The possibility of senseless murder was a brooding presence almost all the time. Guns were so available. Anyone who owned only one was a virtual pauper. And guns, compared with just about any other weapon, were so surgical. Not the mess that comes with a knife, a hammer, an ice pick, hands around a throat, you name it. Especially with the powerful guns of today, just ride by without stopping and spray a house. Kill everybody in sight, even those out of sight.
And that, of course, was it: The nine-millimeter machine pistol became a weapon of choice if one wished to hit a great number of people indiscriminately. Set the control for automatic fire and spray the crowd. That’s the ticket for terrorism or for a spaced-out crazy.
But what if you have a machine pistol, capable of mass destruction, but you pump two bursts, six rounds, into one back? You’ve got to want that one person very dead. Especially if you use jacketed military bullets. In that case, you not only want the guy very dead, you don’t particularly care if somebody else buys it too.
And that is precisely what happened with Salden. Two bursts, six rounds pumped into his back. The killer doesn’t specifically want to hit anybody else. If he had wanted to bring down some others, he could easily have sprayed the crowd. No, he wanted Salden. He wanted him so badly he simply didn’t care what happened to the slugs after they did the job on Salden. It was as simple as that.
But that’s where the simplicity stopped.
Who would want to kill a reporter? A religion writer? And why?
This is what called to him like a siren song. No platter this. A real whodunit. Tully could hardly wait to find the answers. And the answers, he strongly felt, began at the Detroit News.
16
The lobby of the Detroit News always reminded Tully of a high security mausoleum. The softly lit grayish granite interior suggested little joy and offered little comfort. Behind a no-nonsense counter reigned a receptionist whose prime task seemed to be keeping visitors confined to the lobby unless an employee appointment was confirmed and the employee came to escort the visitor, who was given an identification tag that must be visibly worn at all times in the building.
The only relief from this solemn interior was a series of exhibits from recent News triumphs and/or scoops and a souvenir counter.
Tully considered briefly several methods of gaining entree to the newsroom. He could of course show his police identification. However, that did not always carry the clout here that it did with most institutions. And he was not in the mood to play games with the receptionist.
Discarding the confrontational approach, he considered whom he might call on to give him access to what he wanted to investigate.
This thought process took only seconds. Without breaking stride, he approached the receptionist and asked for Robert Ankenazy, one of the features editors and an acquaintance. He did not even bother showing his badge. That would only have complicated what promised to be a simple procedure.
Did Tully have an appointment? He did not, but he was sure Ankenazy would see him. Privately, he hoped only that the editor was in.
Tully spent a few minutes moving from exhibit to exhibit, paying no attention to what was framed on the walls. He was thinking only of what he wished to learn from Salden’s working place,
Ankenazy greeted Tully with curiosity more than warmth. The receptionist handed Tully an ID tag. She gave no indication she knew he was a police officer. That was fine.
Once in the elevator, Tully explained his presence, and asked about Salden’s relationship with his co-workers. Ankenazy gave every indication that he had already given considerable thought to this question. But he knew of nothing untoward. To the best of his knowledge, no one in any way coveted Salden’s job. Indeed, no one on the staff had or approached having Salden’s qualifications for the position of religion writer. In fact, it was going to take considerable time to find a replacement. And when the replacement was found, it would be a while before he or she could come close to approaching Salden’s competence.
“So,” Ankenazy said as they stood just inside the hall-like structure that was the features department, “what do you want, Zoo?”
“I want to sit at his desk, dig through the drawers, see what he was working on.”
“Done!” Ankenazy led the way through the partially staffed room. Many of the staff writers were out on assignments. Those who were there, and neither on the phone nor typing into their CRTs, looked up as Ankenazy and Tully walked through. Tully knew he was being studied. He concluded that reporters were inquisitive. So were cops.
Ankenazy indicated the empty desk that had once been used by Hal Salden. By no means was it the only desk not in use. But because it had last been used by a man who’d been slain, it seemed more a monument than a work site.
Nonetheless, Tully adjusted the chair and sat down. He looked around the room. He wanted to see what Salden saw everyday at work. Who did he see when he looked up from his desk?
Ankenazy identified those who worked at nearby desks, none of whom were presently in the office. None of whom, as far as Ankenazy knew, had any but the most cordial relationship with Salden.
“There was no-or very little-competition for bylines with Hal,” Ankenazy explained. “The religion beat is special. Only occasionally is a religion story of general interest. Then you’re liable to see a regular staffer covering the story. Regularly, the religion writer ends up covering sectarian news that isn’t of much general interest. But that wasn’t the case with Hal. He was first a damn good reporter and only secondly was he assigned to the religion beat. That plus the fact that he was able to turn a story that might otherwise be buried on an inside ‘religion’ page into page-one news. What I mean to say is that Hal was considered one of our most respected writers. And that, coming from his peers, for a guy on the religion desk, is some kind of testimonial.”
Tully thought that a significant statement-almost a tribute. He filed it away for future reference.
He started going through the drawers, the single most striking aspect of which was their near emptiness. A small ruler, a gadget for measuring something-probably photos-surprisingly little paper, paper clips and rubber bands that looked as if they’d been there for decades-and a little black book. Just what Tully was looking for-or so he hoped.
He paged through the book. Phone numbers, addresses. From its appearance, Tully guessed the book and its contents were ancient and outdated. This didn’t seem to be what he was seeking.
Ankenazy sensed this. “What exactly are you looking for. Zoo?”
“This desk doesn’t look like it’s even been used in this century. Is this just as it was when Salden was working at it?”
“Uh-huh. Some cops were here right after … right after Hal died. But they didn’t take anything.”
“Didn’t he keep any notes? Things he was working on?”
“Sure. That’d be in his basket.”
“His what?”
“The CRT there. The word processor. If he had anything going currently, if he just wanted to leave himself some message or reminder, it would more than likely be in there.”
Tully stared at the silent screen. “Well, Okay. How do I find out what, if anything, is in there?”
“His immediate editor-I’m not the guy-would have his password to get access to the basket. But he’s not here just now. Wait a minute; maybe this’ll work. Pat!”
She had just entered the room. Tully recognized her instantly, though he hadn’t see her in nearly three years.