will."
The Guilty
107
"Important work is silent until it needs to be heard. Keep
that in mind. Other people want this story, too." Then he left.
I turned to Amanda. "Your history professor," I said. "You
think she's still awake?"
18
The headline read, Head Of Franklin-Rees, Now Without
A Head.
Even I was shocked by the tactlessness and audacity of the
Dispatch' s front page. The lead story, naturally, was the murder
of Jeffrey Lourdes, accompanied by a gruesome photo of the
man's legs with blood pooling around them. In Technicolor.
The paper neglected to mention how Jeffrey Lourdes had
revolutionized the magazine industry in the early seventies
with several titles that captured the zeitgeist with aplomb and
erudition, how he'd mentored many of the country's most
talented writers and journalists from scruffy-haired hipsters
to men and women who changed the face of American
culture. Instead the Dispatch focused on rumors of money
laundering, infidelity, drugs and under-the-table deals. It
noted how, over the last decade, Lourdes had been accused
of letting his legacy go to seed, eschewing strong journalism
for salacious stories and shoddy reportage that his younger
self would have thrown in the fire. It also noted how, despite
Lourdes's rumored twenty-million-a-year salary, circulation
for Moss was way down, and the magazine had long ago
ceded any cultural impact.
The Guilty
109
They would have had you believe Lourdes was as dirty as
they come, a common rat working in an ivory tower.
Our article for the Gazette painted a more accurate, more
even picture. Giving Lourdes credit where he deserved it. I
expected the Dispatch to kick our asses at the newsstand.
If I didn't know any better, the Dispatch was suggesting that
the magazine industry was better off with Jeffrey Lourdes dead.
At the same time, I knew I was on to something, that there
was an even bigger story surrounding the deaths of Athena
Paradis, Joe Mauser and Jeffrey Lourdes. I needed to find out
why someone had murdered a famous socialite and a publishing magnate, and tried to assassinate a government official
mere days apart, and why the killer seemed to be using weaponry and ammunition completely impractical for someone who
was smart enough to carry the murders to their grim conclusion.
I'd spent all night poring over the details given by
Lourdes's assistant regarding the gun she saw, the man she
saw wielding it, as well as the info Curt Sheffield gave me
about the ammunition caliber. At eleven-thirty I'd left a
message for Professor Agnes Trimble. I name-dropped
Amanda, her former student, said I needed to talk to her about
an important story. She called me back within fifteen minutes.
"I don't have much of a nightlife," she'd said. If what
Amanda said was true, and she collected firearms, I wasn't
totally surprised. But could a college professor help paint a
clearer picture of a murder suspect?
I squinted as we walked toward the subway. Agnes was expecting us at eight-thirty sharp. Not much of a nightlife, didn't
care much about sleeping in. No wonder Amanda liked her
so much.
"So you're sure Trimble isn't just someone who has a
strange gun fetish," I said. "You really think she can help?"
110
Jason Pinter
"No, I just like spending my free time with old teachers,"
Amanda offered. "Trust me, if this thing has a trigger, she can
help. Not that you learned anything at whatever that school
was."
Guess it was that simple.
We took the 4 train down to West Fourth street and headed
toward the NYU College of Arts and Sciences, located in
downtown Manhattan by Washington Square South.
"You know, I did go to a pretty good college," I said.
"According to who, U.S. News and World Reports? Please.
They know as much about academia as I know about horticulture. Most Ivy Leaguers are the kind of students who work
twenty hours a day to make a three-point-eight, then get hit
by a bus on your first day of work
The Guilty
107
"Important work is silent until it needs to be heard. Keep
that in mind. Other people want this story, too." Then he left.
I turned to Amanda. "Your history professor," I said. "You
think she's still awake?"
18
The headline read, Head Of Franklin-Rees, Now Without
A Head.
Even I was shocked by the tactlessness and audacity of the
Dispatch' s front page. The lead story, naturally, was the murder
of Jeffrey Lourdes, accompanied by a gruesome photo of the
man's legs with blood pooling around them. In Technicolor.
The paper neglected to mention how Jeffrey Lourdes had
revolutionized the magazine industry in the early seventies
with several titles that captured the zeitgeist with aplomb and
erudition, how he'd mentored many of the country's most
talented writers and journalists from scruffy-haired hipsters
to men and women who changed the face of American
culture. Instead the Dispatch focused on rumors of money
laundering, infidelity, drugs and under-the-table deals. It
noted how, over the last decade, Lourdes had been accused
of letting his legacy go to seed, eschewing strong journalism
for salacious stories and shoddy reportage that his younger
self would have thrown in the fire. It also noted how, despite
Lourdes's rumored twenty-million-a-year salary, circulation
for Moss was way down, and the magazine had long ago
ceded any cultural impact.
The Guilty
109
They would have had you believe Lourdes was as dirty as
they come, a common rat working in an ivory tower.
Our article for the Gazette painted a more accurate, more
even picture. Giving Lourdes credit where he deserved it. I
expected the Dispatch to kick our asses at the newsstand.
If I didn't know any better, the Dispatch was suggesting that
the magazine industry was better off with Jeffrey Lourdes dead.
At the same time, I knew I was on to something, that there
was an even bigger story surrounding the deaths of Athena
Paradis, Joe Mauser and Jeffrey Lourdes. I needed to find out
why someone had murdered a famous socialite and a publishing magnate, and tried to assassinate a government official
mere days apart, and why the killer seemed to be using weaponry and ammunition completely impractical for someone who
was smart enough to carry the murders to their grim conclusion.
I'd spent all night poring over the details given by
Lourdes's assistant regarding the gun she saw, the man she
saw wielding it, as well as the info Curt Sheffield gave me
about the ammunition caliber. At eleven-thirty I'd left a
message for Professor Agnes Trimble. I name-dropped
Amanda, her former student, said I needed to talk to her about
an important story. She called me back within fifteen minutes.
"I don't have much of a nightlife," she'd said. If what
Amanda said was true, and she collected firearms, I wasn't
totally surprised. But could a college professor help paint a
clearer picture of a murder suspect?
I squinted as we walked toward the subway. Agnes was expecting us at eight-thirty sharp. Not much of a nightlife, didn't
care much about sleeping in. No wonder Amanda liked her
so much.
"So you're sure Trimble isn't just someone who has a
strange gun fetish," I said. "You really think she can help?"
110
Jason Pinter
"No, I just like spending my free time with old teachers,"
Amanda offered. "Trust me, if this thing has a trigger, she can
help. Not that you learned anything at whatever that school
was."
Guess it was that simple.
We took the 4 train down to West Fourth street and headed
toward the NYU College of Arts and Sciences, located in
downtown Manhattan by Washington Square South.
"You know, I did go to a pretty good college," I said.
"According to who, U.S. News and World Reports? Please.
They know as much about academia as I know about horticulture. Most Ivy Leaguers are the kind of students who work
twenty hours a day to make a three-point-eight, then get hit
by a bus on your first day of work
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