Free The Bullet by Mary Louise Kelly Page B

okay now?”
    â€œYes. Sorry. I didn’t intend to start blubbering.”
    â€œDon’t be silly.”
    â€œI wasn’t prepared for that photo.”
    â€œHow could you be? How could anyone? I can’t imagine.”
    Jessica patted my leg and told me to sit tight for a minute. When she reappeared, she was carrying several printed sheets of paper. The archived articles.
    â€œThere was only one more.” She handed them to me. “From a few days after the funeral. Odds and ends about the investigation, how a suspect had been questioned and released. They don’t give his name. And there’s a little more about you. They don’t give your name, either. Itjust talks about how the daughter was injured in the shooting, and how she was still recovering.”
    I flipped through the stack.
    â€œMaybe read them later?” she asked gently. She had been gracious, but clearly she needed to get back to work.
    â€œSure. It’s just—it’s not much, is it?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWell, I know they weren’t famous or rich or anything. But four short articles? That doesn’t seem like much. Wouldn’t this have been a pretty sensational crime? A handsome couple and their cute toddler, shot in cold blood in their own home? In a nice neighborhood? I’m surprised there wasn’t more coverage.”
    Jessica considered this. “Bear in mind the police would have wanted to keep a lid on how much information they gave out. Anything that gets in the paper can tip off the perpetrator. That’s always the way. Reporters tend to know a lot more than they’re allowed to print. And look at the date.” She tapped a blue fingernail against the top printout. “Nineteen seventy-nine. They were dealing with, like, two dozen murders a month back then. Atlanta was the murder capital of the country.”
    â€œReally?” I had no idea.
    â€œOh, yeah. You must remember the Atlanta child murders. The bodies of children kept turning up in the woods, then in the river. Awful stuff. We did a big anniversary feature reminding people about it, right after I started working here. When was that?” She counted on her fingers. “Four years ago. Right. And the story was pegged to the thirtieth anniversary. So there you go! Nineteen seventy-nine.”
    She looked pleased with herself for figuring this out. “We dug up some unbelievable archive photos to run with that story. Totally gruesome. But it does help answer your question. The cops were probably overwhelmed. They would have had a massive backlog of cases, and the child murders were making national headlines. Investigators would havebeen focused on the kids. Maybe your parents got a little lost in the shuffle.”
    â€œMaybe.” I thought about this. “You think the reporters covering crime might have been overwhelmed, too? That would explain why there aren’t many stories.”
    â€œI guess. Who was it that covered your parents?” She reached for the articles. “Huh! Funny I didn’t notice. I don’t know her.” She pointed at the byline on the first story, someone named Janice Fleming. “But this one. Leland Brett. He’s one of our managing editors.”
    â€œWhat, you mean still?”
    â€œHe’s worked here forever. Leland’s probably upstairs on the sixth floor right now.”
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    THE NEWSROOM WAS disconcertingly bright and modern.
    I wanted it to look the way the Washington Post does in All the President’s Men : a warren of chipped desks, drowning under piles of paper and clattering typewriters and flasks of whiskey. A place where unshaven reporters plied their trade, weaseling news tips out of shady sources. The way newspapers are supposed to look. But the Journal-­Constitution newsroom could have passed for a travel agency. Or a suburban bank. Cheerful blue-and-orange color