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He scoured clippings and reports, pulled Rappaport's file and those of a couple of other reporters who'd covered the crime beat, went back to '48 and found that it checked out: The violent crime rate was low and had remained relatively constant over the thirty-seven-year life of the state. The homicides they did have were mostly family blowups, manslaughters, and second degrees; serials and bizarre snuffs were virtually unheard-of. And from what he could tell, it didn't seem due to cover-ups or underreporting. Since '48, the press had been free.
So no scoop, but the fact that two serials had arisen in rapid succession gave him a new slant: Thoughtful theoretical pieces about societal changes responsible for the sudden increase in brutality. No need for new sources; El Said and other academic types were more than happy to pontificate upon command.
With that kind of spice, the pickup rate soared, especially in Europe. New York asked for more. The other foreign correspondents caught flak for not being there first-now none of them wanted anything to do with him. Ditto for Rappaport-kid was green-faced with envy, convinced he'd been robbed.
Another source dried up. And the police weren't saying a damn thing.
But no problem. He had other things on his mind: The more he thought about it, the more attractive a screenplay started to look.
He began an outline, realized he needed more to flesh it out.
He researched the first series of killings, attributed to some ghoul they'd tagged the Gray Man, got one long retro piece out of that, and learned that the head detective on the first serial was the same one working the Butcher-Major Crimes detective named Sharavi. There were no quotes from him, no pictures. Probably a strong, silent type, or maybe he just didn't want to field questions about his solve rate.
Wilbur called the guy's office at French Hill, got no answer, which was hardly surprising. He had the geezer dig up whatever he could on the detective, found a series of clippings from the previous autumn that opened his eyes nice and wide:
Elazar Lippma
So it surprised everyone when, six months later, Lippma
Daniel Sharavi had headed the investigation, appointed directly by the deputy commander, which, considering Gray Man hadn't been solved, meant he was either hot or well-co
Efficient fellow, and thorough, Wilbur decided, making his way through the Lippma
Plenty of intrigue, but in the end it had turned out to be just another tacky corruption case. Far from a hero, Lippman had been a first-class sleaze. Four weeks after his death, the press murdered him again.
Sharavi had solved this one-and quickly. Dug up the dirt on Lippma
Given that setup, the assassins were easy to find-three brothers of an eighteen-year-old convicted burglar who'd welshed and had his nose flattened and his anus enlarged.
Fun guy, Warden Lippma
One of Sharavi's men caught a deputy warden rifling through the boss's desk, shredded photos in his pocket. The pictures were put together like a jigsaw, found to be snapshots of call girls carousing with politicos-nothing kinky, just wine, hors d'oeuvres, low-cut gowns, jolly party scene. The politicos got ca
Except for attending one party, Gavrie? claimed to be clean. Someone believed him, shipped him out to Australia.
Sharavi was promoted to chief inspector.
Intriguing fellow, thought Wilbur. Two unsolved serials, a fuck-the-boss expose sandwiched in between. Man in that situation couldn't be too popular with the higher-ups. Be interesting to see what happened to him.
Wilbur was sitting at his desk at Beit Agron when the mail came, staring at the fly fan and sipping Wild Turkey from a paper cup.
There was a knock on the door. Wilbur emptied the cup, tossed it in the trash basket. "Enter."
A ski
Mutti, the high school sophomore who functioned as a part-time office boy. Which meant Sonia, the poor excuse for a secretary, had taken lunch again without asking permission.
"Toss it on the desk."
"Yes, Mr. Worberg."
Half a dozen envelopes and the current issues of Time, Newsweek, and the Herald Tribune landed next to his typewriter. In the machine was a piece of Plover bond headed THE BUTCHER: A SCREENPLAY by Mark A. Wilbur. Below the heading, blank space.
Wilbur pulled the sheet out, crumpled it, tossed it on the floor. He picked up the Herald and looked for his most recent Butcher piece. Nothing. That made three days ru
Dumb kid-father was one of the janitors at the press building. Mutti wanted to be the Semitic Jimmy Olson. Grabowsky, being a soft touch, had taken him on as a gofer; Wilbur had inherited him. Obedient sort, but definitely no rocket scientist. Wilbur had long ago given up trying to teach him his name.
"What is it?"
"Do you needing anything else, Mr. Worberg?"