Desperate Measures

10

In the old days, Pittman would have gone to the area, formerly in the basement, where back issues of the newspaper were stored on microfilm. The master index would have contained file cards for “Millgate” and “Grand counselors,” and from them, Pittman would have learned which issues and pages of the newspaper to read on microfilm. That section of the newspaper where the microfilm was kept had been traditionally called the morgue, and although computer files had replaced microfilm, death was so much on Pittman’s mind that he still thought of himself as entering a morgue when he sat at his desk, turned on his computer terminal, and tapped the keys that would give him access to the newspaper’s data files.

Given Millgate’s secretive lifestyle, it wasn’t surprising that there wasn’t much information: only a few small items since Pittman had researched Millgate seven years earlier. Millgate and the other four grand counselors-still retaining immense political power, even though they no longer had direct ties with the government-had been feted at a White House dinner, where the President had given Millgate the Medal of Freedom, America’s highest civilian honor. Millgate had accompanied the President on Air Force One to an international conference on world economics in Geneva. Millgate had established an institute for the study of post-Communist reconstruction in Russia. Millgate had testified before a Senate confirmation committee about his high regard for a Supreme Court nominee, who also happened to be the son of one of the grand counselors.

The phone rang.

Pittman picked it up. “Obituaries.”

A fifty-two-year-old woman had been killed in a fire, he learned. She was unmarried, without children, unemployed, not a member of any organization. Aside from her brother, to whom Pittman was speaking, there weren’t any surviving relatives. Thus, the obituary would be unusually slight, especially because the brother didn’t want his name mentioned for fear people to whom his sister owed money would come looking for him.

The barrenness of the woman’s life made Pittman more despondent. Shaking his head, dejected, he finished the call, then frowned at his watch. It was almost three o’clock. The gray haze that customarily surrounded him seemed to have thickened.

The phone rang again.

This time, Burt Forsyth’s gravelly voice demanded, “How’s the Millgate obit coming?”

“Has he…?”

“Still in intensive care.”

“Well, there isn’t much. I’ll have the obit finished before I go home.”

“Don’t tell me there isn’t much,” Burt said. “We both know better. I want this piece to be substantial. Seven years ago, you wouldn’t have given up so easily. Dig. Back then, you kept complaining about how you couldn’t find a way to see Millgate. Well, he’s a captive interview this time. Not to mention, there’ll be relatives or somebody waiting at the hospital to see how he’s doing. Talk to them. For Christ sake, figure out how to get into his room and talk to him.”