Chapter Seven
The people who make the news business function, such as it does, are not street reporters trolling bars and alleys for leads or the political reporters who spend their idle time imagining that is it they, not the elected ones, who determine the fate of the nation. Nor is it the screaming news directors or executives who flatter themselves into believing they are the thinkers of the big thought, journalism-wise. The people who make the news business function are a breed apart. They are the assignment managers, line editors, and “desk assistants” who form the background to the daily work of reporting the news.
They don’t look like other people. They tend to be pasty, soft, pale people who appear to be one with their office chairs. They have the appearance of men and women who never see the sun or spend time away from the phones, which they work in much the way at conductor works an orchestra. They have developed immunities to other people’s egos, which is a basic survival mechanism in a world of me-first reporters and I-know-what’s-right bosses.
Gabriel Santoro was such a person. He was thirty-one years old and had a journalism degree from the University of Maryland, a new miles north in College Park. Gabriel was raised in Silver Spring in a family of Italian Americans. Both of his grandparents were born in southern Italy. His father worked for the General Accounting Office and his mother was a teacher. His mother’s brother was believed to have something to do with the Mafia in New York. Gabriel had no known bad habits. He didn’t smoke and he drank only the occasional glass of wine or can of beer. He was married to a sweet young woman whose life was devoted to the study and teaching of art. He worked fourteen hours a day. He was known as a patient man who could put up with great displays of ego, temper, and other common elements in newsrooms. He made Now News function.
Gabriel was at his desk, staring at his computer screen and on the phone when Dave walked in. Gabriel waved at Dave and beckoned him over. “So, what’ve you got on the priest thing?”
“Who knows?” Dave was having a down moment.
“Well, I need you to file something. Sid’s in a mood, if you know what I mean. Stations are calling and some are pissed off that we’re not on top of this. Chicago is thinking of sending their own guys down to tie our killings in with theirs. San Francisco is threatening to find someone else to file on it, although that’s pretty stupid given that this is your story, which gets us back to the need for you to file.” Gabriel could make demands without making people angry and he was doing it now to Dave. He had a wide, open smile over his friendly eyes and a soft voice that reflected his experience with hysterical people facing deadlines. “I’ll get you into a studio in ten minutes if you can make it. Chicago wants to do a q-and-a with you, so you don’t even have to write anything right this minute. By the way, you got any tape?”
Dave rubbed his face and wished he still smoked. “Here’s the deal…” He spent the next ten minutes explaining what he knew and what he had been told by O’Neil. He ended his briefing by producing the bloody Novena book. “This street guy Peppers gave this to me and ran away. You tell me what I can file.” Dave needed guidance and he knew Sid would demand that he use everything, including his surreptitious recording of O’Neil in the coffee shop. That would slam the door on any future access to the Captain and possibly to the entire D.C. Police Department.
“Did you tell O’Neil about this?”
“No, I just got back. I haven’t even looked at.”
“You know me. I’m not much of a rule breaker. You need to turn this over to the police without getting more fingerprints on it. Can you open it? It looks kind of stuck shut.?
Dave tried to insert a pencil under the cover to lift it up but the sticky blood caused some of the pages to bind and he worried that it would tear, so he gave up. He used his phone to take some pictures of it, front and back. The warmth of the newsroom caused the blood’s odor to bloom and Gabriel pulled away. “That thing’s going to grow some maggots pretty soon. Let’s get it out of here.” he returned to his phone and pressed a speed dial button. “Chicago,” he said, waiting for the other end to pick up. “Hey, Frank, I got Dave here for the q-and-a on the priest killings. Hang on.” He motioned for Dave to go into a studio to record a chat with a reporter for the Chicago station.
Q-and-a’s are a cheap and easy way for broadcast journalists to file. A reporter makes himself available to be interviewed by someone else, say an anchorwoman, and simply answer questions about the story. No writing is required for this type of filing, just a notebook with some jottings and the ability to memorize a few simple facts. It’s done every day on television and radio. Scripted and produced pieces can be added to the mix later.
Dave was in no mood to banter back and forth with whomever the Chicago station had put on the line, but he knew it was expected. He went into the studio and sat down at a small desk over which was hung a microphone suspended by a flexible metal boom. There was a multi-button telephone on the desk and a computer screen and keyboard. Directly beneath the mike was a stand to hold copy, of which Dave had none at the moment.
He pressed the blinking button on the phone. “Dave Haggard here.”
There was a slight pause and a woman came on the line, sounding as though she were on speakerphone. “Carol will be right with you Dave. We’re bringing you up on the line so you’ll be on the mike. It might be a couple of minutes. Thanks for doing this.”
“Yeah, sure.” The line went quiet. He was on hold. He tried to organize his thoughts about what to say and what to leave out. He would stick to the basic facts and mention the similarities between the D.C. murders and those in other cities, including Chicago. He would include the possibility of a religious motive, although police had no firm suspects or groups at the moment, at least they had not publicly made any statements connecting the murders to any specific person or group. He’d allow himself to ramble over these points for a couple of minutes and hope that Carol, whoever she was, would be satisfied with that and let him get on with his own work. He was satisfied that he had it under control. To pass the time he placed his phone on the desk and played back his conversation with O’Neil. The cop’s reference to the Warriors of Mary and statement that some of the members were police officers who were offering what could be leads startled him. The implication had not come to him during his conversation in the coffee shop. He played it again and noted the harsh edge to O’Neil’s voice when he told Dave he could not use the information.
Dave wondered why O’Neil would bring it up if he didn’t want the information to find daylight. He would transcribe the conversation and hold the information until he had something else to back it up. The phone line came to life.
“Dave, put on your headphones and give us a level.” He leaned into the mike and gave his name and a few lines from a racy couplet he had memorized in his youth. He heard a voice in the headphones telling him the level was good.
“Hi Dave, this is Carol. We’re ready on our end and we’re rolling. Actually, we’ve been rolling, so we already have the tape. We just need the guy’s name. I assume he’s a cop.”
Dave looked down at his phone, which has been positioned in front of the microphone. “You can’t use that. It’s a confidential source. I was just reviewing it. It’s all on background.”
“Give me a break! This is good stuff, Dave. We’re already on the Warriors of Mary and the cop angle is great. We’re going with it if we can track it down.”
“This is all background. There’s nothing to back it up. It was just a conversation in a coffee shop. It might be bullshit. I have to ask you to spike this for now.” Dave was breathing hard and feeling that he had lost control of the O’Neil angle because of his own stupid mistake. Rule number one in broadcasting is the mike is always on.
A male voice came through his headphones that sounded as though it was in the back of the room. “Hi Dave, it’s Andrew. I run the shop up here. We’ll hold the tape for now but we won’t hold the information. We’re already working it on our end. I’v
e talked to Sid and he’s on board. Nice job digging this up but it’s no good if you sit on it. We’d like you to put something together and file. You and Sid can work out the package. We’ll pass on the q-and-a for now to give you some time.”
“Dave, it’s Carol. We’re closing down now and we’ll talk soon.”
The line went dead and the phone light went dark. Sid walked in and leaned against the sound tiling on the wall. “We need to talk about this. Come into my office. This place is bugged.” It was an old joke.
Butterfly Knife Page 7
