Every newsroom has at least one Myron Benson, aneditor who not only knows little of what is happening on the streets of hiscity, but would be lost on them. Benson rarely read his own product; it taxedhis attention. Often, he suggested story ideas that he unconsciously took fromoverheard newsroom conversations about pieces the Star had already run.And when he came up with an original story angle, it was a jaw dropper.
Life for Benson was a daily commute in his Mercedesfrom his seven-bed home in Marine, across the Golden Gate, to the paper.
The only thing looming over his blissful existence wasthe Star’s shame over the Tanita Marie Donner-Franklin Wallace story.That shame was embodied in Tom Reed, but to fire him over Wallace would bepublic admission that Benson had mismanaged the matter and that the Star’sstory was wrong. It would be detrimental to the paper’s credibility. But tofire Reed for another reason, one solid enough for which he had no grounds fora wrongful dismissal suit, would eliminate the storm clouds over Benson’s sunnylife and please the old man.
In the few seconds Benson eyed Reed, he realized thathe might finally have him by the balls.
“Where have you been for the last two days, Tom?”
“Researching the Becker-Nunn kidnappings.”
“Have you?”
“You assigned me to it. You wanted to see where ‘theabduction thing was going,’ remember?”
“I did. And I specifically said I wanted straight-upreporting from you. So where have you been and what kind of research have youbeen doing?”
“Chasing down leads.”
Benson looked at Reed, letting the seconds pass.
“I understand that you’ve been all over NorthernCalifornia on the paper’s time following a tip.”
“Yes. That’s what you pay me for.”
“Is it the suspect the task force has in its sights?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know because you haven’t been around.”
“I believe the lead I have is solid.”
“Do you? Then why didn’t you tell me about it?”
“I needed to check a few things first.”
“Sounds like you were enterprising, Tom, following atheory.”
“No, I just needed to check-“
Benson’s fist came down on the table. “Enoughbullshit!”
A few people near enough to hear stopped working,staring briefly at Benson’s office.
“I told you that I don’t give a good goddamn aboutyour hunches on this story!”
Reed said nothing.
“I told you I want nothing more from you thanstraight-up reporting, yet you go off like some rogue contravening my orders.Now tell me right now why I should not fire you!”
Reed did not answer him.
“We know what happened that last time you followed oneof your goddamn theories on an unsolved case, don’t we? It cost this paper aquarter of a million fucking dollars! You are just not worth it, Reed. Now tellme why I should not fire you.”
“Because I think I know who took Danny Becker andGabrielle Nunn.”
“You think you know?” Benson rolled his eyes. “Justlike you knew who murdered little Juanita Donner.”
“Tanita.”
“Who?”
“Her name was Tanita Marie Donner.”
“What the fuck do you know, then? Who is your suspect,Reed? Tell me!”
“I’m not absolutely certain yet that he’s the-“
“Tell me now, or I’ll fire you on the spot!”
Reed digested the threat.
He was tired. So tired. Tired from driving to Philoand Half Moon Bay. Tired of fighting the Bensons in this world. Tired of thebusiness. Tired of his life. He reached into his worn briefcase and pulled outhis dog-eared file on Edward Keller. He told Benson everything he knew aboutKeller and showed him the photos the paper secretly took at the bereavementgroup. Benson compared them to the blurry stills from the home video atGabrielle Nunn’s Golden Gate party. After Benson took in everything, he leanedback in his chair and set his plan in motion.
“Give me a story saying Edward Keller is the primesuspect.”
“What?”
“I want it today.”
“You can’t be serious. We’re still trying to findhim.”
Benson was not listening. “We’ve got those grief grouppictures. We’ll run them against those blurry police-suspect photos. It’ll bedramatic for readers.”
“But those pictures were taken surreptitiously.”
“What the fuck do we care? You’ve got him pegged as achild-killer. For all we know, he’s the prime target of the task force.”
“But I need more time.”
“You’ve wasted enough. Now get busy. I want thirtyinches. You send the story to me and see me before you leave. Is thatunderstood?”
“I think this is wrong.”
“You don’t think. You do what I fucking tell you.”
He struggled to keep from telling Benson what aworthless little man he was. The words seethed on his tongue, but he clampedhis jaw firmly and left the office.
Resign, he toldhimself.
Reed sat before his computer terminal and logged on. Quiton the spot. Benson was making him walk the plank, setting him up to befired. End it all now. But conflicting emotions pinballed in his brain.Keller was the guy, wasn’t he? What about the two abducted children? Maybe heshould call Sydowski. Right, if he needed more abuse, Sydowski was the man tocall. Reed kicked everything to the back of his mind and began writing whatBenson ordered.
Two hours later, he knocked on Benson’s open officedoor. Benson was on the phone and clamped his hand over the mouth piece.
“Done?”
“You have it on your desk now.”
“Wait right there, I’ve got Wilson at the Hall ofJustice.”
Reed waited.
“Okay, Molly, yes…” Benson scribbled on a notepad.“Yes, anything beyond that?…Uh-huh. Okay good, keep us posted.”
Benson hung up. “Wilson’s sources at the hall say thetask force has a prime suspect under surveillance somewhere right now.”
“You want me to help?”
“No. I want you to get the hell out of here and don’tcome back until I call you personally. You are now on indefinite suspension.”
Reed said nothing, and turned to leave.
“By the way,” Benson said. “Your employment herehinges on the integrity of the story you just wrote.”
Walking to his old Comet in the parking lot, itoccurred to Reed that he had a few things to be grateful for. Edward Keller didnot have a widow to slap Reed’s face, nor any children to scowl at him.
On his way to the rooming house at Sea Park, he wouldstop at Harry’s Liquor Store for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee SippingWhiskey.
He realized he had just been fired.
FIFTY-FOUR
The smell of hot food wafted from the basement windows of Our Lady Queen ofTearful Sorrows Roman Catholic Church on Upper Market. Turgeon was talking onher cellular phone to an SFPD dispatcher who was directing four marked radiocars to the area.
“Tell them to take up compass points a block back, outof sight of the church.” She trailed Sydowski and Florence Schafer down thestairs through a rear metal door.
They came upon the kitchen, steamy and noisy with adozen volunteers grappling trays of food, dodging each other.
“Louey!” Florence called over the din. “He’s thekitchen boss.” Louey wiped a cleaver on his stained apron. He was in histhirties, had a three-day growth of beard, and the bleary eyes of an A.A.candidate. Florence introduced the inspectors saying they were looking forsomebody and everything was fine.