Rebecca was shaken but knew her duty. She had to get this story published.
After Gary had taken all the details that he needed for now from her and Penny, she put in a call to Reg and told him of the latest twist.
‘Jesus, Rebecca, this is dynamite. Has anyone else got the story?’
‘Not as far as I know, but someone could have been tipped off by a copper, and even if they haven’t been tipped off, it won’t be long before we see some of our media colleagues here, as there is a lot of activity—police everywhere. It is lit up like a Christmas tree.’
‘Okay, send me through a few pars on your iPhone so we can get something up online immediately, and then get your arse to the office as soon as possible. You’ve got work to do.’
Rebecca punched out about five paragraphs in a text to Reg, with as much detail as she knew to date. She crafted her words into a short, sharp story. The facts were so fantastical that the story didn’t need any embellishment. The police needed both Rebecca’s and Penny’s cars for forensics, so a police car was provided to take them where they wanted to go. Rebecca was dropped off at the office, and a dumbstruck Penny was dropped off at her home in St Peter’s.
As Rebecca walked into the office, she saw the usual suspects, including the paper’s editor, Terry White, who never seemed to go home. Terry poked his head from behind a series of partitions he was trying in vain to make into a pseudo office. ‘Rebecca, I want you working full time on these crime stories. I’ve spoken with Reg. You’ll continue reporting to him.’
At that point, Dave Mendelson jumped up. ‘Hey, I’m the crime reporter. This is my patch. Rebecca is a foodie. She doesn’t have the contacts. This is my beat.’
‘Shut up, Mendelson,’ Terry retorted in front of the entire office—a rather unfortunate side effect of mixing open offices with passionate creative types. ‘You’ve been bloody hopeless. You’re lucky I haven’t sacked you. The Head Case is now Rebecca’s. There’re plenty of other crimes on the streets. I suggest you get off your backside and start to uncover some and turn them into gripping reads.’ Terry looked down at Mendelson—which wasn’t hard as Mendelson was not very tall, even in his special shoes with the generous heels—and added cuttingly, ‘Try taking a leaf out of Rebecca’s book.’
Mendelson glared at Rebecca. At that moment, Rebecca knew that she didn’t just have someone who disliked her—she now had an enemy.
Mendelson slunk off to his desk without another word. Terry stepped back behind his bank of partitions, and Reg swung past Rebecca, grabbed her by the arm, and frog-marched her into a quiet room.
‘Well, we don’t have to worry about you being undercover anymore. That was short lived. You can write openly under your own name. The pathway has been laid clear for you. Lucky break.’
Rebecca replied, ‘What, another man murdered by having his head chopped off? You call that a lucky break? I don’t think Will Oliver would agree.’
‘You know what I mean. This story is going to be bigger than my Azaria Chamberlain “Dingo Took My Baby” case. It keeps getting better.’
Rebecca looked at Reg. He was like a kid on Christmas morning.
‘Okay. Let’s get to work,’ said Reg. ‘I want you to write a mood piece on what you saw this morning. I’ll get a couple of other journos to follow up with the cops. You just concentrate on weaving a beautiful colour piece to go off the back of the facts. I’ll put a heavily edited version online today, with the full piece going front page on the Saturday print edition tomorrow. I’ve already sent Jo Sharpiro to the park lands to get a shot of the trough and the cops swarming over the scene. I also want a photo of you, Rebecca. We need a head shot to go next to your byline.’
Rebecca arced up at this. ‘What the hell do you need a photo of me for? I don’t want my photo on the story. I’m a journalist, not a celebrity.’
‘Bullshit. You’re in the centre of this. You’re writing this feature from your point of view, so who the hell are you? You can’t be faceless. You are also a suspect in this case. That gives it even more complexity and fascination. You don’t think our readers will want to know what you look like? For Christ’s sake, they’ll be googling you, looking for your Facebook photos. Let’s at least give them something that is flattering.’
Rebecca didn’t answer immediately. She couldn’t deny he made some good points. It was just that, in the digital age, so many things were changing. Pre-digital, it all seemed to be clearer. The rules had been laid down over decades, and ethical questions had often had black-and-white answers. All the rules were now being questioned, most being thrown out. Infotainment had become news. Journalists who used to be in the background were now celebrities themselves. Giving subjective opinions was no longer restricted to comment or editorial pieces. To add to the confusion, in this particular case, Rebecca was a murder suspect. What the hell was she doing, writing about it? Wasn’t there a conflict of interest here? She’d been grappling with this issue for days and wasn’t making any sense of it.
Rebecca decided to concede on the photo. It was minor to what was troubling her more—the fact that she was a murder suspect.
‘Okay, Reg. I don’t really care about the photo. But what do you think about me being a murder suspect and writing news and colour pieces on the crimes? Aren’t I conflicted?’
‘Bloody oath, you are. I had this issue out with our esteemed editor, Tessa. We’ve “work-shopped” it, to use mumbo-jumbo speak. We know you’re a suspect, and we’ve decided you need to acknowledge this fact at the end of every story as part of your byline. But bloody hell, how many more readers do you think that will draw in? What a unique opportunity, to be writing it as an insider. This is gold.’
Rebecca looked at Reg. She knew that he was rationalising the argument to suit the needs of the paper. The trouble was, she couldn’t mount a coherent defence as to why she should stop writing the articles. She knew she wasn’t guilty, and at some point that would be proved. However, the reader didn’t know she wasn’t guilty. Rebecca knew Reg was right—her being a suspect would only add to the suspense of the case.
‘Do you think I’m the murderer?’ Rebecca suddenly asked Reg.
‘Don’t be an idiot, Rebecca. Of course not.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, beside the fact that you have never exhibited the psycho traits of a murderer, you don’t have a motive. Of course you are not the bloody killer. But I have to concede that being a suspect is a great twist. It gives this paper a cracker of an edge. And now that there are two murders you are in the thick of, fantastic. There’s nothing like being in the right place at the right time.’
‘I can’t help but feel I’m entering the murky ethical world of programs like A Current Affair,’ moaned Rebecca.
‘Don’t go all pretentious on me! A Current Affair does some great journalism. They do some crap too. You don’t do crap, Rebecca. You have a moral compass, and I expect you to use it. Write about your ethical dilemmas. Write about what it feels like to be a suspect in a murder case. These are rich pickings. Easy never made great journalism.’ Reg paused. ‘That’s enough gabbing. Now get to work.’
Rebecca wrote her colour piece as well as a piece about what it was like to be both a suspect in a murder case and a journalist covering the case. The second article really stretched her. It took her back to her philosophy classes at university, what is truth?. The thinking hurt, but she was pleased with the result. It put her situation in context—not just for the reader but also for herself.
By midday, she had wrapped up her articles and submitted them both to Reg.