Baltimore Blues

After taking the back stairs to the fourth floor, Whitney led Tess to the editorial department's writing room. The editorial writers had their own cubicles, but they were forced to use a communal room when it was time to put their punditry on the computer screen.

"They thought we needed to develop camaraderie," Whitney said. "Instead all the editorial writers have developed crushes on different computers, claiming there are significant differences. They pitch fits if they can't get their favorites."

Whitney signed on. "I'm not using my real handle, but the all-purpose one they give the interns," she explained. "OK, look-reporters create stories in all-access baskets, but they can store them in confidential baskets only the system manager can access. Jonathan was more paranoid than most and always used his private basket. But there's a chance he ran out of storage space and had to depend on one of the obscure all-access baskets for backup. There are hundreds of baskets hidden in the computer no one knows about."

She typed in "Ross," instructing the computer to pull up any file created by that user. It gave her only two, which Whitney quickly sca

"A FOIA request from last winter to the chronically corrupt housing department. Nothing odd there-we file one of those every week. And a copy of a wire story about the Chicago foundation that gives out those ‘genius' grants. It has the address, out in Chicago. I guess Jonathan was trying to figure out how to apply for one." Whitney turned to Tess. "End of the line. If you want to find any more, you have to get in as Jonathan."

To log on as Jonathan, all Tess had to do was stroke the command button, type in "Ross," then fill in his password. The computer would give her three chances to get the password right. If she failed to guess correctly, the terminal would freeze and send a message to the internal security system, warning it someone had tried to break in, a message that would probably go ignored until late tomorrow morning when someone reviewed the tapes. No one could the Whitney to the infraction-thanks to the stolen key card and the intern user handle, it couldn't be proven she had been here-and it could escape notice, just another line in the thousands of messages recorded every day. But it would still be recorded somewhere.

"So, do you know his password?" Whitney asked Tess.

"No, but I think I know Jonathan well enough to guess. And I've got fifteen tries, right? Three per terminal."

"Uh-uh. Too dangerous. Trying to use someone else's password is grounds for firing. One weird little incident might not ring any bells. But if someone strikes out fifteen times, at one A.M., on all five editorial terminals, they'll start looking hard. I can't risk that. It's one machine or nothing, Tess."

With fifteen, Tess had felt cocky. Ten-a cinch. Even five would have seemed a sporting chance. Three was narrow and arbitrary, straight out of the Brothers Grimm. Being clever wouldn't be enough. She would have to be lucky.

She hunched over the screen, feeling like a reporter again. She was on deadline and all she needed was the first word, her lede. Once she had it, all the other words would follow.

"P-u-l-i-t-z-e-r," she typed, thinking of Jonathan's unabashed ambition.

Strike one! the computer replied.

"Try his girlfriend's name," Whitney whispered in her ear. "Or his middle name. A lot of people use middle names."

"I had thought he might use one of his journalism idols," she said, but typed in D-a-p-h-n-e, anyway.

Strike two! the computer said, a bit smugly, Tess thought. One more shot.

Tess closed her eyes. She knew Jonathan. She had him under her fingernails. She just had to dig out the right piece, the incriminating hair or fiber. Their last night together-but he hadn't given up anything then. He had lied to her that night, told her Abramowitz was inconsequential in the story he was pursuing. While she was hiding the floppy disk in her drawer, he had been hiding far more.

That wasn't the night she wanted to remember. It was the time before, the time he didn't die. Even then, Tess knew now, he had been feeling a little smug and superior-he already knew Abramowitz was Fauquier's lawyer, and he knew the co

Still, he had been so nice that night, as nice as he had ever been. Perhaps as nice as he could be. They had watched the sun rise. What had they talked about up on the roof? How he had envied her for being from the city, when he was just a suburban mall rat. Her family, her roots here. Their days at the Star. A story about a fire, a fire he couldn't find. The way the rewrite man had ridiculed Jonathan for the rest of his days at the Star, calling him Sparky. The way Jonathan had gloried in getting a job while the rewrite man went into PR.

"Trust me," he had said. "There's not a day I go to work and I don't think about Sparky and Nick."

Not a day. She had two choices here, but only one chance. She typed in the old nickname, taking special care. The computer blinked, went blank, then, seemingly a million years later, blinked again. Sign-on successful, just a moment please. Tess was now Jonathan Ross.

Even in his personal basket, paranoid Jonathan had taken steps to keep prying eyes from his notes and stories. He had slugged his stories by the dullest names possible in order to deter browsers. Tax bill. City ordinances. Utility rates. Mayor's speech. Insurance rates. Sewers. Tess tried the last one, finding a list of prison sources and their numbers.

Zoning-city. Here was Jonathan's first interview with Fauquier, transcribed, apparently, from a tape recording. Zoning-county. More Fauquier. But nothing Fauquier hadn't told her, in fewer words and less time.

"Check the keyword," Whitney advised. "He might have assigned the same keyword to all his notes on this."

Access issues. Whitney showed Tess how to request the computer to sort the stories with that heading. Within seconds they had a list of eleven files.

"No printouts," Whitney hissed. "They make records, too." Tess nodded and began reading through the various entries, retracing Jonathan's steps chronologically.

Apparently he had first met Fauquier in July while doing research for his series on how the first execution would affect life on Death Row. But Fauquier was not to be the focus of the piece. Jonathan was concentrating on another inmate, a cop killer who seemed positively benign alongside Fauquier. He had interviewed Fauquier merely for his assessment of his colleague. Miffed, Fauquier had tried too hard to be outrageous, claiming repeatedly he should be the star of Jonathan's series, for he was so much more "accomplished."

"F: He kills one little cop while he's high, and you want to write about him? Why, because he says he's a Christer now and writes letters to the guy's family? I killed more people than anyone here. If you want to write about us, you have to write about me! That other guy, he's a nigger, anyway. It's easy for a nigger to get condemned. But a white man has to be really bad. If I killed some cop while I was on dope, I wouldn't even be here. It's just like everywhere else-affirmative action. The standards are so much lower.

"JR: Well, my purpose is to get readers to understand the humanity of the people here. Focusing on you wouldn't achieve that. It would be more like Frankenstein-the villagers would storm the jail, torches in hand, ready to execute you."

Nice comeback, Jonathan. Much better than my threat to kick his ass.

The interviews began again after Abramowitz's death. Fauquier had lured Jonathan back to him with his boast about the fake confession and the cover-up. Then he had teased him languidly, enjoying the attention and, perhaps, a slight sexual charge from boyish Jonathan.