Sins of Omission
Editor's Note: This is the first book in A Newspaper in Texas, a historical mystery series set in the 1980s. It feels odd to think that the 1980s are a part of history rather than a part of the present. But 40 years ago, things were very different: Photographers processed film in darkrooms, newspapers were designed by typing in codes that were similar to HTML — no InDesign, no Photoshop — and the latest cool thing was something called an Apple. Reporters spent a lot of time looking for a phone — no cell phones, no laptops. Newspapers were profitable, most large cities had more than one, and corporations were just beginning to buy them up as profitable commodities, unlike today where some cities have no daily newspaper at all.
Styles were different — no Lycra — and men wore their hair longer. (If you want to see what a newsroom looked like, check out Absence of Malice or Broadcast News.) People smoked. A lot. In restaurants, in other people’s cars, and in the newsroom.
But some things were the same. Banks were in trouble. The economy was in bad shape, and bankruptcies were at an all-time high. It was the time of the worst recession since the Great Depression — until now. Technology was changing the way journalism was done, and people predicted that newspapers would be dead because of that new technology — television. Just like now with the Internet.
And some things don't change. People are people — generous and greedy, smart and stupid, crazy and brilliant, and everything in between. Just like now.
Chapter 1
Plains City, Texas, 1987
The beeper went off at the absolute worst time.
“Damn,” said Andrew Pettygood, the man I was involved with at the moment. I wasn't pleased either.
Searching through my pile of clothes on the floor by the bed, I fumbled for my beeper. I used one hand to try to stay under the sheet, while I checked the number with the other. Then I reached for the phone.
Andrew gave me a dirty look. “Katy, couldn't the call wait?” he asked in frustration. Getting no response from me, he got up — and not caring that he didn't have a thing on — he headed for the bathroom. I admired the view.
The call could have waited, I thought sourly, if we could ignore the sound of the beeper going off again and again. I knew Eric Morton. He'd beep me every five minutes until he got a response. Not exactly romantic background music.
It served me right, I supposed, while I used Andrew’s bedside phone to dial the number my beeper told me to call. As city editor of the local newspaper, I usually spent Thursday nights at the city council meeting. But the meeting's agenda was boring, and Andrew's sons were in Dallas with their grandmother for the evening. So, I borrowed a beeper from Eric, a reporter who was into such gimmicks, and skipped. Andrew and I decided to make good use of his empty house and its hot tub. Usually we were only alone at my place — a much humbler home than this one.
Eric Morton answered the phone on the first ring. “It had better be good,” I said sourly.
Eric didn't even notice my tone of voice. “You'd better get down here. All hell's breaking loose,” he shouted into the phone.
I crawled out of bed and started grabbing clothes. “Calm down,” I ordered. “What's going on?”
Andrew came out of the bathroom, wearing a pair of pajama bottoms. He handed me the bra I was trying to find.
“You know how I always said Bob Anderson was going to lean back in his chair someday, have a heart attack and just keep on going back?”
“Yeah,” I said, struggling into my jeans while trying to keep the phone under my chin. Whenever Anderson was particularly disgusted with something at council meetings, he had a habit of leaning way back in his chair and rolling his eyes heavenward. Eric often joked that he covered city hall just so he'd be there when Anderson tipped over.
“Well, he did.”
“Did what?”
“Had a heart attack and....”
That got my attention. “As in council member Bob Anderson?” I asked. Andrew raised his eyebrows in curiosity. He and Bob were good friends.
“Yeah. Right in the middle of the council meeting before the audience, God and the television cameras.” He was clearly excited. Eric Morton was a damn good reporter — which means most people find him loud, rude and arrogant. He didn't bother to try to get along, primarily because he had only one thing on his mind: getting the story. As the city editor for the Plains City Gazette, I approve of his newsgathering zeal. As a human being who spends a lot of time around him, and even values his friendship, I sometimes sympathize with those who find him loud, rude and obnoxious.
“I'll call Susan and have her get right over there. Have they moved the body?” I asked. Andrew looked alarmed now as he tried to follow the conversation. I was surprised he couldn't hear Eric as loud as he was shouting. But Andrew Pettygood was too dignified to eavesdrop on someone's telephone call. I would have listened in without even a moment's thought.
“No, they're waiting for the ambulance. Henry Mills is down there timing how long the ambulance takes. He's planning to use the information in his next letter against the ambulance service.”
I ignored that. At least Mills' letters weren't about communist plots and the retribution of God. Right now he was crusading for more money for the ambulance service, which he said was too slow.
“I already beeped Susan. She's on her way,” Eric added.
“Good. I'll drop by on my way to the office. We'll have to completely redo the front page.”
Eric Morton hung up without saying good-bye. As I put down the receiver, I was already thinking about what to do with the page. I'd have to move something to an inside page, maybe the graduation story. Or maybe....
“Katy?” Andrew asked.
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