Bury the Lead

3


VINCE SHOULD BE a happy camper these days. His paper’s circulation has gone through the roof since the murders began, mainly because Daniel Cummings, through whom the killer has chosen to speak to the public and police, is one of Vince’s reporters.

Vince brought Cummings in about six months ago from somewhere in Ohio, I think Cleveland. He made him his top crime reporter, although Cummings can’t be more than thirty. I’ve only met him once, but he’s a pretty easy guy for a defense attorney to dislike, a strong law-and-order type who clearly believes in a presumption of guilt.

I’ve known Vince for about a year. He’s cantankerous and obnoxious on the surface, but when you chip that away and dig deeper, you find him to be surly and disagreeable. You probably could say Vince and I have become good friends, if your definition of “friends” isn’t too rigid. We’re not “Ya-Ya Brotherhood” types, but we hang out some in sports bars and trade insults, which fits my definition pretty well.

Vince usually starts off our conversations with five minutes of complaining, but he doesn’t do that when I arrive this time. Instead, he offers me a chair and starts telling me what’s on his mind, almost like a normal human would do. “I want to hire you,” he says.

Since I’m a criminal attorney, I’m surprised. Under all the bluster, Vince is a straightforward, ethical guy. “Are you in some kind of trouble?” I ask.

“Of course not. I want you to represent the paper. Not officially. Like a consultant.”

Vince’s paper is owned by a newspaper syndicate, which employs lawyers by the barrelful. “You already have lawyers. What do you need me for?”

“They’re idiots. Besides, you’ll be dealing only with me. They won’t even know about you. You’ll be my own private idiot.”

I’m not understanding any of this. “So you’re going to pay me?”

“Pay you? Are you out of your mind?”

My friends share two common views about money. They think they don’t have enough, and that I have too much. “This is what I do for a living, Vince. I’m a lawyer. I got an A in money grubbing in law school.”

He throws up his arms in an exaggerated gesture. “Fine. You want my money? No problem.” He yells out so he can be heard beyond the closed office door. “Shirley! Don’t mail that check to the Orphans Fund! I need it to pay the big-time lawyer!” He turns to me, shaking his head in disgust. “It’s just as well. Little brats don’t have parents, they think that entitles them to three meals a day.”

I know that Vince is lying; I would know that even if he had a secretary named Shirley. But I’m not going to get any money out of him, and I’m curious as to what is going on, so I accept a jelly donut as a retainer. For the rather rotund Vince, it’s a significant payment.

Vince describes his concern about the newspaper’s position in the Daniel Cummings matter. He has no idea why the killer has chosen Cummings as his conduit, and though he loves the resulting boost in circulation, as a journalist he’s uncomfortable that his newspaper seems to have become part of the story.

“These last couple of weeks there have been more cops in here than reporters,” he says.

“But you’ve been cooperating?”

“Of course. I mean, there’s no source to protect, right? Daniel’s only source is the killer, and he has no idea who he is.”

“So what are you worried about?” I ask.

“I’m not sure. Nothing specific, but who knows where this is gonna go? Who knows what the cops are gonna ask us to do?”

This doesn’t seem like Vince; he’s usually far more confident and decisive than this. “Okay,” I say, “I’ll keep an eye on things. I’ll have to talk to Cummings.”

Vince nods. “I told him you would. Just so you’ll know, he’s not thrilled about it.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “He seems to think you’re a major pain in the ass.”

“You told him that?”

“I didn’t use the word ‘major.’ I used the word ‘total.’ He also doesn’t want you interfering with how he does his job.”

I nod. “I don’t expect to. Is he a good reporter?”

“As good as any I’ve ever had,” he says. “When do you want to talk to him?”

“How’s tomorrow morning? Around eleven? And I’ll want the stories he’s written on the murders to read through tonight. Plus the stories in the other papers.”

“Done,” he says. “Laurie back yet?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Maybe if you’d take on some clients, she wouldn’t have to go work for somebody else. Hey, why don’t you put her on this case?”

Laurie is a former police officer whom I employ as my private investigator. There is no way she’d want to work on this. “First of all, this isn’t a ‘case,’” I say. “Second of all, she likes to be paid in money, not donuts.”

He takes a big bite out of a glazed one. “Women don’t know what they’re missing.”