Obituary Writer (9780547691732) Read Online Free Page A

accomplices. "It's not often a criminal is active at that age, much less still alive," an officer was quoted as saying.
    The dog-show clip was short, a three-inch brief in Hannah Greene's "At Home and Around Town" column:
NEW YORK —An Irish wolfhound from St. Charles has won a top prize at the famous Westminster Kennel Club dog show in New York City. Gambolling Gavin of Galway, a 2½-year-old male owned by Arthur R. and Alicia Whiting, 436 Dalecarlia Drive, took first place in the Sight Hound Division after winning Best of Breed in a field of 24 dogs. To qualify, Gavin won state and regional competitions in July and October. The dog, according to Mr. Whiting, was a wedding gift to his wife.
    It was time to go home. The initial sense that I had stumbled on an important obituary with Alicia Whiting's call was quickly fading. The clips all pointed to the fact that Arthur Whiting had led an unremarkable life, and that Alicia had simply inflated her husband's memory.
    On my way out, one of the security guards stopped me to hand me a package that had just come in.
    "There was a lady in here just a few minutes ago," he said, passing me a thin manila envelope with GORDON HATCH, REPORTER written in large capital letters. "We tried to call you but your line's switched over."
    "Did she say anything?" The return address was a personalized sticker, with the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals logo, of Mr. and Mrs. Arthur R. Whiting.
    "Not much," he said. "She wanted to talk to you."
    "How old would you say she was?"
    "Mid-thirties, blond. She had a big gray coat on. Nice looking."
    I thanked him, trying to look casual as I walked out, in case Alicia was just outside. A brisk fall wind had picked up, and the sun was setting just in front of me, about to drop beneath the Cupples Station warehouse, the old freight storage complex on Ninth Avenue. An orange stripe cut across the
Independent
's masthead.
    Down the street a docent at the bowling museum was bringing in his signboards and locking up. An elderly couple stood arm and arm at the corner waiting for the light to change.
    I turned the envelope over to open it. On the back, Alicia had written "Photo Enclosed." I pictured her husband, his hollow face, thought of her disappointment tomorrow at the tiny obituary: no picture, below the fold. Instead, I slipped the unopened envelope inside my briefcase and headed home.

3
    TO PREPARE MYSELF for the night police beat—my next job, I figured—I had bought a scanner that I listened to after coming home from work. It gave me a chance to hear where the homicides were, what neighborhoods were considered unpatrollable, and how long it took police to respond to a call. That evening I had just turned it on and collapsed on my living room couch when the phone rang. Still caught up in the reverie of the day, I almost expected that it was Alicia Whiting calling to make sure I had received the photograph.
    "What are you doing home?" my mother asked half accusingly. "You're never home at this hour."
    "Research," I said, annoyed.
    "What about last night? Where were you? I left a message on your machine and you didn't get back to me."
    "I didn't check the machine until late. Too late to call."
    "Why didn't you wake me? It's not fair when I don't hear from you."
    I turned the scanner's volume to low. "I've been working on an investigative piece," I lied.
    "An investigative piece," she repeated, but didn't pursue it. "Did you listen to my message?"
    "Yes." I was already growing impatient. "I'm going to see you in a couple of weeks. I thought we talked about it—"
    "This time I hope you mean it," she interrupted. "You've promised to make it home before and something always comes up. Expectations have consequences if you can't fulfill them. Today it's me. Tomorrow it could be someone important."
    I lay back down on the couch, in no mood for my mother's lecturing.
    "I have news about Thea Pierson," she said. "Do you want to hear