by A. C. Fuller
And then there was me.
Twenty years ago, I was an ambitious young reporter in New York City, working the courthouse beat and fighting for my big break. In the late 1990s and early 2000s, every young reporter in New York City was trying to figure out his or her place in the digital future we saw coming. At the time, all I wanted was to get on TV. I was capable, driven, and had a look that would have worked on screen. One big story had taken me sideways, though, and I ended up running a website called News-Scoop.com, the site that eventually became The Barker.
When the pastor finished reading, he introduced Sanford Johnson, who stood to deliver a eulogy. Being surrounded by the media world's top talent made me more than a little insecure. At the sight of Johnson, my heart sank. He'd been a year ahead of me at Columbia and we'd attended one of Professor Burnside's classes together. After graduation, I went to work for The New York Sun and he started at The Washington Post. By the time I left The Sun to go indie, he'd made London bureau chief for The Post—the youngest in the paper's history. While I was transforming News-Scoop.com into the listicle factory known as The Barker, Johnson was winning Pulitzers, accepting honorary degrees, and hosting presidential debates.
"I want to relay a story," Johnson said, his delivery perfectly polished. "On my first day at Columbia, I waited outside Holden Burnside's office for an hour. I didn't have a class with him, but I wanted to introduce myself and ask for advice. When I finally made it into the room, he treated me like the only student he had ever had."
I stared up at the ceiling until he delivered the punchline —"And if your mother tells you she loves you, check it out." Quite a few people in the audience chuckled. Everyone had heard Burnside give that advice.
Johnson raised his hands to silence the crowd. "But what he said next was what mattered. He said—and I'm paraphrasing here—he said, 'Even though it's the simplest job in the world, it's the most difficult because almost no one can actually follow those rules.’ He meant that reporters think they can remember quotes, so instead of writing them down in their notebooks, they remember wrong and paraphrase. That's trouble. When they get in hot water, they burn a source. This is rare but it happens. And the last part is the real killer. We assume our mothers love us, so we don't check it out. We think our sources are telling us the truth—we want them to tell us the truth—we need them to love and respect us and always tell us the truth." He paused for the audience's chuckles to die down. "But they spin and they lie and they leave out the parts that make themselves look bad. The second we get lazy and don't check out their information, we've failed. That's what he told me, and now that I've had a decent career, I agree. This is why journalism is hard. It's easy to be a mediocre journalist. Very hard to be a great one, to be consistently accurate. Holden Burnside was the best among us, and the world is poorer for this loss. We're all poorer. I know I am.
"But at the same time, I'm inspired by his life to do better, to be better. I know we have quite a few members of the media here, a media that's going through a rough patch, partially because of circumstances beyond our control, partially because of our own failings. Something else we all heard from Holden Burnside was his wariness of digital journalism. As we all know, he loathed social media. He never opened a Facebook or Twitter or Instagram account. He rarely emailed, choosing one-on-one conversations and his trusty notebook instead. But...the digital future is here now, whether we like it or not. Let's take this moment to reflect on—and double down on—Burnside's three rules. We need them—now more than ever. Together, we can bring his brand of reporting to the present day to create a better future for the profession and calling we all hold dear."
The words hit me hard. Despite my jealousy when he walked up there, I felt like he'd been speaking only to me. Back in New York, surrounded by living embodiments of roads not taken, an upwelling rose within me—a fervent wish to be better and do better. It wasn't too late for me to be a real journalist, and I vowed to become one again.
At the same time, the story about Burnside had stirred my curiosity. Burnside was found wearing his usual outfit—brown slacks and a gray tweed blazer over a light blue shirt. As usual, he wore a pen clipped to the breast pocket of his shirt. I’d seen it at the morgue.
But no notebook.
Every time I saw him, whether in class, in one of the few meetings we had after I graduated, or the night we'd had dinner in Seattle, he carried his notebook in the inside pocket of his jacket—he'd even lectured me about the fact I didn't have one. Yet the night he died, it wasn't there. He could have left it in his hotel room before jumping, but the cops would have bagged it as evidence. I'd read every story on Burnside. Not one had mentioned it. The next step was to speak with Mrs. Burnside and the cops to find out.
If I was going to be a real journalist again, I'd go back to basics. I'd answer a simple question: where was Burnside's notebook?
Lance and I walked in silence down 65th Street toward Central Park.
Johnson's words had left me reflective about my career. "You ever wonder how things might have gone differently?" Lance glanced at me but said nothing, so I continued. "I mean, this isn't where I thought I'd end up."
"Oh, that. Yeah, I mean no. I always wanted to be a sportswriter. I got exactly what I aimed at. 'Course, I didn't know how the game would change through the eighties and nineties, and I didn't expect to be pushed out the door the way I was after building what I built at The Sun. But no. I don't wonder how things mighta gone differently. Sounds like you do, though." I shrugged and Lance eyed me skeptically. "I can't help but wonder whether it has something to do with a thing that happened ninety blocks north of here."
I shrugged again.
Lance was right, but it was hard for me to admit it. Back in 2004, a man named Denver Bice blew his own head off with what turned out the be the same gun his father had used to kill himself. It was the same gun Bice had almost killed me with, could have killed me with. Instead, he'd decided to kill Greta but had taken my friend Camila by mistake. Camila survived, but then—I have no idea why—Bice took his own life. I'd been standing about a hundred feet away when it happened, and when things get too quiet in my mind, I sometimes still hear the shattering glass. Not long after that day, I started shying away from big, important stories in favor of easy opinion pieces and clickbait. I'd never put two and two together, as weird as it sounds.
We crossed Central Park West and entered the park, strolling a curved path toward the carousel where I'd agreed to meet Greta.
"So?" Lance said. "Don't BS me, Alex. What are you driving at?"
I let out a long sigh, then breathed in the rich fall air. "I don't know. The sermon just got me thinking. Why do you think he did it? Burnside, I mean. Why do you think he…took his own life?"
"Wife said something about them being in counseling, but she seemed shocked. Man, I don't know. Why does anyone do anything?"
"That's not an especially satisfying answer."
"I just turned seventy, Alex, I'm not looking for Answers with a capital A. I'm happy when I wake up every morning." He leaned on a bench and coughed violently for a few seconds.
I put a hand on his shoulder. "You okay?"
"Turns out a cigar a day for forty years may not have been an ideal lifestyle choice. Probably should have listened to you all those times you tried to get me to quit cigars and cognac and take up kale smoothies and sushi or whatever the hell you people consume out west."
"They eat those things in New York, too, Lance. Seriously, though, did Mrs. Burnside say anything else that could shed any light on this?" I didn't mention the notebook. I'd gotten Lance in enough trouble over the years, but since he'd spoken with Mrs. Burnside, I figured he might know something.
"People suffer in silence all the time. Even successful people at the top of their professions. The world wears on people. Rich and poor. Famous, infamous, and unknown. The world is a damn meat grinder."
"Yeah, but—"
"I know what you're driving at, Al
ex. Don't do this."
"Don't do what?"
Lance eyed me and pulled a cigar out of the inside pocket of his corduroy jacket.
"I thought you quit!"
"I never said I quit, I implied that I should've quit years ago. Too damn late now!"
He took a long puff and gazed in the direction of the carousel. Faint music and an occasional screech of joy from a child wafted towards us.
Lance stopped suddenly in the middle of the path. "I know you're not gonna listen to me, but I gotta try. You've got that damn look you get every time you smell a story that's about to get your ass—and mine—in a lot of trouble. I'll tell you one thing, but you gotta promise me something. Leave his wife out of this. Don't bang on her door or call her with a hundred questions." He squinted—or was it a wince? "Got it, Alex? Her husband just died."
I nodded.
"She mentioned that he'd recently signed on to speak at a journalism conference at the University of Missouri next month. He was the keynote speaker. Said it was odd he'd do that, then do what he did. He was a man of his word, always met every commitment he made. Not a Gen-X slacker like you."
"That is strange."
"Doesn't necessarily mean anything. Sometimes when people take their own lives they plan it all out neatly, sometimes they don't. Sometimes it's spur of the moment and they leave all sorts of loose ends."
"I had dinner with him the night before. He seemed fine. Reflective, maybe a little down, but—"
"Hey, baby." Greta's shout interrupted me. She'd spotted us from her place in line at the carousel. "Alex, Lance, come over here."
When we reached the line, she handed me Cleo, who looked right at me and cracked what looked like a smile. As Lance and Greta caught up and the carousel finished its cycle, I walked Cleo around in small circles, rocking her gently and telling her about what it was like when I lived in New York City.
"Alex," Greta said after a couple minutes, "give me Cleo. It's our turn. Will you take some pictures on your phone? We're gonna try to sit on that cart thing with the dragon on it."
I handed her Cleo and took my phone from my pocket, then waved it in front of her to make sure she knew I was on it. I followed them through the screen, taking pictures as they took their spot on the carousel.
Lance's phone rang as the carousel began its slow acceleration.
He stared at the phone, squinting. "It's Mrs. Burnside."
"Answer it."
"Must be wondering why we're not at the reception."
"I thought you told her we were only coming for the service."
"I did. Was gonna have coffee with her tomorrow."
Lance tapped his phone. "Hello…yes…yes it was a lovely service. Aren't you at the…yes."
I listened to Lance's side of the conversation while holding up my phone, waiting for Greta and Cleo to rotate into view. They passed once, but I missed them. The carousel had hit a steady speed now and I had the timing down. I'd catch them the next time around.
"Right," Lance said. "Yes. Yes, he's here."
He handed me the phone, giving me an odd look.
I turned away from the carousel, stashing my own phone in my pocket without thinking. "Mrs. Burnside?"
"Alex."
"It was a lovely service. Professor Burnside would have been happy with it."
"Professor Burnside? You're nearly fifty, Alex. You can call him Holden."
She spoke quietly and the music from the carousel made it difficult to hear her, so I stepped away. "He'll always be 'Professor' to me."
"Alright then. I called Lance because I didn't have your number and I wanted to ask you something. You were the last one to meet with him…"
She said it like a question, but I didn't know what kind of answer she expected.
"That's what I'm told," I said.
"I don't know. What can you tell me about it? How was he? How did he seem?"
I told her about the dinner—what he'd eaten, the questions he'd asked, and what I could guess about his mood. I was the last person to have an in-depth conversation with him, and I owed her a full report.
When I finished, she said, "Sounds like Holden."
I heard faint crying. "Are you alright, Mrs. Burnside? I am so incredibly sorry. Truly. This has hit all of us hard."
"No I'm sorry, Alex. It makes me feel a little better to know he was with you on his last night. Makes me feel a little better to hear. I don't know why."
"No, no, it's understandable." I tried to console her.
There was a long silence. Greta called my name from the direction of the carousel, but my mind was on one burning question: what was in the notebook? "How much did you know about the book he was working on?"
"Oh, not much. We didn't talk about his work, and he wouldn't even tell me who his sources were. To be honest, I didn't read his books after the first couple. We had a wonderful marriage, but I don't have any interest in politics or journalism. I tell you what, though, I'd sure like to know what he was working on now. It might comfort me to know what was in his mind those last days and weeks and months."
"His notebook," I offered. "Maybe his notebook would shed some light on that. Did he still keep it on him at all times? He had it with him when we had dinner that night."
"Even at home, that thing never left his jacket pocket. Never."
"But he didn't have it on him when they found him."
"I asked the police. They said that it could have fallen out of his pocket during…during the fall."
"But it wasn't found at the scene, according to police and news reports. Where else could it be? Could he have sent it to anyone? Did he have any partners on this book?"
"Holden always worked alone. I guess it could have fallen out when he...fell. Could have been washed down a storm drain or something. Doesn't matter now. Whatever he was working on will never see the light of day."
A warm wind blew through the trees. The carousel was unloading and Greta looked pissed. I'd forgotten to take pictures. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Burnside. I really gotta go."
She was convinced that her husband had committed suicide and that his notebook had magically disappeared. If I stayed on the phone a minute longer, I'd shout the realization that had crystallized in my mind and now flashed like a neon sign.
Holden Burnside didn't kill himself. He was murdered because of the story he was working on. Whoever killed him didn't want that story getting out and took his notebook, the only incriminating document.
Chapter 4
Seattle, Thursday, 5:30 AM
"You're up early."
Greta found me at the kitchen table watching YouTube videos of Burnside on my laptop. We'd gotten home around midnight and I'd only slept a few hours.
The realization that Burnside had been murdered came slowly, then all at once. From the moment I'd learned of his death, suicide didn't sound right to me. The details I'd learned since convinced me it wasn't. My first instinct had been to watch every clip of the man I could find. Maybe I'd find a clue that would lead me to his killer, or maybe I could pick up on signs of extreme depression and prove myself wrong. Wherever it led, I was on the story now. I owed it to Burnside—to myself—to get the truth.
I paused the video. "Where's Cleo?" I asked, looking up.
"Still asleep. I think the trip wore her out. You know how I have that goal of visiting every state in the country?"
"Yeah."
"Well, I'm at forty-three. Cleo is now at two. Washington and New York. I put it in her journal. We need to take a road trip once she's a little older. I don't want her to be one of those kids who only sees the coasts."
When we were in our early thirties, Greta got pregnant, but we lost the baby before it was born. That rough patch in our marriage eventually smoothed out. Since Cleo's birth, Greta had been going all-out on being a mom.
"Sounds good," I said. "We can rent a small RV and drive down through Oregon, Nevada, into the southwest. How about that for her first trip?"
Greta
eased into a chair and slid her feet next to my knee under the table. "That's perfect. It would give us a chance to get out of the rainy green-gray Seattle winter."
I slid my coffee cup towards her. "Might be a little cold."
She took a long swig and grimaced. "Egch...Ice cold."
I rubbed my tired eyes, then reached down and held both her feet in one hand, still scrolling the internet with the other. "Not as cold as your feet though."
She stretched her arms up and yawned, "How long have you been up?"
"Been up for hours. Watching videos of Burnside. Commencement addresses, panels he was on, interviews. That sort of thing."
Greta looked concerned. She massaged my thigh with one of her feet. On the plane, I'd told her my theory about Burnside. She'd proposed ten different possibilities about what could have happened to his notebook. She'd also explained that it was common for people who commit suicide to have detailed plans for their future. Some researchers even believe that depression is a disease that should be treated as a terminal illness, she'd told me. Some live with it longer than others, some live with it long enough to die from something else first, but it's often fatal.
