Mania by Craig Larsen

rot on the banks of the Green River. People get scared it’s going to start happening all over again.”
    “So you censor the news.”
    Once again the editor smiled. “Back when I started out, I was a lot like you. I thought it was my job to tell the truth.”
    “Isn’t it?”
    Daly shook her head. “It’s my job to sell papers. Today, tomorrow, and the day after that. I don’t trade in truth. I trade in credibility.” The editor leaned toward her young reporter. “Can you believe that we’ve been criticized for the stories we’ve been running? You know what they’re saying? They’re saying we’re trying to take advantage of the public’s paranoia. They’re calling us terrorists. Terrorists. If the people only knew. If they could see the pictures we haven’t printed.”
    “You didn’t invite me here to bitch about your critics,” Nick heard himself say. He felt nervous, watched. He concentrated on his hands, trying to steady himself.
    Settling back in her chair, Daly examined the young man in front of her.
    Nick tried to hold her gaze but couldn’t. “I’m just wondering where this is going,” he said.
    “No—you’re absolutely right.” The editor raised a hand to cut off Nick’s apology. “You deserve my candor, Nick, so let me level with you.”
    Nick glanced at his boss, then back down at his hands, waiting.
    “We’ve been pretty careful with the news so far. Claire Scott gets killed and dumped in one of Ridgway’s graveyards, and we write columns telling people it’s a one-off thing. Dickenson gets stabbed a couple of weeks later, and for the most part we reassure people the two murders aren’t related. I’m not publishing lies. I’m writing what credibility demands me to write.” The editor looked at the young man, trying to gauge him. “But now with your brother, we’ve got three murders in three weeks. All of them stabbings.”
    Nick waited for Daly to continue.
    “Credibility. That’s what it all boils down to. I’ve got my credibility to think about. I like you, Nick. You know that. And it’s more than that. I know you. I believe in you. The time has come, though, where I have to run what I’ve got. From every angle. Understand?”
    Nick turned the words over. He understood that the editor would have drawn the same conclusion as the police. Until he was able to remember what happened, he was a natural suspect.
    “You’re one of my reporters. One of my best photographers. Hell, tomorrow morning I’m going to be running that piece you wrote a couple weeks ago. The story about Claire Scott’s son—what was his name? Daniel, right? But you’re also part of the story now. You understand that, don’t you?”
    “So what does that mean, Laura? You’re going to investigate me? Is that what you brought me here to tell me?”
    The senior editor sat back in her chair, flustered. “Don’t be ridiculous, Nick. We know each other better than that. I just wanted to make damn sure we had this conversation before you read about yourself in the paper.” Daly herself seemed surprised by the harshness of her words, and she took a few seconds before continuing. “You can understand my taking you off the murders, though, can’t you?” she said. “At least for the time being.”
    Nick didn’t respond.
    “If it was baseball season, I’d send you out to the park to cover a few games. Seriously.”
    Nick knew how closely the editor followed the Mariners, but he couldn’t bring himself to return her smile.
    “There’s no reason you can’t work on something else,” Daly said into the awkward silence. “There’s the Hamlin gala tonight, for example. I’m sure you’ve been invited, haven’t you?”
    “It’s too soon,” Nick heard himself say, cutting Daly off.
    “I understand,” Daly said, reminding Nick of the sympathy that Delilah had shown him a few minutes before, on the phone. “These things take time.” When Daly lifted one of her hands, Nick noticed how slack