“I can see the headline now,” the photographer said, “‘BLOODY MESS.’”
It was not easy to pick out details in the tiny negatives.
“How soon can you print some of these?” Liz asked, looking at the clock. She had about a half hour to complete her story, less time if she wanted to get a hop on Manning. “Give me twenty minutes. Here, mark the negs you want me to print first. I’ll let you know when I have something.”
“Thanks, René,” Liz said, looking through a magnifier at the negatives on the light box and marking a wide view and a close-up of the kitchen counter. “Tell me, did you happen to notice a woman’s handbag in the kitchen?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t there. My lens often sees things the eyes miss.”
“Thanks, too, for acting like you didn’t know me there.”
“No problem. My shot doesn’t have a chance in hell of getting front page unless there’s a story to go with it.”
“Or at least a juicy caption.”
“You’d better run, so we both get Page One.”
“Right,” Liz said.
Liz stayed in the Banner newsroom until 11:10 p.m., when the first newspapers, wet with ink, sped on clips along the ceiling of the pressroom and up to the second-floor mailroom. Although the men who bundled papers to place on the delivery trucks did not send the papers through the mail, the job title they all held was “mailer.” Once, when Liz asked about the job title, the foreman had explained, writing with a marker on a blank sheet of newsprint, “The job title says it alclass="underline" We’re ‘male-er’ than the average guy. Isn’t it obvious?”
Now, a worker handed Liz a damp copy of the Banner. “You’re new here?” the alpha-male shouted over the din of machinery.
“No. Just rather new to Page One,” she said.
“That your piece about the mom gone AWOL? Sad, huh? Looks like the mother had everything. What would make her want to throw it all away like that?”
Not for the first time Liz reflected on how the attitudes that readers bring to the news cause them to interpret it in surprising ways. The pressman was all too ready to fault Ellen, even in the face of reported evidence that suggested she was the victim of foul play.
DeZona’s color photo had made the front page. It showed a marble countertop laden with softening sticks of butter, paper-wrapped squares of chocolate, canisters of flour and sugar, and glass custard dishes filled with sprinkles, chopped walnuts, and shredded coconut—all of which were splattered with blood.
The story also made Page One. “COOKIE MONSTER” was the headline. The byline read, “By Liz Higgins and Dick Manning.”
“My commiserations,” DeZona said, as Liz stepped out of the pressroom. “They had to give Dick his kudos again. At least you got first billing.”
“Dick did get a quote from the husband,” Liz admitted. “So he got the byline, too.”
“Not much of a quote,” DeZona said, reading it aloud from the paper. “‘I can’t believe it. She was such a devoted wife and mother.’ Don’t they all say that?”
“Dermott nixed the quote the husband gave me on the phone.”
“What was that?”
“‘I knew something was wrong. I should have stayed home.’”
“They used it, all right,” DeZona said. “Look at the related story on Page Nine.”
Headlined “HORA HORROR,” the article was accompanied by a photo of a coatless Veronica clinging to Liz as the snow-covered mayor looked on. That picture was captioned, “Traumatized Veronica Johansson seeks comfort from Banner features writer Liz Higgins.”
“Wouldn’t you know they’d peg me as a features writer rather than a news reporter?” Liz said.
On the same page was DeZona’s photo of Ficarelli’s spectacular fall. Its caption suggested Newton’s mayor was bowled over by Veronica’s news: “Crime crashes party: Ficarelli flips as child’s outcry halts hora.”
Buried in the article, which bore the Manning byline, was the first hint of what Erik Johansson was in for from the police and from hotshot reporters. Only partially quoted, the hapless husband was made to look dismayed at not having a better alibi. Following his explanation that he had left a board meeting early to work alone in his office for most of the morning in question, Johansson was quoted as saying, “I should have stayed there.”
“Oh, God,” Liz groaned as she read to the bottom of the piece, where she received unwelcome credit: “Banner features writer Liz Higgins contributed to this piece.”
“Credit where credit is due,” she heard Manning say over her shoulder. “Couldn’t wait to see the edition?” he asked. “It’s a thrill to be on Page One, huh?”
“I see you’re not waiting for the papers to get delivered to the newsroom any more than I am.”
“I’m not sure I’d agree with you there,” Manning said, looking pointedly at Liz’s ink-smeared fingers. “At least my copy of the rag is dry,” he said as the pressman handed him a fresh newspaper. “I’d like to linger at this little tête-à-tête, Miss Lizzie, but I’m afraid I’ve got to get going. McCann wants me on the Johanssons’ doorstep at dawn tomorrow.”
Hoping this did not mean what it sounded like—that she’d been taken off the story—Liz returned to the city desk.
“Dermott has made his exit,” Conneely announced in answer to Liz’s unspoken question. “You’ll have to take it up with Esther,” he said, referring to the humorless night editor now ensconced at the city desk. She was using a copy of the early edition as a placemat for a take-out meal of General Gao’s chicken.
Known for being as tough as the toughest male reporter, Esther O’Faolin had fought tooth and nail for her newsroom position—losing her marriage and custody of her kids in the process. Feminism might once have spurred her on, but she was no friend to other women. “I climbed the ladder without advantages,” she said often and with pride. “You can do the same,” was the unmistakable implication.
“Hey, Liz,” she said. “You still here? Go home and get some rest. We’re sending you to the Worcester Public Library tomorrow for that mystery writers’ conference.”
“Gee, Esther, I’d hoped to follow up on some leads I have on the missing mom case,” Liz said, impulsively running her fingers through her auburn curls so that they were swept back from her forehead. “You know I reported on that today.” She loosed her locks so they spilled over her forehead again.
The anger in Liz’s tone was lost on the night editor. “Oh, yeah?” Esther said, using a chopstick to push a gummy piece of chicken off the lead story. “Nice initiative, backing Manning like that.”
“With all due respect, Dick came on the scene after it was closed off to reporters. I was the one inside the Johansson house for more than half an hour.”
Esther opened the paper to Page Nine. “What’s this?” she demanded of Bert Garamond at the copy desk. “You know it’s not our policy to print photos of our own reporters.”
“That wasn’t my call,” Bert said. “Dermott insisted on it.”
“He probably liked the leg shot,” Esther said under her breath, scanning the photo disapprovingly. The night editor’s own unremarkable legs were just one of many testimonies to the fact that Esther had “climbed the ladder without advantages.”
“Tricks like that make us look self-promotional, not professional,” Esther added.
“You’ve got a point, Esther,” Bert said, “But Dermott said, ‘That picture speaks five words: You can trust Banner reporters.’”
“Not after Manning misleads with partial quotes,” Liz thought to herself. “How will I ever get Erik Johansson to talk with me again?”