Free Anonymous Sources by Mary Louise Kelly Page A

story I filed for Sunday’s Chronicle was nicely written, full of colorful details, and devoid of any actual news.
    Here’s my lede:
    CAMBRIDGE, England—The name “T. A. Carlyle” is still neatly painted in curling white letters above his door here.
    But the rooms that Thomas Abbott Carlyle called home until this past Monday now sit empty. And throughout this ancient college, friends are mourning the loss of a young man whom they recall as a graceful athlete, an ambitious scholar, and a generous host.
    I threw in the quotes from his crew buddies at the boathouse.
    And I included the details I’d dragged out of Petronella about Thom’s last party:
    One of Carlyle’s key duties as Harvard Scholar was to entertain fellow Harvard alums studying at Cambridge University. His last night here was no different. According to Petronella P. Black, Carlyle’s girlfriend and a candidate for a graduate degree in physics at Cambridge, Carlyle invited about two dozen people to his suite last Monday night.
    â€œPeople from his course, people from my lab, some rowers,” Black said. A crowd of friends and acquaintances mingled and danced until around 2:00 a.m. They sipped sherry, sparkling wine and beer and sent out for Middle Eastern food sometime after midnight, Black said.
    â€œHe was always having parties,” Black added. “He loved the crowds, the drink, the chat. That’s what I liked about him.”
    I left out the bit about Thom’s proposing and Petronella’s breaking up with him in the wee hours after the party.
    Hyde and I had gone back and forth about it, with me arguing that it spoke to his state of mind on the day he died, and Hyde ruling it gossipy and gratuitous.
    He also deleted all my wicked references to Petronella. I’d had great fun back in my hotel room, dreaming up ways to make her look rotten and sprinkling them throughout the story:
    Black, who shooed her new boyfriend from her bed in order to continue the interview . . .
    Another version read:
    Ms. Black said she is “devastated” by Carlyle’s death and that her “heart goes out to his mum and dad.” Her current lover, LordLucien Sly, declined comment, and Black threatened legal action if we mentioned him in this article.
    Hyde excised these without comment. I knew he would. It’s a kind of game we play.
    He left untouched the section I included near the bottom with the official autopsy results. The press briefing had been pretty dry, at least as far as I could make out from the transcript. And my conversation with Galloni had been off the record, so I couldn’t quote him at all.
    It was frustrating.
    I’d now been reporting this story for close to a week. And I’d reached the same conclusion as the Cambridge, Massachusetts, police department.
    Meaning, I was increasingly sure that someone had killed Thom Carlyle on Tuesday night. But I didn’t know who—or how—or why.

    
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    SUNDAY, JUNE 27
    P anic.
    He could feel the sweat crawling down his neck, behind his knees, clammy under his arms. He searched his pockets again. Then his suitcase: every pouch, every pocket. He unzipped the lining. Ran his hand beneath the cheap satin. Lifted his possessions onto the floor, one by one, until the case sat indisputably, accusingly empty.
    Then he swore and kicked it. It was impossible. He had been meticulous. Brilliant, even. He had made no more mistakes.
    And yet. The phone was not here.
    The cell phone. The third one. He searched his memory. It wasthe one he had used to reconfirm the shipment. Six days ago. And then where had he put it? Had he seen it since then?
    The man leaned back on his heels. Rocked back and forth, thinking. It must have fallen out somewhere. He still had a few hours before his train. He could retrace his steps, search for it. It was an inexpensive phone; no one would look twice at it. He was supposed to