Buried (Hush collection)

19

For the past week, Dottie Wyandotte had played real reporter.

Pounding the pavement — and learning she wasn’t in as good physical shape as she’d thought. Up stairs, down stairs, walking next to contacts as they strode quickly or, in one case, jogged along the sidewalk.

She talked to sources Fitz had spoken with, to sources he had intended to speak with, to sources whose identity she dug up on her own. Dottie found herself out of shape in this area too; her Northwestern J-School skills were rusty. Those talents weren’t really necessary when your piece is about teenage makeup choices or the best keto diet recipes for beef. (And you don’t need to ferret out sources when they come to you, in droves, kissing ass and hoping for free publicity.)

Soon she hit her stride.

Taking dictation was tough for her, but she was a whiz at hitting “record” on her iPhone app. And, back in the office, Dottie proved equally talented at plugging in yet another program to transcribe the words of the various interviewees.

Now, at last, she was writing the Fitz story itself, following the journalistic rule of the inverted pyramid. A story should start with the most important facts in the lede.

She smiled to herself remembering a journalism professor at Northwestern: “The first paragraph of a news story leads, as in being the first. But it’s spelled ‘l-e-d-e.’ Why? To avoid confusion with the word ‘lead,’ pronounced ‘l-e-d.’ In the old days, my days, the molten metal was used to set type for the printing presses.”

After the lede, the paragraphs appeared in descending order of importance, down to the “cut-off ’graphs,” those containing material that was perhaps interesting but unnecessary.

Yesterday, late, she’d finished the piece and, following protocol, sent it to Gerry Bradford. He gave her no reply then.

She’d wakened this morning early and gone right to her computer. Still nothing from the EIC. Now, in the ExaminerOnline office, close to noon, she could wait no longer. She strode into his office. He was reading something on the screen. Was it her article?

No. The OOMC piece about a celebrity coming to town.

“Who’s this guy?” Bradford nodded at his display.

“No idea. If he’s a YouTube sensation, he’s got the shelf life of yogurt. So run the story fast.”

Bradford sat back. And looked over his shoulder.

Dottie turned.

Two men, in suits and ties, walked through the doorway.

“Gerry,” the taller of the two said. Dottie sensed he was in charge.

Bradford introduced them. The tall one was the president of the Examiner’s owner, National Media Group. This was the boss of bosses. The other was the chief general counsel for the company. They’d flown here from New York. Even though they could have driven.

The president looked her over, not interested in the studs or ink. “So this is the girl that doesn’t like animals.”

The general counsel said, “Sounds like the title of a bestselling thriller.”

Neither Bradford nor Dottie smiled or otherwise reacted.

A moment passed. The president said, “Why don’t you sit down, Ms. Wyandotte. There’re a few things we need to discuss with you.”

20

No spectacle on earth is more exhilarating than a national political party convention.

The coming together of enthusiastic men and women selecting the candidate who will lead their party to victory in November.

Peter Tile was standing in the wings, staring out at the crowd and listening to the pulsating cheers of the audience, as Governor Heller and other officials whispered among themselves nearby. These were the committee chairwoman, the campaign director, the governor of Ohio, where the convention was being held, and others with no role other than kissing ass and hoping for jobs in the administration.

Tile couldn’t be critical; he’d been there himself.

All was calm on the Fitzhugh front. The case, handled by the Fairview County Sheriff’s Office, was largely closed. It seemed that the killers were indeed a pair of meth tweakers living outside Garner. Three days ago they’d died, ironically, in a fiery explosion in their trailer, as will happen when the dire ingredients required to make that terrible drug are present. The gun and gasoline can traced to Fitzhugh’s death were found in their backyard.

As for any evidence Fitzhugh may have marshaled that could point to Peter Tile himself and to a connection between the governor and the deaths of the couple from West Virginia, it had all been destroyed in the conflagration of the reporter’s house. The man’s laptop and desktop computers had gone missing, presumably fenced by the tweakers.

He looked over the convention floor. The chairwoman, a dull, somber senator from California, was at the podium and calling each state to announce their votes.

As the tally progressed, the crowd was reacting as if their vote were the final draw in a million-dollar hand of celebrity poker.

“The great state of Washington, which has raised the minimum wage to twelve dollars an hour and has more sunshine than people give it credit for...”

Laughter.

“Washington casts its 107 delegate votes for Governor... John... Heller!”

The applause and shouts erupted again. Feet stamped too.

Tile glanced toward the governor and noted a young woman had caught his eye. The smile on her acne-dotted face grew broader, wide eyes wider. The gaze lasted only a few seconds. It was Heller who’d looked away first.

I promise. No more women...

People can change, of course. The events of the past month had been dreadful, terrible. There had been mistakes made, crimes committed, lies told. There’d been death. But now, looking at the energy of the candidate’s followers, knowing the man’s brilliant policies and how he could steer the country on a prosperous course, Tile felt that the team’s decisions were the right ones. The governor would emerge as one of the best presidents in years.

Tile examined the convention floor.

Soon West Virginia, Wisconsin and Wyoming had their say — procedurally required but mathematically unnecessary; the Heller tipping point had arrived before the S and T states. Amid the stomps and claps and hoots and shouts, the chairwoman banged the gavel and recognized the senator from New York, a young Latina standing on the floor at her delegation. “Madam Chairwoman,” the senator said, “I move that the convention nominate... Governor John Heller... to be our candidate... for the next... president of the United States!”

Tile’s ears ached from the thunder. But what a pleasant pain it was.

My God, life didn’t get any better than this.

Heller strode onto the stage, looking every inch a president — the Kennedy mode, of course, not Gerald Ford or either Bush. The governor wore a beautiful Italian suit, cut perfectly, and a starched white shirt that glowed, reflecting flares of red and blue when the spots swept over him. Hands raised on high. Smiling, nodding.

Finally, quiet — if not silence — descended and he stepped to the podium. Behind him on the jumbotron words coalesced from spiraling pixels:

Peter Tile felt that was exactly what he was looking at. Heller’s past was being scrubbed. He, and the country, were moving on to great things.

Tile along with him.

“My fellow citizens... delegates... colleagues... distinguished officeholders... my... dear... friends.”

That last word spawned a paroxysm of cheers.

When it died down: “I accept the nomination that you have so generously bestowed upon me!”

Again, cacophony.

Tile wished he’d brought his earplugs, but then wondered what the Secret Service would make of that; they were for use when he was on the shooting range.

“We stand on the verge of change in this country,” Heller continued. “Momentous change. Yes, it’s time for a new beginning in our great nation.”

Now, though, the applause and the cheering were more subdued.

Tile looked out over the floor. Something odd was happening. Many delegates were looking at their phones. Then most of them were. Soon instead of shouts and cheers, the hall was awash with the rising and falling sound of murmuring voices.

Heller stopped speaking and stared, frowning, into the crowd.

Tile’s own phone began vibrating. He pulled it from his pocket. He noted that Heller’s coterie were looking at their own mobiles.

A terrorist attack? That would play well for him, bad for the incumbent. They could spin the current president’s neglect of security.

Heller gave up. He strode offstage.

Tile looked at his news feed. He felt the gut punch.

Heller walked up to him and grabbed the phone. He read. Then whispered, “No... no...”

In the ExaminerOnline office, Dottie Wyandotte was scrolling through her article, which she’d uploaded not long ago. It was front and center on her monitor.

Above the fold.

Even if there no longer was one, not in the digital age.

Her story was front and center too in the New York Times, L.A. Times, the WaPo and Journal and about a thousand other publications and news feeds throughout the world.

Dottie read through the article yet again. She couldn’t help herself. She was looking for any grammatical mistakes. Punctuation errors. Problems with syntax.

Yoda, a butcher of syntax is...

Nope. Looked pretty clean to her. Thank God. The last thing she wanted to do was offend Fitz, assuming — as she occasionally did about departed loved ones — that he was looking down from on high somewhere.

All the whichs had commas, all the thats did not. And there was not a single apostrophe s committing the crime of pluralizing a word.

Then she turned from the monitor, sat back and read once again the email that Fitz had sent her the night he died. According to the time stamp, and the police account of the chronology of his death, he’d sent it a few minutes before he was killed.

The conversation Dottie had had with the corporate executives of National Media Group in Gerry Bradford’s office hadn’t lasted long.

The president of the company: “Ms. Wyandotte, are you confident that your reporting of this story is solid?” Gerry Bradford had sent copies of the inflammatory piece to Them. Fitz had told her that’s how he thought of their overlords. Capital T Them.

“Yes, I am.” She ran through her prior week of twelve-hour days and nights. The exhaustive details: the subjects she’d interviewed, the places she’d examined and photographed firsthand.

Real journalists dig, they background, they research. They’re fucking pains in the ass hounding subjects for statements. They get double attribution — at the minimum — talk to multiple sources... They report facts. Not alternative facts, not sort-of, kind-of facts...

Amen, Fitz.

The president had continued, “Because if you’re not confident this story will withstand scrutiny, then there’s...” He turned to the chief general counsel. “What’s the legal term?”

“We call it the fan and the shit rule.”

She’d said firmly, “It’s solid. I want to run with it. And now.”

The president looked at Bradford, who said, “I’ll stake my job on it.”

The man had debated a moment longer, looking her over carefully. Still no interest in the studs or ink. She held his eyes as easily as she’d held her boss’s.

Then, abruptly: “Okay. Publish.” A glance toward his general counsel, a nod and the two men had disappeared as silently as they’d arrived.

Now, Dottie heard the chime of her computer, signifying another incoming email. She was getting a lot of requests for statements. The bulk were asking if she would comment on the National Committee’s removal, for cause, of John Heller from the ballot, as it had the power to do, under the rules.

This amused her. Why would she comment to another publication when she was covering the story herself? She had a series of appointments lined up: cops and witnesses and lawyers to interview.

First, though, she had a stop to make: St. Michael’s cemetery. She’d cry, she’d pay respects, she’d pray. But she wouldn’t stay long. There was much work to do. It would be a horse race, but there was no other choice. The print edition of the Examiner was still alive, for the time being, and Dottie Wyandotte knew that to make the deadline she had to get her copy in by seven p.m.

A rule that had not once been breached in the 113-year history of the newspaper.