No News
Sinclair Durbridge sat in the lawyer's office, lips pursed, trying to come to terms with the reality of his father's last will and testament. As the only son and heir to Ellsworth Durbridge's estate, he had imagined inheriting a large fortune on which he could live quite comfortably for the remainder of his life. The truth was a hard pill to swallow.
"I don't understand," he said in confusion. "Where did all the money go? The mansion, the investments, the paper—surely, my father was a multimillionaire."
The late Ellsworth Durbridge had followed in his father's and grandfather's footsteps as owner and managing editor of the Chronicle, a New England newspaper that was first published in the year 1800. Cuthbert Durbridge, the paper's founder, had been a staunch patriot during the American Revolutionary War and later used his journalistic talents to further the cause of the Federalist Party. When his son took over the reins, the Chronicle became an anti-slavery publication, which continued to grow in popularity both during and after the Civil War years. Even with the passage of the Thirteenth Amendment abolishing slavery, the newspaper continued to espouse liberal ideas such as women's rights, temperance and organized labor.
Given its steadily increasing circulation, more advertizing dollars flowed into the Chronicle's coffers. The family fortune grew accordingly. Ellsworth, the third Durbridge to helm the newspaper, was born into wealth and privilege. Rather than becoming an idealistic crusader like his father and grandfather, he was conservative in his viewpoints. A true capitalist, he was less interested in affecting social change than in making more money.
Less than a decade after he stepped in as editor, however, the paper—already past its apotheosis of popularity—began to decline, its circulation rapidly dwindling. It reached its nadir in 1892. Eight years later, as the newspaper celebrated its one-hundredth anniversary, Ellsworth died and Sinclair found himself the new owner of the Chronicle. Regrettably, in an effort to keep the publication afloat after years of operating in the red, his father had gone through the family fortune. Even the mansion, which had been in the family for more than half a century, was heavily mortgaged.
"So what you're saying is I'm broke?" Sinclair asked the lawyer, in an attempt to cut through all the legalese.
"Worse than that, I'm afraid. You're in serious debt. Your father borrowed a great deal of money in an attempt to keep the paper going."
As a young man who spent his life traveling throughout Europe in the pursuit of frivolous entertainments, he had no strong attachment to the newspaper that had been the source of his family's livelihood for the past century.
"Why don't I simply sell the Chronicle and use the proceeds of the sale to pay off my father's debts?"
A humorless smile appeared on the lawyer's face as he explained.
"The paper is bleeding money. You're not going to find a buyer."
"Then what am I to do?"
"Find a competent man to run the business and pray for a miracle."
"The last time I prayed I was ten years old," Sinclair said with a frown. "I asked God not to take Penelope, my pet collie, to heaven. When the dog died the following day, I lost all faith in both prayer and God."
As for handing the Chronicle over to a new managing editor, he saw it as inviting a fox into the henhouse. He left the lawyer's office wearing the shackles of poverty but in possession of an intense determination to turn the newspaper around and put it back on a money-making basis.
* * *
Since Sinclair Durbridge knew nothing about running a newspaper, he looked for inspiration to the men whose names were synonymous with success in the publishing world: Joseph Pulitzer and William Randolph Hearst. When comparing recent issues of the Chronicle to their publications, he noted clear differences not only in the style of writing but also in the types of stories covered.
Bright and early the next morning, the new owner called a meeting of all senior staff members. Well aware of the financial difficulty the paper faced, nearly all the employees feared the worst.
"According to the accounting department," Sinclair began, "we have less than six months before the Chronicle goes bust. That means we have to take fast and drastic actions if we hope to save it."
Surprised that they were not all losing their jobs, the staff members stared silently at their new boss.
"I spent last evening examining back issues of Pulitzer's New York World and Hearst's New York Journal. It was quite an education, I assure you."
"Both of those publications sensationalize the news," Thornton Scovell, the head political reporter, declared disparagingly.
"And they sell lots of papers doing so," the new owner/editor pointed out.
Sinclair looked at the faces of the men in the room. From their expressions, it was obvious that the thought of resorting to what was often referred to as "yellow journalism" was abhorrent to them.
"I want to make myself clear. If any of you feel you're too high-brow to stoop to the level of those newspapers, then I suggest you look for employment elsewhere. From now on, you're going to write stories in plain and simple English, no more sesquipedalian articles," he said with a wink in Scovell's direction, "that require the readers to refer to dictionaries in order to understand what you're saying."
"But we have the paper's standards to uphold," Thornton argued.
"We can't afford to have those high standards anymore. Unless we want to go bankrupt, we're going to have to start appealing to laborers, immigrants and housewives. I want to see headlines that grab the readers' attention, and photographs—lots of them. I also want color supplements in the Sunday papers that include an entertainment section and comics."
Thornton, who had always taken great pride in his superior intelligence and academic accomplishments, blanched at the very suggestion of including The Katzenjammer Kids in the Chronicle.
"And another thing," Sinclair continued. "There was a woman attacked in Central Park last week. Why was nothing mentioned in the Chronicle?"
"We don't normally cover such stories."
"Well, we do now. In fact, I want crimes on the front page."
Sinclair picked up a copy of one of his father's newspapers and held it high so that everyone in the room could read the headline: EMPRESS DOWAGER SUPPORTS BOXER REBELLION.
"Look at the story we ran instead. Is that the best we could do? The Boxer Rebellion? It sounds like we're talking about pugilism, for Christ's sake. Do you think the common man here in New England gives a damn about a rebellion in China?"
"But this is a legitimate news story, an important world event," Thornton objected. "Rebels are slaughtering foreigners and Christians in Peking."
"There!" Sinclair exclaimed and pointed his finger at the journalist. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. Why didn't our headline read REBELS SLAUGHTER CHRISTIANS? That would have got people's attention; that would have sold papers."
* * *
Thanks in no small part to its expanded Sunday edition, the Chronicle's circulation soon showed some improvement. However, the increase in sales was nowhere near enough to get the newspaper out of the red.
"What are you working on?" Sinclair asked one of the paper's foremost reporters as he passed by his desk.
"An article on the development of an underground rapid transit system in New York City."
"Sounds boring. Haven't there been any armed robberies or murders to write about?"
"No, thank God. When it comes to violent crimes, you know what they say: no news is good news."
"Not when you're in the newspaper business. Here, no news means no sales."
Sinclair then left his fifth story office and walked three blocks to the police station. Aloysius McGinley, whose mother once worked as a maid for the Durbridges, was the chief of police.
"What can I do for you?" Chief McGinley asked after the usual pleasantries were dispensed with.
"It's what we can do for each other that I want to discuss. You know I've taken over as editor of the paper now that my father is gone."
"I did hear something along those lines. Funny, I never pictured you sitting behind a desk with a red pen in hand correcting grammar mistakes."
"I leave that task to men on my staff better versed in the English language," Sinclair laughingly replied. "I'm more of a managing editor, deciding how the paper is to be run, especially what types of stories we are to publish, which is where you come in."
"Me? I'm a cop, not a reporter."
"Have you ever read A Study in Scarlet by that British writer Arthur Conan Doyle?"
The question took Aloysius by surprise since it seemed completely unrelated to the subject the two men were discussing.
"I'm afraid I don't have much time to delve into fiction."
"In the book Doyle's detective, Sherlock Holmes, refers to a 'scarlet thread of murder running through the colorless skein of life.' He further claims his 'duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every inch of it.' That's the direction I want the Chronicle to take. I want my paper to seek out and expose crimes especially the major ones. As chief of police, you must know about all sorts of criminal activity going on in our city."
"Under your father's stewardship, the Chronicle always avoided such sordid news stories."
"My father is dead. I run the paper now. Crime sells—plain and simple."
"And what exactly is it you want from me?"
"An exchange of favors. You provide with me with leads to stories, and I'll show my gratitude with cold, hard cash."
The chief of police saw no harm in agreeing to his friend's proposal. Passing along information to members of the press was not illegal—it was done all the time—and would not hamper any ongoing investigations. Besides, policemen, even those in high-ranking positions, were frequently underpaid. A good Catholic, McGinley had a large family to support.
After shaking hands to bind their agreement, Sinclair took a small notebook and a pen out of his jacket pocket.
"So what are your men investigating right now?" he asked.
"Not much, actually," the chief answered. "A man on Third Street had his wallet snatched by a pickpocket. Someone broke into a home on Waring Avenue, but nothing was missing. Apparently, the owners came home and scared the thief away."
"You mean in a city the size of Boston there's not a single assault and battery case? A missing person? A suspicious death?"
"Not unless you consider Mabel Dreyer falling down the stairs and breaking her neck a suspicious death," the chief laughed.
Like a bloodhound, Sinclair immediately smelled a possible story.
"Was there anything out of the ordinary about the fall?"
"Not as far as I'm concerned. The woman had a drinking problem. My guess is she was tipsy and missed a step. Naturally, I had to send a patrolman out to question Mr. Dreyer, but he had nothing to add. I've no doubt the coroner will rule it an accidental death."
The gears in Sinclair's mind were turning, and his imagination kicked in.
"So if the Chronicle were to print a story under the headline POLICE QUESTION HUSBAND IN CONNECTION WITH WIFE'S DEATH, it wouldn't be a lie?" he asked, taking a few bills out of his wallet and placing them on the desk in front of the chief.
"No, but it is somewhat misleading. Don't you agree?"
"I'm certainly not going to accuse the man of anything. And when the coroner issues his findings, I'm sure he'll be cleared of all suspicion. No harm done."
"I can live with that," McGinley concluded, after the editor added another bill to the pile.
"Good. Your help is much appreciated. I look forward to hearing from you soon."
* * *
Mabel Dreyer's death made the front page of the Chronicle's next edition. As its new owner had suspected, all copies of the paper sold out. The following day, he increased the size of the run. Virgil Gaskin, one of paper's young reporters, eager to establish a name for himself, had discovered by talking to the couple's neighbors, that Oscar Dreyer often became physically abusive toward his wife when he drank too much.
"Great work, Virgil!" the owner complimented his reporter's efforts. "Let's run this story on the first page under the headline HUSBAND BATTERED DEAD WIFE."
When that article appeared, the paper again sold out. In the weeks that followed, with each new sensational headline, the circulation of the Chronicle increased, as did Chief McGinley's bank account. Eight months from the day Sinclair Durbridge took over his father's position the newspaper's balance sheet finally appeared in black ink, not red.
"This is only the beginning!" the editor exclaimed after he announced the good news during a staff meeting. "We're going to make the Chronicle one of the bestselling newspapers in the country."
Sinclair's prediction was followed by thunderous applause. The only person in the room who did not clap was Thornton Scovell. While most of the other reporters came to agree with the owner's philosophy (give the public what it wants to read), he stubbornly maintained his standards. The fact that his work was inevitably buried somewhere in the second half of the issue did not bother him—much. He would not stoop to crass sensationalism.
There was one silver lining in the dark cloud that was Thornton's future with the publication. Election time was drawing near.
We can print some actual news for a change, he thought, instead of grisly crimes, wild rumors and damning innuendos.
A week later he turned in what he considered an informative, well-written article meant to delineate the key issues of the upcoming election and explain where each candidate stood on them. Scovell was proud of his work and certain it would appear on the second page of the Chronicle, if not the first. Consequently, when the edition came off the press, he was disheartened to see the story on page twelve, printed beside an article covering the winning pooches in the Westminster Kennel Club's annual dog show. Peeved, he went into Sinclair's office, intent on confronting his employer.
"Is something the matter?" the editor asked when he saw the reporter hesitate to open his mouth for fear of losing his job.
Thornton finally found the courage to voice his displeasure.
"I just wanted to know why my story was buried on page twelve."
"What's wrong with page twelve? If I had wanted to bury your story, I would have put it on page twenty with the women's housekeeping column."
"This is a presidential election year. Do you really think William McKinley and William Jennings Bryan ought to be given the same consideration as an Airedale Terrier and a Cocker Spaniel?"
"I admire your patriotism and your lofty ideals, but you have to get your head out of the clouds. The sad truth is more people will want to read about the dogs than about the candidates."
"How can you be so cynical?"
"I'm not, but I made it a point to learn what type of person buys our paper, and it's not limited to professionals with college degrees. More than three-fourths of our readers are working class people without even a high school diploma. They want to be entertained, not informed."
"Then why bother printing my article at all if no one cares."
"Because it's important that in addition to the sensational stories that sell the Chronicle we include actual news coverage. Maybe not everyone who buys an issue will read about the elections, but some will. I'm afraid that's the best we can hope for."
* * *
Days after McKinley won the election, Virgil Gaskin—who, thanks to his "creative" investigative reporting, soon became one of the highest paid writers on the paper's staff—brought Sinclair another page one headline story.
Ever since the Chronicle had reported that Oscar Dreyer was prone to physically abusing poor Mabel when he had a few too many, the prosecutor decided to charge him with murdering his wife even though the coroner had originally ruled her death accidental. Virgil covered the trial from the attorneys' opening statements right through to their closings and the judge's instructions to the jury. Finally, the verdict was delivered.
"This one will have a one-word headline," the reporter declared triumphantly as he placed his typed copy on the editor's desk. "GUILTY!"
Sinclair felt a moment of doubt. What if Mabel's death really had been an accident as the police believed all along? Virgil did not share the editor's reservations. On the contrary, he congratulated himself for having helped expose Oscar Dreyer as a heartless murderer.
"All that disparaging talk about yellow journalism! That bastard would have gotten away with killing his wife if not for the story in the Chronicle!" the reporter proudly announced.
"What about the sentence?" the editor inquired.
"No surprise there. First degree murder carries a mandatory death sentence. I figured that would be our big story for the next issue. After all, Dreyer is going to be one of the first prisoners to have a seat in our new electric chair."
Although Sinclair knew both issues were sure to sell out, he could not help feeling a slight distaste at Virgil's exuberance.
How can he take so much pleasure in a man's death? he wondered, realizing that many of his readers would react the same inappropriate way.
Still, he had a newspaper to run, and as he had once told the chief of police, crime sells. It was the Dreyer story that had started the paper's rise in circulation. With the Chronicle currently selling more than five times as many papers as it did when he inherited it, Durbridge was not about to become squeamish now.
"You got the page one story tomorrow and the next day."
"I could follow those articles up with an in-depth story about William Kemmler, the first man executed by electrocution back in 1890—who, by the way, was also convicted of murdering his wife. Or, I could write a piece on the development of the electric chair, maybe go down to New York's Auburn Prison where it was first used."
"They're both good ideas," Sinclair agreed. "I remember reading somewhere that Thomas Edison and George Westinghouse had a bit of a rivalry going on as far as whether direct or alternating current electricity was more effective in electrocutions. Anything written about Edison makes for good copy. Nothing too technical, though."
"You got it!"
The owner had faith in his reporter, a man who was willing to stretch the truth a little for the sake of a good story.
* * *
The year 1901 marked Sinclair Durbridge's first anniversary as owner of the Chronicle. When he had inherited the struggling paper from his father, he never imagined what a success he would make of it in just twelve months. It was now the third bestselling newspaper in the country. In the world of journalism, his name often appeared with luminaries William Randolph Hearst and Joseph Pulitzer.
In addition to the more lurid coverage of murder and scandal, a number of legitimate news stories appeared on its pages. In the first three months of the new year alone, there was an outbreak of typhoid fever in Seattle, oil was discovered in Texas, the United States withdrew its troops from Cuba, industrialist J.P. Morgan formed U.S. Steel and William McKinley was sworn in as the twenty-fifth President of the United States with Theodore Roosevelt as his vice president.
It was in the month of May when Sinclair was deciding which reporter to send down to Jacksonville, Florida, to cover what was later to be called the Great Fire of 1901 when Virgil Gaskin showed up in his office moments before the close of the business day.
"Let me guess," the owner said, misreading the look of enthusiasm on the reporter's boyish face. "You want to go to Florida."
"Just the opposite. I was hoping you wouldn't send me."
"Oh? Are you afraid of getting sunburned?"
"No. Oscar Dreyer's execution is scheduled for next week. I was hoping I could go to the prison and cover it."
"Certainly! After all, you were instrumental in getting him convicted."
"I can't take all the credit," Virgil declared modestly. "You were the one who questioned the coroner's initial finding of accidental death."
"That's true," Sinclair admitted. "Not much of a story in a woman who had too much to drink, clumsily falling down the stairs and breaking her neck."
"So I have your permission to go to Charlestown State Prison and witness the execution?"
Again, the owner found something eerily disturbing in the reporter's eagerness to witness such a gruesome spectacle. Was this then the result of sensationalized journalism? Were people becoming too desensitized to human pain and suffering?
"Permission? I insist upon it. I'm already reserving the front page for your article, and I'm going to increase the size of the run."
"Too bad the prison doesn't allow photography."
"Well, they say a photo is worth a thousand words. I'll allow extra space for you to describe the event in great detail."
As Sinclair had predicted, the issue carrying Virgil's account of Dreyer's execution outsold all previous issues of the Chronicle. Nearly a century before the arrival of Court TV and the Investigation Discovery channel, the reading public was fascinated by tales of crime, detection and punishment. They were also inexplicably drawn to murders—and suspected murderers—such as Jack the Ripper, H.H. Holmes and local celebrity Lizzie Borden.
* * *
Two weeks after Virgil Gaskin became the cynosure of the Chronicle's reporting staff with the publication of his in-depth article of Oscar Dreyer's last moments on earth, the young journalist failed to show up for work one morning.
"Maybe he got a hot lead on a story," one of his colleagues suggested.
"It's possible," Sinclair said, knowing it was not like his star reporter to go AWOL.
By midmorning there was still no word from him, so the editor sent an office boy over to his apartment to check on him. He came back in less than an hour with terrible news. Virgil Gaskin was dead.
Sinclair contacted Aloysius McGinley for an explanation.
"There will be an autopsy to confirm it, but the coroner believes it was a heart attack," the chief of police told him.
"It can't be! He was only twenty-five years old."
"That is awfully young, but he might have been born with a bad ticker."
Virgil's death hit Durbridge hard. Aside from the fact that he considered the young man his finest reporter, he had grown to like him personally. After attending the funeral—which the Chronicle's owner generously paid for—Sinclair had dinner with his lawyer, during which time he made arrangements to set up a small trust fund for Virgil's widowed mother.
"Her son was her sole means of support," the editor explained. "It's the least I can do. I've no doubt that without him the Chronicle would have gone under."
At the end of the night, reluctant to go home to his empty house, Sinclair returned to his office. He managed to catch up on his work before falling asleep at his desk. In the early morning hours, the place was dark and the presses were silent. The only activity was out on the loading dock where freshly printed papers were being loaded onto trucks for distribution throughout the Boston area.
It's as quiet as a tomb in here, he thought with a slight shiver as he made his way to the men's room.
The significance of the simile was not lost on him. Having recently buried his young employee, Sinclair found the mausoleum-like atmosphere of the place strangely appropriate.
The editor heard his footsteps echo through the empty building as he walked back to his private office. Rather than turn on the overhead lights and brighten the entire room, he relied on the small desk lamp, which left most of the office in shadows. Sitting in his chair like a king sits upon his throne, Sinclair opened his bottom desk draw where he kept a bottle of whiskey. He poured himself a drink and raised it in the air for a toast.
"To Virgil Gaskin," he said aloud. "You were more than an employee to me. You were like a kid brother."
He raised the glass to his lips, but before he sipped the whiskey, a movement in the shadows stilled his hand.
"Who's there?"
There was no reply.
"Is that you, Withers?" he asked, wondering if it were the night watchman. "Don't you normally carry a flashlight when you make your rounds?"
Although his questions were met with silence, Sinclair was certain he was not alone. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up when he heard the muffled sound of shuffling feet.
"Who are you, damn it?"
A familiar face suddenly emerged from the darkness. Durbridge lowered his hand, although the whiskey might have helped mitigate the fear he felt at the sight of the dead man. Dozens of questions came to his mind, but he could not verbalize a single one.
"Do you remember me?" the revenant asked.
Still unable to speak, the editor dumbly nodded his head in reply.
"You might want to finish that drink. You look like you could use it."
The hand went up to his mouth, and the whiskey went down his throat. The alcohol had no effect on him, however. He was still frightened.
"I must say, you're made of tougher stuff than Virgil Gaskin was. No sooner did I appear before him than he fell down and died from a heart attack."
A smile of bemusement appeared on Oscar Dreyer's face.
"Funny, it didn't bother him in the least to see me fry in the chair."
Somewhere in the depths of his being, the editor finally found the strength to speak.
"Now that you've killed Virgil, have you come here to complete your quest for vengeance?"
"It's not a matter of revenge. Neither your death nor that reporter's will do me much good. It certainly won't bring me back to life."
"Then why are you here? And why did you kill Virgil?"
"There you go again, accusing me of murder," the ghost said angrily. "Your young friend died of natural causes. I went to him to ask him for a favor, and he was literally scared to death."
"What do you mean you wanted to ask him for a favor?"
"The same favor I want to ask of you. I want you to clear my name."
Sinclair stared at Oscar Dreyer with a blank look of inscrutability.
"Do you not understand what I'm asking of you? I didn't kill my wife. Her death was an accident, not murder. I don't want to be remembered for a crime I didn't commit. You and Virgil Gaskin were the ones ultimately responsible for my predicament. Since he is dead, you must be the one to establish my innocence."
"How do you expect me to do that?"
"You have to publish an article in the Chronicle admitting your duplicity. Both the coroner and the police believed me when I said I had no knowledge of Mabel's death. You were the one who cast the first doubt. Then Virgil Gaskin started questioning my neighbors and took every piece of gossip and rumor as gospel fact. I never beat my wife, not once in all the years we were married."
"I can't tell my readers that I knowingly published an account that wasn't truthful. It would ruin the Chronicle, and after I worked so hard to save it—no, I can't do it."
"I was never an evil man," Dreyer said softly. "I was a kind-hearted, honest, God-fearing Christian who followed the Ten Commandments and lived my life by the Golden Rule. My visit tonight was made in good faith. Please don't make me do something I might later regret."
"Are you threatening me?"
"I'm saying there are more ... unpleasant ways for me to get what I want."
"Well, you can haunt me from now until I die, and I won't change my mind. I never accused you of murder in the pages of the Chronicle. The district attorney, eager to win over voters in his bid for reelection, did that. And the twelve men in the jury unanimously voted in favor of conviction. So I won't bear full responsibility for your fate."
"You're a stubborn man, Mr. Durbridge," Oscar announced in a lifeless monotone, knowing the editor would never agree to his caveat, even to save his own life.
Without another word, the spirit receded into the shadows. Hand trembling after his encounter with the supernatural, Sinclair was about to pour himself another whiskey. However, as he picked up the bottle, the lamp on his desk went out and he was thrust into total darkness.
Durbridge sat still; the only sound he could hear was the frantic beating of his own heart. Slowly he reached his hand out to the lamp and turned it on again. The relief he felt when he saw there was no sign of Oscar Dreyer in the shadows soon vanished when he heard a clang followed by the mechanical thrum of the printing press starting up two floors below.
As he rose from his desk, the overhead lights came on. They were followed by the lights in the hall. Within moments, the entire building was awash in bright light. The editor went down to the third floor where the large printing press was spitting out the next day's edition of the Chronicle. He was stunned to see his own picture on the front page.
What the hell?
The headline above his photograph brought on a renewed bout of terror: NEWSPAPERMAN TAKES OWN LIFE AFTER ADMITTING TO LIES. In Sinclair's hand was Oscar Dreyer's threat made good. The article described in precise detail his and Virgil's roles in the accusation, conviction and execution of an innocent man. The last few paragraphs described Durbridge's inability to live with the guilt, which eventually brought him to the desperate act of suicide. According to the writer—whose name does not appear anywhere on the page—the remorseful owner of the Chronicle threw himself out the window of his fifth-story office to his death.
This is nonsense! I'm still alive.
Then, believing Dreyer's spirit might be watching him, he called out to the executed man, "Is this fake news story supposed to make me reconsider granting your request? Well, if it is, it won't work. I have no intention of either writing a confession in the Chronicle or of jumping out a window."
As the press continued churning out copies of the newspaper, the lights on the third floor went out again. Despite the darkness, Sinclair was able to make his way to the stairwell and walk down to the lobby.
I've had enough of this place for one day. I'm going home.
Not bothering to go back to his office for his coat, he walked out the front door into the cold December night air. Despite the pronounced chill, he was relieved to be out of the building. The city streetlights created artificial daylight and a false sense of security. Since he lived only eight blocks from where he worked, he normally walked to and from the office; but he was always suitably dressed for the prevailing weather. He dreaded an eight-block walk when he was already shivering from the cold. Still, he did not want to go back inside for his coat.
When I get home, I'll have a nice glass of brandy. That will warm me up, he thought as he raised the collar of his suit jacket around his neck.
After a dozen steps, he was on the section of sidewalk immediately beneath his office window. The sound of shattering glass above him made him stop and look up.
It CAN'T be!
Falling down toward him was a human figure—his own!
Even had there been time to move, his terror kept him motionless. Just when the two Sinclair Durbridges—the falling man and its standing counterpart—made contact, they became one. The broken body of the Chronicle's owner remained on the blood-spattered pavement throughout the remainder of the night to be discovered the following morning when the newspaper's employees began arriving for work.
* * *
"The typesetters had no explanation for the change in the first page of that day's edition," Thornton Scovell told the chief of police as the two men discussed the editor's death. "And no one admits to having written that article."
"Durbridge must have wrote it and set it himself," Aloysius McGinley theorized. "It was probably his idea of a suicide note."
"How like him. He was always one for sensationalism."
Of course, neither the political reporter nor the chief of police knew just how sensational and bizarre Sinclair Durbridge's death had actually been.
Massachusetts' electric chair was located in Charlestown State Prison. The first person executed in it was Luigi Storti in December 1901.
Image in upper left corner is of Joseph Pulitzer.
Just like many humans, Salem enjoys reading the daily paper while sitting on the toilet, or, in his case, using the litter box. Talk about multitasking!
