“To protect Doyle?”
Whittaker was somberly regarding the brass figurehead of a woman on his cane. “Exactly. He was our friend in Congress. He supported legislation to make it easier for media companies to capture and sell viewer data and harder for us to get sued.”
The memory came back to her. “Wasn’t there a death or something? Related to it?”
“A few months after the story would have run Doyle tried to rape another woman, an intern. She fought back. He killed her. Negligent homicide. If the story had run maybe that wouldn’t’ve happened.”
Silence in the room, so high in the stratosphere that you could hear not a single horn, not a single growl of a truck engine.
“Averell,” Kemp said softly.
But the man would not be deterred. “And then there’s the quality of our reporting. I put ‘quality’ in invisible quotation marks. A Daily Herald reporter went down to Virginia on a story. It was about a teacher running a satanic cult in her high school history classroom. There were reports of sex and animal sacrifice. A man in North Carolina read the article, drove there and shot up the school. Killed the teacher and a girl in the class, wounded three.”
She shook her head.
“You know how the rumor started? She was teaching her students about the Salem witch trials. That was all. A simple history lesson, but the reporter — with his editor’s blessing — couldn’t resist the satanic hook. Turned out that the teacher was gay and a couple of students in her class came from families that didn’t approve. They started the rumors and just plain lied. The reporter quoted the teacher’s denial, but that, obviously, had no effect on the shooter. I said the editor approved the story, but I gave him full rein.”
Grim-faced, he said, “It was incidents like those that finally made the decision for me. A month ago I decided it was time to put the empire to sleep. Forgive the long answer to your question, Detective, but I’m not selling to anyone. There are no buyers — except for our production equipment, trucks, computers. I’m liquidating and sinking every penny into a foundation for ethical journalism.”
Sachs jotted notes. Then she looked up. “So unless we come up with another motive, we’ll have to go on the assumption that he’s motivated by revenge for something the paper’s done. The word ‘reckoning’ does suggest that.”
Lyle Spencer said, “I was thinking: If they were different pages with each invasion, it might be the newspaper or company in general he’s angry with. But since he’s leaving the same page, It’s probably something about one of the articles there.”
Sachs had been about to make the same observation. She pulled up the picture of page 3 on her phone again and locked it open.
Whittaker said, “Ever since Doug told me, I’ve been thinking about the stories. Well, can’t be the Russians. They’d probably happily take credit for weaponizing AIDS. The second headline is true, but it’s not the senator’s love child. We make that clear in the story somewhere. The third one? The actress didn’t fill out a form right in her divorce affidavit, and she was investigated but never charged. And that’s hardly the sort of transgression that leads to psychotic stalkers. The last? Every media outlet from Car and Driver to the Wall Street Journal’s got proof of illegal wiretaps by the feds. That’s used chewing gum.”
“So, the fourth story.”
“I think it’s possible. It’s about the Apollos, a group of Neanderthals who’re anti-feminist. They feel women should stay in the home, et cetera. It’s acceptable to beat your wife if she quote ‘misbehaves.’ Which is anything that displeases the husband. A wife has to have sex on demand.”
“Why do you think this story motivated them?”
Whittaker grimaced. “Again, journalistic standards. Our reporter was... less than diligent. He made up some quotes. Painted them even worse than they really are. There was a huge backlash and attacks on members of the group — I mean physical attacks. The Apollos named in the story were bullied and beaten up. One of the leaders was shot and paralyzed.”
“So the Locksmith could be an Apollo.”
“Or hired by them,” Spencer pointed out.
Whittaker shrugged, wincing once more. Was it the cancer? Maybe arthritis. Amelia Sachs knew the malady only too well.
Sachs said, “I want the names of everybody the reporter interviewed for the story. The reporter’s name and number too.”
“I’ll get that for you,” Whittaker said.
The group sounded despicable, but a crime was a crime.
Whittaker asked, “And with what he posted on social media, asking who’ll be next, he’s going to keep going?”
“We have to assume that.”
Joanna closed her eyes briefly. “And think what would happen if a victim woke up when he was there.”
Sachs said, “We should assume that he” — a glance toward Spencer, thinking of his earlier gender comment — “or she is targeting not only the company but you personally. You should be aware of any threats. Anyone following, observing you.” Pointing toward the mantel, Sachs said, “That picture is of you and your wife?”
Whittaker replied, “Yes. Mary passed a few years ago.”
“Who’s the young man in it?”
“My son, Kitt.” A deep breath. “We’re estranged. He’s been out of touch for eight months or so.”
Sachs could now see a different kind of pain in the man’s eyes. “Do either of you talk to him?” she asked Joanna and Kemp.
His niece and her fiancé shook their heads.
Sachs got his mobile number and then asked, “You have a work number for him?”
There was a pause. Joanna said, “We don’t actually know what he does. He’s a lost soul. When we were in touch, it seemed like he jumped from job to job: he was going to do something for the environment, then he was going to fly commercial drones—”
Kemp said, “Then it was gas and oil leases, remember? And something about videography and computers.”
Whittaker said, “I’m sure nothing came of them. I have no idea what he’s doing now. Probably living off his trust fund.”
“Social media?”
Joanna said, “He doesn’t have any accounts. Doesn’t trust them — or didn’t.”
She asked the woman and her fiancé if they worked for Whittaker Media too. Joanna did, but not on the media side. She ran the company’s charitable foundation. Kemp worked in real estate on Wall Street.
Sachs supposed they weren’t in as much danger as Whittaker or the journalists on the paper, but still advised them to be watchful as well.
Spencer’s phone sounded and he read a text. He replied. “Doug Hubert’s got the threat list compiled. We can pick it up now. I can take you over there.”
Sachs handed out cards to each of them. “Please, call me if you can think of anything else.” Pocketing the recorder and pad and pen, she walked to the door with Spencer, and both nodded goodbye to Alicia Roberts, the quiet woman guard.
They were in the alcove when she heard, “One minute, Detective.” Whittaker was up and walking after them slowly, listing into his cane. He glanced at Spencer, who got the message and said, “I’ll be in the hall.”