Illness. I had imagined a prison fight or escape attempt.
I watched for mention of Adam’s death as I scrolled on, and kept reading. I wasn’t surprised to see that Mitch Yeager’s first trial was declared a mistrial, given what I had read of O’Connor’s account of what he had seen in the courtroom. Yeager, who had previously been granted bail, had his bail revoked and was taken into custody pending a trial on charges of jury tampering. A new trial on the bribery charges was also ordered by the judge.
I learned from Corrigan’s accounts that the charges of jury tampering were later dismissed. No one could prove that Yeager had ordered a man everyone knew to be his lackey to intimidate the juror. Deep in the story, in a last paragraph more than a page in, Corrigan noted that Adam Yeager, the defendant’s brother, had recently died of tuberculosis. I was surprised, and wondered if there had been other complications or if he had been denied treatment.
I used a terminal in the morgue and looked up the history of tuberculosis treatment on the Internet. Effective anti-TB drugs were not in use until after 1944. Adam Yeager became ill eight years too soon.
The second bribery trial resulted in a conviction, but the conviction was later overturned. Mitch Yeager was free.
The large and sympathetic-to Yeager-article on the overturning of the conviction was not written by Jack Corrigan. I didn’t recognize the name of the reporter. The story seemed to go out of its way to quote Yeager on his own innocence. I noted the dates so that I could cross-check the story in the News.
I asked Hailey if she’d like to help me out with some stories about old crimes that might be solved thanks to DNA technologies, and she jumped at the chance.
“Here’s the deal,” I said. “First, I’ve got to clear it with John and Lydia. Second, you have to promise me you’ll keep your files and notes secure- especially from Ethan.” We talked for a while about how she could do that- codes, using paper instead of the computer when possible, frequently changing passwords, clearing her Web browser’s history files, keeping her notes with her-I think the espionage aspects interested her more than the story itself.
I reviewed the stories from 1958, distracted by memories of looking at these same reels in 1978, and working with O’Connor.
At ten o’clock, the librarian wanted to lock up, and I decided to call it a day. Hailey had left some time before.
I thought I’d make another stab at patching things up with Lydia. She was gone, as was almost everyone else. The paper had obviously gone to bed. Only a handful of people were still around. John Walters was one of them. He had just come back from the press room, where he had been checking the “firstoffs”-the first papers off the press. “Got a minute?” I asked him.
“To settle a catfight? Hell, no.”
“Since no one asked you to do that, no need to let the very thought of women disagreeing cause you to pucker up.”
“Okay, what’s the problem, then?”
I looked over my shoulder at the four or five people still in the newsroom, all of them pretending too hard to be busy with things that kept them within earshot. “How about holding this discussion in your office?”
I could see that he was tired and not happy with the idea of a private chat, which he probably assumed would be about the “catfight” after all, but he studied me for a moment, made a grunting noise, and waved to me to follow him to his office.
He sat down at his desk with a sigh and said, “At my age, if I sit down at this time of night, I damned well might not be able to get to my feet again.”
I suddenly forgot everything that was on my mind, because it was clear to me that something was weighing on him, that he had some big worry.
“What is it, Kelly?” he said impatiently.
“Is something wrong?”
“Yes, I’m here on a rainy night long past the time when I wanted to go home. You wanted to talk to me, remember?”
I let him in on everything I had been researching down in the morgue, and told him that I wanted Hailey to work with me.
“Kelly, you told me this wasn’t about the catfight.”
“Well, not directly.”
“You want that little greenling cut loose to help you, though.”
“Yes, as much as possible. And quietly.”
Another grunting sound. “If you don’t mind my asking, just what the hell is the new part of this news?”
After swearing him to confidentiality, which insulted him, I said, “Four or five weeks from now, a question will be decided once and for all-the question of whether or not the person known as Max Ducane is also the actual missing heir.” I told him about the possible DNA tests, although I didn’t mention a word about Warren Ducane. I had John’s intense interest, so I added that if Max was the kidnapped baby, other questions would arise. “It means the child Mitch Yeager supposedly adopted in November 1957 was still living with his birth parents in January 1958. Mitch Yeager will have a hell of a lot to explain. The Express should be ready to talk about the events of 1958 and 1978 again if need be. Which reminds me-his offshore nephews could still be tried for murder.”
“No double jeopardy, because it was a mistrial, right?”
“Right.”
“And someone ought to be talking to Lillian Linworth now-try to find out what made her hesitate. You’d think she’d be the one asking for the test.”
I smiled. I had him, and we both knew it.
He rubbed his face. “Damn, you are a pain in the ass.”
“You say that whenever I get you to change your mind about something.”
“Hmm. You better work all this out with Mark Baker, too. And Kelly, if any little bit of this comes near the police department, or even speaks of what it did in the past, you are not writing that part of the story.”
“Absolutely not. Same rules apply.”
After another moment of brooding, he said, “You don’t like Ethan much, do you?”
“No.”
“I hear rumors about password problems on your computer.”
I narrowed my gaze.
“No one in the newsroom told me,” he said, understanding that look perfectly. “I was contacted by computer services. Which, I might add, is a damnable thing, because I would think a certain reporter would know enough to come in here and talk to me about it.”
“Would you? If I didn’t have any proof?”
“No,” he admitted grudgingly. After a long moment, he sighed and said, “Wrigley thinks we’re all getting too old. At first I thought he just wanted young women to sexually harass, since that’s a favorite pastime of his. But he thinks the world of Ethan-thinks of him as the bright new hope of the Express.”
“That’s because Ethan could be his own long-lost son. His moral twin, anyway.”
John smiled. “Maybe. Maybe. Sometimes I look at what Wrigley wants the paper to become, and I’m not sure I want to be a part of that…vision, shall we say? But then I ask myself what the hell else an old newspaperman like me could do with himself.”
“Nothing else anytime soon, I hope. You have the faith of the staff and the board, John. You know the board will oust him if need be. And if I’m wrong and they let him lead us to disaster and the whole paper is sold, then, well, we’ll leave together. I guess we can take up jumping off bridges, or something else that will provide the same adrenaline rush.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Shit,” I said, sitting down. “The board is seriously talking about selling it.”
“Shut up, Kelly. It doesn’t do either of us any good to talk about it, or the newsroom any good to worry about it. Although knowing this bunch, they’ll know about it soon enough. It’s impossible to keep a secret in the newsroom.”
“They won’t hear it from me.”