“I heard from another guy that ‘burned out’ was something of a euphemism. According to him, Swift got some idea in his head that there was a tabloid story out there to end ’em all and plain cracked up looking for it. Kind of a search for an unholy grail, I guess. So far as I know, he hasn’t worked since.”
Sanders paused and looked at me hard.
“Now then, Bob, what in the hell is he doing here?”
CHAPTER 8
Great. Now I had Swift asking me what Sanders was up to and Sanders cross-examining me about Swift. I personally didn’t give diddley-damn what either was doing, and I told Sanders just that.
Sanders took me by the arm and walked me out of the paper and down the block to the Next Door. He prodded me all the way to the dimly lit back booth, ordered a Heilemann’s for himself and a Stroh’s for me (a remarkable memory—that was the first time we’d had a drink together for several years) and sat for at least a full minute staring at me.
Finally, he said, “I’m gonna take a chance. Bob, have you ever heard of The Center for Inquiry?”
“Sure. It’s the outfit that was set up a couple of years back to back up investigative reporters—organizes investigations itself sometimes.”
“That’s right. It’s a clearinghouse for investigative journalism, and it did run that special team investigation down South after Bo Glassman disappeared. That’s its public face.”
“There’s more?”
“There is. I’m gonna tell you about it and I hope you’ll keep it dark—whether or not you decide to help me.”
“Now, wait a minute, Frank. I’m not making any promises about anything. I’ve been at this business too long to let myself get mousetrapped by anyone.”
“Good. Just hear me out and then decide.” Sanders took a long pull on his beer.
“CFI is funded by a group of foundations. Most of the money goes for the work you and most everyone else in the business knows about. But it also has what is called an ‘executive endowment.’ That’s a sum of money, a considerable sum, I’m told, that is earmarked for investigating possible corruption within the news business itself. Bribe-taking by reporters, kickbacks to editors, taking or giving favors… that kind of thing.
“If it finds something that stinks in a news operation, it turns the information over to the employers of the bad apple involved and walks away from it. CFI doesn’t go any further with it, even if the people in charge don’t follow up. That way there’s no whiff of vigilantism or of trying to set up as some overseer of the press’s morals.
“There’s one more area the endowment works in and this is even more sensitive. When a paper or a station changes hands and there are indications that the new ownership isn’t on the up and up, CFI tries to check it out. If it finds something fishy, it turns the information over to one of the professional groups in the field.”
Now I could guess what was coming. Sanders lifted his glass again but kept staring hard at me.
“I’ve been out of the business for twelve years, but I do keep my hand in with occasional jobs for the Center. So. What we have is that CFI has been hearing rumors that the Capital Register & Press may have been taken over by the syndicate, and because I used to have some pretty good contacts on the fringes of that neighborhood, they’ve asked me to look into it.”
“This stuff about bringing these kids here to observe the paper is just bullshit?”
“Oh, not entirely. We do field trips like this all the time. But this one also is a bit of a cover for me.”
“Well, Swift must suspect something. That may be why he asked me about you.”
“I’m afraid you may be right, and that’s why I have to back off at least for a while. I’ll stay here the rest of the week and then take the kids back. But I still need someone here who can keep me up to speed on what Shiu and Swift are doing. I’m asking you to do it.”
“Come on, Frank. This isn’t my line of work. What happened with the governor was about ninety percent dumb luck. Hell, it was Swift who had the best nose for what was going on. Mostly I was just puzzled; he was suspicious.
“Besides, there’s something about this that bothers me. Like ’em or not, I’m taking my wages from Shiu and Swift, and I’m not sure I want to be some kind of spy. I just don’t think so.”
Sanders shrugged. “Well, Bob, if you don’t think this would be right, I ain’t gonna lean on you. I gotta admit there’s nothing solid to go on yet, but I surely do have a feeling that somewhere around here there’s real rotten fish.”
He looked up from his beer. “Anyway, can I depend on you not to talk about this?”
“For now, yes,” I said. “But again, I’m not making any long-term promises.”
“Best I can do, I guess,” Sanders said, finishing his beer. “Shall we go back and rescue the kids?”
We walked back to the paper and found Frank’s class clustered around one of the computer terminals on the city desk. A news story had been called up on the screen, and they were all intently scanning it.
“What have they got?” I asked Bill Grace.
“Cindy’s budget hearing piece. The committee took testimony on the university appropriation, so they’re interested.”
The phone rang and Grace picked it up. He’s an unflappable guy ordinarily, so I was surprised to see his eyes widen like a pair of sunnyside eggs in a skillet.
“Jesus, Dick, that sounds big. You go with them and I’ll dig up somebody here to give you a hand,” Grace said. He hung up and stood looking around the newsroom.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Christ, I don’t know. Mooniman says the cops are mustering the whole day shift over at the jail and passing out rifles and riot guns. Listen, can you go over there right away to help out?”
“Sure,” I said. I dug for a notebook in one of the desks and Grace said, “Damn it, I got no photographer. Whines out shooting features.”
A couple of the kids had turned away from the terminal and were listening. Sanders’ daughter stepped up to Grace and said, “I’m a photographer. Have you got a camera I can use?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Grace said. “This might be something hairy.”
Sanders had come over. “She’s a good photographer, Grace. And she knows how to take care of herself. She covered some dustups between right- and left-wing students at the college last year and did a damn good job.”
Grace gave in quickly. “Bob, show her where the photo department is. Come on, Mooniman says whatever is happening is going down soon.”
We grabbed a camera from Whine’s cabinet and ran out to the street. About two blocks down, we saw what had to be every cop car in town heading our way. They pulled up at Kapplan Brothers’ Department Store and the cops, wearing flak jackets and lugging enough hardware to invade Europe, piled out and began taking stations at the doors of the store and running around toward the rear. A couple of young guys in plainclothes I didn’t recognize were waving them into place with hand signals and jabbering into walkie-talkies.
Liz and I ran down to the corner just as Mooniman got out of the chief’s car which had brought up the rear of the cavalcade.
“Good God, Dick,” I said, “what the hell is this?”
Mooniman looked grim. “They wouldn’t tell me before we left, but I got it out of the chief on the way over. They’ve got some real hard case in the store. One of the Ten Most Wanted. The guys in suits are FBI from the city.”