

  I wasn't laughing as I returned to my desk. A killer was still out there. And despite what Wallace hoped, he wasn't planning to stop.

  "Last time we spoke," Paulina said, "you told me you were closer to Henry Parker than, let's see if I recall, 'white on rice.'"

  James Keach loosened his tie and thanked God he was wearing a suit jacket because he was sure the pit stains on his blue Oxford were visible from across the street. "There's different kinds of rice," he stuttered. "There's brown rice, chicken fried rice. It's not all white."

  "You said white. White on rice. So why the fuck is this

  Billy the Kid exclusive in the Gazette and we're sitting with another Britney crotch shot on page one?" Paulina's face was red, but James couldn't tell if it was from rage or more Xanax than usual. He hoped it was the latter, but doubted it.

  "Parker was attacked in his apartment," Keach said, trying to regain his confidence. "The cops have assigned two protection details, one for Parker and another for this Amanda

  Davies girl. I tried waiting down the street from his apartment, outside a bagel shop, but one of the cops spotted me and started walking toward where I was standing. He was looking at me, Paulina! So I pretended I was buying a bagel and got the hell out of there. Better that than they knew who I was, right?"

  Paulina closed her eyes, rubbed her forehead with her hand.

  "And so Parker finds this crackpot Vance, and he snags the story while you're slurping cream cheese. James, do you know how close we are?"

  "How close we are in what?"

  Paulina rifled through some papers on her desk, pulled out a white sheet with a bunch of indecipherable numbers.

  "These are the latest circulation figures for all five major

  New York newspapers, along with rates for the top twenty newspapers in the country. The latest numbers show the

  Gazette' s circulation lead over the Dispatch at less than five percent. Five percent. That's less than yearly inflation these days. One major story can turn the tide, my rice-loving friend.

  So I don't care if you have to channel Houdini himself, you shadow Henry Parker like your life depends on it. Because I can sure as hell make sure your job does. That is all."

  38

  Icould sense the men following me even though I couldn't see them. I knew they carried guns, had their eyes glued to my back, and sized up every person who came within five feet of me.

  I told the cops the killer had already done what he came to do, that their efforts would be better used fighting terrorism or searching for the killer himself. They disagreed. I told them the guy who cut up my hand wasn't stupid enough to go after me in broad daylight, that he had actual targets. He had a motive, a purpose, wasn't some fly-by-the-seat-of-hispants, run-of-the-mill murderer. He picked the Winchester for a reason. Stole it from that museum in Fort Sumner for a reason. Came to my apartment and tried to scare me off the story for a reason.

  In the days since, I wondered why he didn't just kill me.

  The man had already killed four others. He clearly wasn't averse to murder. There was a story he wanted to stay buried, and leaving me alive was just one more shovel that could keep digging. I guessed he just didn't know how driven-or stupid-I was.

  To uncover more about the legacy of Brushy Bill Roberts,

  I had to start at the end. Roberts had lived in Hamilton, Texas, and died in Hico. Roberts had since become Hico's only claim to fame, bringing in thousands of dollars in tourism every year. If Fort Sumner lived and breathed the legend of

  Billy the Kid, Hico lived on the whiff of conspiracy brought on by their most famous former resident.


  I had to get out of the office and do research away from the madness that had become the Gazette newsroom. With the increasing battles between the Gazette and the Dispatch, I could tell Hillerman had come down hard on Wallace to make sure his reporters knocked this story out of the park. And if that was the case, I was his Babe Ruth, stepping to the plate and calling my shot, hoping for a moon rocket rather than a whiff.

  The New York public library was quiet, had the same

  Internet resources as the Gazette, access to LexisNexis, and all the historical newspapers on microfiche I needed. I wanted to view the Roberts case from every media angle: not only Hico, but by the major metropolitan papers in Texas, New York, Los

  Angeles and elsewhere. You could get a good grasp of how a story penetrated the national consciousness by how widely it was reported, and with what veracity the conspiracy was given.

  It was a crisp summer day and the steps outside the library were teeming with people reading, hanging out, and even a few sleeping on the stone. The NYPL itself is a behemoth that takes up two full city blocks. The entrance is guarded by two stone lions named Leo Astor and Leo Lenox, after John Jacob

  Astor and James Lenox, both generous patrons. In the 1930s, they were renamed Patience and Fortitude by Mayor Fiorello

  La Guardia. Patience guards the south steps, Fortitude the north. As I passed them by, I hoped they'd grant me both. The three main doors are bracketed by six carved stone columns, which lead into the great reading room where I'd spent many

  hours wrenching my back while poring over old texts. The massive room is lit by grand chandeliers and surrounded by thousands of volumes. I was here to use CATNYP, the online system allowing subscribers access to the library's huge collection of journals, periodicals and newspapers.

  I jogged up the steps and entered, making my way to a computer stall where I took a seat, cracked my knuckles, looked to see if the two cops had followed me inside. They hadn't.

  I logged on to CATNYP and ran a search for Texas newspapers containing stories pertinent to the Brushy Bill case. I typed slowly with my index fingers, my right palm aching from the stitches. Guess I'd have to settle for old-fashioned two-fingered typing for the time being.