Backstab (27 page)

“Yeah,” Mark said. “Hadley came back that night at seven. By then, Ralph was dead for hours. We found some plaster dust in Hadley's car and on his shoes, but we'll probably never be
able to pin that one on him. No one saw him at the Utah house. The man had the luck.”

“Why didn't the neighbor lady spot him? She saw me,” I said.

“She was at church,” said Mark.

“Both times?”

“Yep. That man was invisible when he wanted to be,” Mark said.

“Was he sorry for what he did?”

“Hadley called Ralph and Burt's deaths ‘regrettable.' ”

“Regrettable? As if he could run a correction on page two for his error. That's disgusting. Did he try to run me down at Uncle Bob's?”

“Hadley drove the car that chased you through the parking lot. He found out the way you feared he would—Babe, the gossip columnist. Babe went back to Hadley's office reeking of blueberries and repeated Marlene's remarks about Princess Di.

“When we asked Hadley about trying to run you down, do you know what he said? ‘I panicked.' Then he smiled as if he was confessing an endearing little fault. ‘I thought I had to get rid of her.'

“He wasn't too panicked, though,” Mark continued. “He knew enough not to use his own car, an easily identifiable black Mercedes. We found a credit card bill that shows he rented an anonymous gray Chevy from Rent-A-Wreck the day you were almost run down. He saw you leave the newsroom and followed you. There were too many people on Klocke, so he tailed you to Uncle
Bob's. When he saw you were alone in the parking lot, he went after you.

“Hadley said he was glad you got away. ‘She didn't know anything. She is only a reporter.' ”

“I thought Hadley didn't know anything because he is only an editor,” I said. “We made the mistake of underestimating each other, and we both paid for it. I'll have these reminders a long time,” I said, showing him the cut on my arm and the hole in my hand.

“I was so sure it was Charlie,” I added. “He dated Maria. He carried a pocket knife.”

“It wasn't the only pocket knife in the world,” said Mark. “We found out most
CG
editors carried them after Hadley pulled his out at an office party. The hostess forgot a knife to cut the baked Brie, and Hadley brought out his pocket knife and said a gentleman always came prepared. After he said that, every up-and-comer at the paper, male and female, bought a pocket knife.”

“I missed something not going to those
CG
parties after all,” I said. “I should never underestimate the editors' ability to brownnose the boss. When Hadley came back from one vacation with a beard, they all grew them. You never saw so much moth-eaten facial hair. Made it easier to identify who was going to sell us out.”

“Must have been tough on the ambitious women,” said Mark. “They couldn't grow beards. What did they do?”

“They grew mustaches.”

Mark laughed. “Hadley seems surprised that we're charging him with your attempted murder.
He said, ‘It was a crazy impulse,' as if he was willing to forget it and we should, too.”

“It was all crazy.”

“That's what Hadley's lawyers decided. They think the
Gazette
managing editor is a bedbug, especially after he ignored their advice to shut up. They're trying to get that confession thrown out. Scuttlebutt says Hadley will plead not guilty by reason of insanity.”

“A jury of his peers,” I said, “if it includes any reporters, will probably agree. We think most editors are crazy.”

“They love you, too,” said Mark, and left me laughing.

Speaking of crazy, my dreams of glory were just that—dreams. I must have been as crazy as Hadley to think that my story would make the front page of the
City Gazette.
Even if I hadn't been out of commission in the hospital, the
City Gazette
wouldn't run headlines that said:
WACKO
EDITOR
WHACKS
READERS
!

I'd hoped I wouldn't have to do much time in the hospital, but the doctors were worried when they found some blood between my scalp and my skull. They kept talking about a subdural hematoma. They took away my Tylenol Three, which almost wiped out the headaches, and kept waking me up and asking me what day it was and who was president. Finally, some bozo got me out of a sound sleep at 3:00
A.M
. and asked me to count backward from one hundred by sevens. I told him I couldn't do that at high noon on my best day and he better fucking leave me the
hell alone. He decided my level of consciousness was normal. After two days of this torture and a CAT scan, the doctors let me go. By the time I was well enough to sit down at my computer, I'd been scooped by five TV stations, twenty-one radio stations, and even the free throwaway shopper newspaper.

My story was severely mutilated by the
Gazette
lawyers. They claimed they did it out of compassion for the victims, but I think they were worried about being sued by the families of Michael, Burt, and Ralph. A newspaper that hires and promotes a killer might be liable for damages. My injuries, as the company lawyers reminded me several times, were covered by workers' comp.

The
Gazette
lawyers had a vested (and pinstriped) interest in making Hadley look as good as possible, which meant my story looked like it had been slashed by Hadley. The lawyers added so many “alleges,” “presumes,” and “police spokesperson saids” that nobody could figure out what Hadley did to me, but it might have been an improvement.

My favorite part was when the wimpiest company lawyer, a rabbit in pinstripes, was looking over my story. “Are you sure Mr. Harris meant to attack you?” the rabbit asked, blinking his pink eyes. “Maybe you tripped.”

He was shocked and appalled at my response, and it wasn't physically possible anyway.

Fortunately, the other media in St. Louis made sure the story got out. The local TV stations,
tired of Hadley's sanctimonious editorials on the moral decline of television, had a high old time showing Mr. Morality being led away in handcuffs by the police. Morning show DJs did a lot of routines about
Gazette
editors killing circulation, one reader at a time. The morning jocks said the
CG
was a dying newspaper, which was really too bad, because it had a killer staff. One enterprising morning show host dug out Hadley's editorials on family values, smut, and the importance of integrity. He especially enjoyed reading this juicy Hadleyism:

“Honesty and integrity are the cutting edge of journalism. It is my duty to stay as sharp as I possibly can in the service of my profession, to slash away at falsehood and keep justice as finely honed as a knife-edge.”

Ouch.

I was right about one thing. This was a prizewinning story. The TV reporter who was at the
CG
that night won an Emmy for Spot News. I think the shot of me carried out on a stretcher, blood-drenched but giving the thumbs-up sign, made the story.

I saw Billie one more time. That visit made it all worthwhile. She quit blaming herself for Ralph's death. My search for the killer did some good.

Dolores quit blaming the neighborhood for her husband's death. Hadley was the killer, not the local kids. She got bored sitting around her splendid South County house waiting for the grandkids to visit, and went back to working at
Burt's Bar, for the guy who bought it. He's a handsome white-haired gentleman in his late sixties. He seems to dote on her. Rumor says Dolores may go out with him someday soon.

And Charlie? He's never stopped blaming me because I thought he was the killer. He constantly makes little remarks in the morning meeting, like “Francesca should do that story. She's
such
a good judge of human nature.” Naturally, the story is a dog.

And while we're discussing animals here, Charlie landed on his feet like a cat. When word got out that he'd been dating yet another female impersonator, it only added to his cachet. Charlie's rat pack took it as a sign of his virility. “That Charlie will screw anything that moves,” they joked at the Last Word, while he strutted and preened.

Some of the
Gazette
editors blamed me for the paper's troubles. They figured if I'd kept my mouth shut, no one would have known about Hadley.

If the
Gazette
editors were nasty, my readers were wonderful. While I was in the hospital, they sent cards, flowers, and teddy bears. Once I was up and around, they called and stopped by my table at Uncle Bob's to make sure I was okay. My favorite flowers, besides Lyle's exquisite peach roses, were a spring bouquet from Nettie's, an old South Side flower shop. The bouquet was sent by Rita the Retiree, and it had this on the card: “I told you so.”

And so she had. It was Rita who insisted the
story of the dead dumped prostitute was a good one. It was Rita who said that the murder of a man dressed in women's clothes had a crazy sexual motive. “If the
Gazette
had any sense, they'd hire you as managing editor,” I told Rita.

“Hah. That paper hasn't showed any sense yet,” said Rita. “But now they got a chance to. Any idea who they'll get as the new managing editor to replace that Hadley person?”

“Nope. They announced a nationwide search, though. It could take some time.”

It took three months. I couldn't get any info from my usual pipeline, my mentor Georgia, because she was one of the candidates. I hoped the
Gazette
would make her the new managing editor. But I knew she didn't have a chance. The
Gazette
didn't promote women. Especially smart, tough, loyal ones.

The candidates for the ME job paraded through the newsroom once or twice a week. They all looked the same—grave middle-aged men and an occasional woman, all in serious suits. Charlie was tour guide for the candidates, and Georgia joked that he'd finally found a job he could do. I caught little bits of his tour. Once I heard him tell an editor from Los Angeles, “…and here are the newsroom phone books. We have a complete collection from cities around the country.” Wow. Wonder why the L.A. guy didn't look too impressed?

We could tell the important candidates, because
the publisher would fly in from Boston to be there on the newsroom tour. We could see Charlie, the visiting suit, and the publisher, checking out the computer terminals, the phone book collection, and the surly staff. After the tour, Charlie would take them to the Last Word. For some reason, the publisher seemed to like that place. Maybe he thought he was mixing with the little people.

Rumor had it that the candidates were whittled down to three. They certainly had impressive credentials. I thought any of them would be good, although I leaned toward the woman. One was an assistant managing editor at the
Chicago Tribune.
The second was an editor at
The Miami Herald.
The third was a woman from
The Washington Post.

Finally, we got the announcement. The publisher would name the new managing editor tomorrow afternoon at 3:00
P.M
. in the
Gazette
newsroom. All the reporters from the distant offices and bureaus began drifting into the newsroom about two thirty. No work was getting done that day. There was no point pretending it would until the announcement was made. Reporters and middle-rank editors collected on the edges of desks or leaned against pillars. I saw Tina standing by the fire extinguisher and went over to join her.

Since this was a major announcement, a podium and a public address system had been set up in the newsroom. At two forty-five the TV station cameras showed up and began setting up
their lights. A couple of radio reporters arrived, too.

At two fifty-five, all the top editors with offices on Rotten Row, including the city editor Roberto, my mentor Georgia, and my nemesis Charlie, came out and stood close to the podium. I couldn't read Charlie at all. But from the look on Georgia's face, I knew she didn't get the job.

Promptly at three o'clock, the publisher came out, wearing an English-tailored suit and a set of cuff links that cost more than my car. He stood at ease at the podium and spoke in lockjawed patrician tones that made English sound like a different language. “The
City Gazette
is a great paper that will take its greatness into the next century,” he said. “Because we are sound and strong, we have survived our recent problems. They were simply tests of our strength. We have put them behind us.”

“I'll feel better when they put them in jail,” I whispered to Tina. She kicked my shin.

“After a nationwide search,” the publisher said, “we realized that the best managing editor for the
Gazette
was right here at home.”

Maybe it
was
Georgia. I looked at her, but she seemed so glum. Maybe she was one of those women who didn't like responsibility.

“This editor knows the paper inside and out, every inch of the
City Gazette
, from the phone books to the dedicated people who consult them.

“But more important, he has captured the true spirit of the
City Gazette.
”

He? Oh, god, Oh, no. Oh, please.

But then I saw the grin on that little ferret face, and I knew that the publisher was right. He had found someone who captured the true twisted spirit of the
City Gazette.

“Now let me introduce your new managing editor…”

Charlie.

© Nate Parsons

Elaine Viets lives in Washington, D.C., but her heart is in her hometown of St. Louis. She wrote her award-winning column for the
St. Louis Post-Dispatch
for more than eighteen years. She also won two local Emmys for her prime-time TV specials, and does commentary for the local NPR station.

Viets was voted one of St. Louis's favorite authors and the fifth most powerful personality in town by readers of a local newspaper in 1996.

Her column is syndicated by United Feature Syndicate. The most recent of Viets's five books is
How to Commit Monogamy: A Lighthearted Look at Long-term Love.

She is married to writer Don Crinklaw. She divides her time between Washington, D.C., Fort Lauderdale, and St. Louis, and collects speeding tickets.