When it came to his views on journalism, Chapa wasn’t just old school. He might as well have helped pour the cement for the building’s foundation.
While Chapa thrived on stories about regular people, he believed that most journalists focused on the trivial, instead of burrowing inside to find out what made the person do whatever it was they did. Not just how Floyd grew that tomato, but what had he sacrificed to do so, and why. Was his wife really all that proud of him? Were his kids embarrassed? Was he okay with that? What was Floyd trying to prove, and to whom? And most important of all, why should anyone else give a damn?
That took work, and an ability to ask the right questions. Those were the qualities that separated him from most of the other reporters at the Record, and distinguished him from someone like Duane Wormley. But they were also what made him something of a dinosaur, and expendable in the eyes of some of his superiors. That, and the fact that he was one of the Chicago area’s highest paid newspapermen.
“Yes, Alex, connect the dots, and I might be able to talk you-know-who into having you replace Chakowski on a more permanent basis.”
“You mean Macklin?”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Macklin.”
“He’s an ignorant prick from way back.”
“Who happens to own the paper.”
“Daddy owns the paper. He just chose the runt of the litter to run it.”
Another sigh from Sullivan.
“Okay, do you want to keep your job or not?”
Chapa perched his feet on the edge of the desk and looked up as though he were considering Sullivan’s question. A crack ran the length of the ceiling and several inches down a wall. Chapa stared at it and wondered if he’d ever noticed it before.
When enough time had passed that Sullivan seemed to be getting nervous, Chapa said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Yes, please. You know I think very highly of you.”
Chapa liked his editor, though he’d only worked with him for a couple of months. What he didn’t like, however, was the way he’d flipped like a pancake every time Carston Macklin had changed the direction and priorities of the Record’s news division. He usually got on well with Sullivan, but wished that just once the man would find the cojones to tell Macklin to fuck off.
“I need to get into Chakowski’s office, check out his files and notes.”
Sullivan nodded, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of keys. He sifted through them, selected a narrow office key that resembled Chapa’s, and tossed it on the desk.
“Just connect the dots, Alex, that’s all you’ve got to do, the way Jim Chakowski would have. No need to go excavating any new ones.”
Chapa responded with a sparse smile, and watched Sullivan attempt to decipher what it meant, give up trying, then work himself out of the chair.
“Good luck, Alex,” Sullivan said as he left the office.
Chapa heard him let out another massive sigh as he walked away.
Chapter 11
Nikki was locked into a game of Peggle on Zach’s computer when Chapa walked over to let her know it would be just a few more minutes.
“Uh huh, okay, that’s fine, Daddy,” she said without turning away from the monitor.
Chapa rubbed her head, sending strands of blond hair swaying in every direction.
“Dad,” she exclaimed and squirmed away.
“I’ll be in Chakowski’s office in case you need me for anything,” Chapa told Zach.
Chakowski’s door was just down the hall. As he walked in that direction, Chapa tried to recall how often he’d been in the senior reporter’s office. Not much at all, he realized for the first time. That surprised him somewhat. They’d never truly been friends in the traditional sense, but they were friendly in the way that colleagues in any profession can be.
But there was more to it. Newspaper reporters were not typical office workers. It was a unique line of work, one that led to unusual and often fractured lives. The hours were odd, and the job often followed you home, then became a squatter in your everyday.
Like athletes and cops, reporters were often most comfortable talking to others who understood how different their day-to-day lives were. But as Chapa opened the door and walked into Chakowski’s office, he thought about how private the man had been, and wondered why he hadn’t noticed that before.
As he stood in the doorway and looked around, Chapa realized that he’d have to come back when he had more time, and when Nikki was not with him. The cramped room was dark except for the few threads of sunlight fighting their way in through closed blinds.
Chapa surveyed the area for a moment, then flipped on the light switch. A throw blanket rested on a well-worn couch in the corner, suggesting that Chakowski slept there from time to time. That didn’t come as much of a surprise. He’d heard others say that Chakowski lived at the office, maybe that was more true than anyone realized.
Unlike Chapa’s office, which was full of books, CDs, and photos, this one was crowded with old newspapers stuffed into a bookcase lining one wall, and file boxes on another. Chapa understood why light from outside couldn’t get in, the window was half blocked by a large wooden shelving unit that was stuffed with LPs. The place smelled like old paper.
Out of curiosity, Chapa walked over to the shelves of records and checked out some of the artists and titles. Van Morrison, Bob Dylan, Carole King, Nilsson, the Grateful Dead, a mix of late 60s and early 70s pop. What a thirty-year-old grad student Chapa knew back in college called, “The good stuff.”
Chapa was reminded of how much a music collection can reveal about a person. This one told him exactly when Jim Chakowski became the man he became.
He pushed aside a set of headphones that was sitting on top of the desk, and began looking through a stack of papers and manila folders. The desk drawers offered little in the way of useful materials, but Chapa looked through them long enough to find a do-it-yourself will kit. Odd, but Chakowski was getting up there in years, never married, and had no children, as far as Chapa knew. He hoped to find some notes that might indicate what Chakowski was working on, but gave up after a few minutes, and made a call over to Sullivan’s office.
“I’m going to write Jim’s obit for tomorrow’s paper.”
“That’s fine, it will be one of several that we’re going to run. Give yours a more personal slant.”
That approach wouldn’t have been his first choice, but Chapa agreed to give it a shot.
“Then you’ll be covering the Business Council meeting tomorrow at City Hall?”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because that’s what Jim would’ve been doing. Because that’s the job, Alex.”
Chapa did not answer right away as he made a mental note to double-check how much he still had left in his 401(K). He knew it wouldn’t be anywhere near enough to retire, but he now sensed that he might be tapping into it soon.
Chapter 12
Chapa had his colleague’s obituary finished in just under an hour. The story about the explosion, including the official police version along with quotes from the female neighbor took a little longer. There just wasn’t much meat on that bone.
Every few minutes he would look around the corner