The Last Journalist (An Alex Vane Media Thriller Book 5) Read online

  "BS math aside, can you really just turn off your brain like that?"

  "Right now, my brain is on my kid."

  She shook her head. "Mind if I crash here tonight? I'll probably put in another four or five hours and start early. No use in going home."

  I pointed through the window to a couch in the corner of the main office space. "You wouldn't be the first to crash there. And there's a Japanese place that delivers late. The number's taped to that computer. Tell them to charge it to our tab, code word Smedley. Get yourself something besides coffee, okay?"

  "Right. Thanks. I know we haven't found anything yet, but I'll keep digging into the CIA angle. Whoever did this covered their tracks well, but I'm going to find them. My hunch is we've been looking in the wrong place. Instead of looking into Baumgartner, I'm gonna go though Burnside's notebook again. See if I can find something there that mentions Baumgartner—not by name but by reference, through some connection. I don't know, something."

  "Knock yourself out. I'll see you in the morning."

  Chapter 13

  On the ride home, I took a chance.

  Shannon's frantic energy had left me unnerved, and a voice from the past kept coming up inside me, whispering to me to "slow down." It was the voice of Camila Gray, a former NYU professor with whom I'd had a brief affair over fifteen years ago. We'd been thrust together by circumstance, my big story on Denver Bice, the CEO who murdered her former boyfriend, Professor John Martin. She was older than me, and wiser, and I'd become infatuated with her for a short time before settling down with Greta.

  When we'd uncovered the story, she'd been a rising star at NYU—one of the top media studies professors in the country. Soon after, she disappeared from the scene and moved back to Des Moines to take care of her ailing mother. We hadn't spoken in years, but I kept track of her online. Each semester I checked what classes she was teaching. I even read a few of the books she assigned because she was always thinking through the way technology was changing journalism. I also watched Amazon for a book with her name on the cover, but one never appeared.

  "Hello?"

  I recognized her voice. "Cam, it's Alex."

  "Alex…Vane? Oh my God, really?"

  "I'm sorry, is it too late to call? If I remember right you're usually up late."

  "No, I mean yeah, it's fine. I'm surprised to hear your voice."

  There was a silence, and I panicked briefly, unable to remember why I'd called.

  "Alex, what's up? How are you?"

  "I'm good, good," I stammered. "Greta and I have a baby girl. Cleo."

  "I heard. I'm on Greta's 'Family and Friends' email list, so I get the Christmas card and the occasional email she sends out. That woman is good at correspondence!"

  I laughed. "Yes she is. It's good for a marriage to have one person who is."

  "You, on the other hand…"

  "Yeah, I suck. Sorry I haven't kept up with you. I check your classes online."

  "That's a little…weird."

  "No, I mean I like to see what you're teaching. Anyway, how are you?"

  "I'm happy, Alex. When my mom died I thought of coming back to New York, but I realized there was something about being home that I needed."

  "And the book, why didn't it ever come out?" Camila went quiet. She'd had at least three different book projects announced by various academic publishers over the years, but each had been pulled before publication. I figured maybe it was a sore subject. "I'm sorry," I said.

  "No, it's fine. I know my reputation in academia isn't exactly…well...stellar. Three books cancelled before release. I pulled the books, though. I was never able to get something I was happy with, satisfied with. If I hit 'publish' tomorrow, I'd have two-thousand pages of thinking on media past, media present, and media future, with no real point or throughline."

  "Kinda funny how you've spent a decade and a half writing one long thing and haven't published it, while I've spent the last fifteen years writing and editing a million tiny things—most of them shitty—and publishing all of them. The whole world has sped up, except for you."

  She chuckled. "Maybe I should upload the whole damn thing to Amazon or something. At this point I've lost all perspective. I have no idea if it's any good."

  "I bet it is."

  After a long silence, she asked, "Why did you call tonight, Alex? Don't get me wrong, I'm happy to hear your voice. But I bet you had a reason to call."

  "I need advice," I admitted. "I'm working on a big story with a partner and I've never quite felt this way. It's like we know what happened but don't have any proof. And it's a story so big I don't want to get out over my skis."

  "Do I want you to tell me what the story is?"

  "Is there a chance your phone is tapped by the CIA?"

  "There's a chance all our phones are tapped by the CIA."

  I chuckled. "Then no."

  She laughed nervously. "Sounds like you're already out over your skis."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You just said it. You don't have any proof. I'm no journalist, never claimed to be, but shouldn't you follow the evidence, rather than leading with a conclusion and then looking for evidence?"

  I thought of Burnside's notebook, about the conversation with Gunstott. We definitely had something, but the murder, the connection to Baumgartner, all that was still speculation. "We have some evidence. My partner is convinced—"

  "What are you convinced of?"

  "Nothing. I really don't know anything. Lots of suspicion, no proof."

  "In my book, I have a section about how our experience of time has changed dramatically over the last ten years. Everyone knows the news cycle has sped up exponentially, but that's a byproduct of time moving faster and faster. Everyone is racing to keep up—putting stories on Twitter, reporting stuff too early. Deep thinking is what's needed, Alex, and it's not too late for you. My advice? Go back to the beginning, before you reached any conclusions, before you even had suspicions. What facts did you know, and where did you get them? Start there and start over."

  "Sounds like I should read your book."

  "If I ever publish it, you'll be among the first to receive a copy."

  The car dropped me off out front of my house. I watched the mist move past the streetlights, wondering how to end the call. "Cam, I appreciate your advice, and I'm going to take it. Can I offer you some unsolicited advice in return?"

  "Sure."

  "Publish your book. Like, now. I understand there's something to be said for deep, long thinking. Slow thinking. I think you've done that. There's also something called paralysis by analysis. Your writing is brilliant. It'd be a damn shame if no one ever got to read it."

  After we hung up, I stood in the mist in front of my house, letting it coat my face. Camila was right, and I decided to go back to the beginning. I'd return to my dinner with Burnside, the night the officers showed up at my door, the visit to the morgue. I'd pore over everything that happened before I met Shannon. Not that I was dismissing what she and I had discovered together, but I wanted to be sure we hadn't taken a wrong turn in our investigation.

  Chapter 14

  Saturday, 8 AM

  The next morning, after a relaxed cup of coffee with Greta and an adventurous effort to feed Cleo a jar of pureed sweet potatoes, I found Shannon in my office. I couldn't tell whether she'd slept because she was in the same location—the exact same position—I'd left her the night before. Half bent, elbows on the desk, studying a laptop screen.

  Last night I'd decided to go back to the beginning. Shannon, on the other hand, was headed straight down the same path at a hundred miles an hour. "They've covered their tracks well," Shannon said without looking up. "But I've found more connections between Baumgartner and Burnside, between Baumgartner and the CIA."

  "Did you leave this room in the last ten hours?"

  She looked up, frowning, like I'd insulted her. "I napped for a couple hours. That cold brew you guys have on tap is awesome, by the way." />
  "Well, pace yourself."

  "Pace myself? I'm about to break this story. Anderson Cooper asked the question, now every journalist with a pulse is trying to figure out whether there's a connection between Burnside and Baumgartner."

  I sat next to her and studied her laptop, which was on a page about mistakes crime scene investigators make that lead them to believe a death was suicide rather than homicide. "What did you find?" I asked.

  She closed the laptop and handed me her phone. "Read."

  It was a text exchange between her and a contact labeled "SPD Source." I knew this to be her low-level source within the Seattle PD.

  Shannon: How'd you guys know it wasn't a suicide?

  SPD Source: We didn't say that definitely. Only that it's being investigated as a homicide.

  Shannon: C'mon. You know.

  SPD Source: Completely off the record? You'll forget my name? Forget I exist?

  Shannon: Forget who exists?

  SPD Source: Good. Then yes, we know.

  Shannon: I'm not writing about the death, the details won't appear anywhere from me. For my own satisfaction, how did you become sure?

  SPD Source: Baumgartner is left-handed. The shot was fired at point blank range into the right temple. Nearly impossible shot for a lefty. Unless he decided to shoot with his right hand for some reason. Fingerprints on the gun were from his right hand, and inconsistent with a shooter's grip.

  Shannon: Interesting. Thanks. Anything else?

  SPD Source: No record of him owning guns. Wife says he'd never owned one or even fired one.

  Shannon: Thanks. I appreciate this.

  SPD Source: One more thing. The night before he died, he told a few colleagues he was meeting a source the next morning at the time of the shooting. There's no reason to believe that was a lie. It's inconsistent with most suicides to find that the victim made plans to meet someone somewhere, then took his own life at that exact time and location. Not believable.

  I looked up from the phone to see Shannon's eyes full of fire. She'd been watching me read.

  She took the phone. "You know how I said Burnside had killed himself right before meeting me? This is more proof he didn't. Like with Baumgartner, it's unusual for a suicide victim to make plans and then kill themselves right before those plans are carried out."

  I could tell the texts had alleviated some guilt within Shannon, or possibly some hurt, but the circumstances were quite different. I decided to let it go and focus on what we had.

  "I'm convinced Baumgartner was murdered," I said, leaning on the desk. "No reason not to trust the cops on that. But here's the question I've been thinking about all night: the whole media is running with the story that someone is killing journalists and framing it as suicides, right? The cops specifically announced they're investigating Baumgartner as a homicide. Whoever killed Baumgartner did a terrible job making it look like a suicide. If Burnside was murdered as well, why have the cops not offered any indication of it? And why did the killer do a terrible job making Baumgartner's death look like a suicide and a brilliant job of making Burnside's death look like a suicide?"

  As I finished speaking, Shannon started tapping her phone.

  "What are you doing?" I asked.

  "Good questions. I asked my source something similar the night before. Gonna try again."

  I read her texts as she typed.

  Shannon: Thanks again for the Baumgartner stuff. I owe you one. Holden Burnside: any wiggle room on that? Any new details? Any gossip on the case?

  She pressed send and we waited for a reply.

  "He's gonna want something in return." Shannon didn't look up from the three little dots on her screen that indicated he was writing back.

  Sure enough, he did.

  SPD Source: This has been a one way street lately.

  Shannon: What do you want?

  SPD Source: Police union is re-negotiating with the city this month. I want to know the mayor's final offer. In advance.

  Shannon looked up and shrugged. "You got anything on that?"

  "No, but I can get it. David has sources in the Mayor's office. Do you have to promise something?"

  "Only that I'll work my ass off to get it."

  I nodded and wrote a text to David as Shannon replied to her source.

  "David's on it," I said. "My guess is he'll have something soon."

  Shannon and I stared at her phone, waiting for the dots to turn into text.

  SPD Source: Once you get me something, I'll tell you what I know about Burnside.

  Shannon: C'mon, please, I'm gonna have something for you VERY soon. Just give me a hint. I know you're hearing something that hasn't been released yet. Pleeeeaaaaassseeeeeee.

  SPD Source: Fine. But I want to hear back by the end of the day.

  Shannon: Agreed.

  SPD Source: What I'm hearing is there's nothing. At all. The fact that they're both journalists is a coincidence.

  Shannon: Bull. Will you ask around more? Dig a little.

  SPD Source: Gotta go. We'll see how you do on the mayor's office thing.

  Shannon stuffed the phone in her bag and sat motionless for a second, then suddenly slammed a fist on the desk, missing my laptop by only inches.

  "Hey," I said. "What is it?"

  "I don't like being screwed around or lied to."

  "Same. Don't make me bring up the notebook. Anyway, why would the police lie about the Burnside death but not the Baumgartner death? How can you trust your source on Baumgartner but think he's screwing you on Burnside? It doesn't add up."

  "Yeah, the notebook, sorry. I don't know. Maybe he's not lying. Maybe he doesn't have any evidence yet." She tugged at her hair, opening her eyes wide like she was trying to psych herself up. "I need a break."

  She grabbed Burnside's notebook from her bag and left the office, then flopped down on the couch in the corner, catching stares from a few of our regular employees, who clearly wondered why she'd been holed up in my office for the better part of two days.

  She flipped through the notebook, eyes closing every few seconds like she was either nodding off or engaged in deep thought.

  I replayed my dinner with Burnside in my mind. Had he said anything I'd forgotten? Had he hinted at any depression I'd missed? Had he mentioned anyone he was having problems with, anyone who might have a motive to kill him?

  I came up with nothing. I'd searched my memories the day after he died, and all I was doing was replaying the same memories over and over.

  Next I closed my eyes and tried to recreate my interactions with officers Mallory and Sanchez. The knock at the door. The cold wind. Smedley. My heartbreak when I figured out it was Burnside. My brief elation when I learned Mallory and Sanchez hadn't recognized the deceased man. It showed how limited my view of the world was that I assumed everyone would immediately recognize the great Holden Burnside.

  The drive to the morgue. I should have accepted their offer to drive me. Maybe I would have picked up something on the ride. The smell of the morgue. The body itself. Burnside's distorted face.

  Had the mortician, Mr. Lee, said anything else? I imagined that if Burnside was thrown off the balcony, he would have had bruising on his arms or somewhere. The killer would have grabbed him hard and shoved him. Burnside wasn't a strong or heavy man, but he wasn't frail, and wouldn't have gone without a fight.

  As far as I could remember, Lee hadn't said a word about marks on Burnside's body.

  I opened my eyes. Shannon was still glued to the notebook, and now Bird was on the couch next to her, leaning over a phone.

  Out of ideas, I decided to go back even before the dinner. I opened the Google search box and typed, "Origin of 'If your mother says she loves you, check it out.'"

  Within a few clicks, I was on an article that explored the origins of the saying. Apparently, a researcher had looked into it on commission when the words were scheduled to be etched into the side of a building somewhere. The author's research concluded that the quote cam
e from Edward H. Eulenberg, a hard-driving editor at the Chicago Daily News. To my amazement, it turned out the famous quote was wrong. The great journalism maxim—the first rule—had been misquoted for decades.

  In a 1999 article, Eulenberg claimed, "What I said was, 'If your mother tells you she loves you, kick her smartly in the shins and make her prove it.'" The article made a convincing case that the phrase, repeated over and over by journalists around the world, had been misquoted from day one.

  The differences between the two versions were subtle, but they mattered. In the usual version, "Check it out" meant the journalist should take the information from the source, then look into it further, putting the emphasis on the journalist's role in confirming information from sources. It led to the idea that journalists should always have at least two independent sources for a controversial claim.

  The correct version of the quote, in addition to being more colorful, more like something a crusty old Chicago editor would actually say, had a different emphasis. It set up a kind of antagonistic relationship between reporters and their sources and put the onus on the source to prove his or her claim, rather than on the journalist to check it out.

  I leaned back in my chair, thinking about the difference, and what Burnside would have made of it. Bird and Shannon were in the middle of a heated discussion, handing a phone back and forth between them and speaking excitedly.

  When the cops told me Burnside had killed himself, I followed the maxim: I checked it out. I went to the site, met Shannon, found clues, and the rest is history.

  How would things have gone if I'd kicked the cops in the shins and made them prove it? Other than getting arrested, would anything have gone differently? There was something to this line of thinking, but I didn't yet see what it was.

  I felt shaky, like I'd done something wrong, like someone was looking over my shoulder. Maybe Burnside himself. I repeated the thought, this time aloud. "If I'd interrogated the cops about their claim that it was a suicide, instead of 'checking it out,' would things have played out differently?"