CHAPTER FOUR

LEGACIES

IF IT BLEEDS, IT LEADS: TARNISHING A HEROIC LEGACY

-Carl Kolchak, INDEPENDENT NEWS SERVICE

Today, for the first time in my life, I was ashamed to be a reporter.

I have always been proud of my profession. I came up as a cub reporter during the early 1950's, when Senator Joseph McCarthy used the public's fear of Communism as a stepping stone to personal power. I remember the pervasive atmosphere of fear in the newsroom, men of integrity not daring to speak up lest they be branded "Communists" by McCarthy and his cronies. I remember the feeling of dread certainty that, after Eisenhower's second term ended, this monster would become our next President.

I remember how proud I was the day the press finally stepped up to its duty, and stopped McCarthy in his tracks.

On March 9, 1954, Edward R. Murrow showcased the potential of the television news media when he aired a piece on Senator McCarthy "told mainly in (McCarthy's) own words and pictures." Though controversial, Murrow's program brought home to the American public for the first time just how unfounded McCarthy's charges really were. "This is not time for men who oppose Senator McCarthy's methods to keep silent," Murrow proclaimed, a rallying cry that was the beginning of the end for the Senator, whose career ended in public censure later that same year.

From that day, I was proud to announce to the world that I was a reporter. I was proud when the press publicized the violent struggle for Civil Rights in the South. I was proud when the press reported on the endless debacle that was this country's involvement in the Vietnam War. And I was positively jubilant when President Richard Nixon resigned on August 8 of last year, under a dark cloud of scandal made public by Washington Post reporters Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein. In a country with a free press, even the most powerful man in the world can be held to account!

A proud, heroic legacy. Today, before my very eyes, that legacy was tarnished.

At a press conference at the Highwater Medical and Scientific Research Center in London, England, Dr. Arthur Philip Lloyd shot himself through the head in front of a crowd of reporters. This was a tragedy, a tragedy that was only compounded by the reaction of the assembled journalists. The "gentlemen of the press" proved to be anything but - and the gentlewomen were every bit as bad.

The newspaper and magazine reporters were bad enough. Charging in on the corpse, their cameras blazing like machine guns, their flashbulbs popping like fireworks on the Fourth of July, it was clear that these men and women were not shocked or horrified; they were overjoyed.

More disgusting still was the conduct of the television press. One Jane Greer of ITV, a popular commercial television station in Great Britain, was standing near Dr. Lloyd when he shot himself. Young Miss Greer was liberally splashed with the dead man's blood.

You might expect such a delicate young lady to scream, or faint. You would, at the very least, expect that she would clean the blood from her face as quickly as possible.

You would be wrong.

The attached photographs show that Miss Greer specifically chose not to clean herself. The dead man's blood, decorating her face and her clothes, became no more than props for Miss Greer to enhance the dramatic effect of her telecast, which I will not dignify with the term "journalism." Her cameraman was overheard in the crowd bragging to all who would listen that he got "the money shot" - the money shot here referring to the moment when Dr. Lloyd pulled the trigger. I sincerely hope that ITV's news editors have enough common decency not to air this footage. Based on what I saw today, however, I am not optimistic.

The sins of the press do not end with mere opportunism, however. In a live report that went out less than an hour after the suicide, Jane Greer crossed the line from mere sensationalism into slander. In this report, she indicated that Dr. Lloyd had been a drug addict, and cited "unnamed sources" to back up her claim. What sources might these be? I was at the same conference, and I did not observe Miss Greer in conversation with anyone associated with the Scientific Center. The only "unnamed source" I could find was a conversation recorded in the crowd between a reporter and a member of Miss Greer's crew. The crew member asked if the reporter thought Dr. Lloyd had been on drugs. "Must've been," the other man replied.

Such a conversation does not represent a source. It is speculation, groundless speculation, that is already being used to ruin the reputation of a man no longer able to defend himself.

The facts of the case are these. Fact: Dr. Lloyd committed suicide. We do not yet know why; we may never know why. Fact: Dr. Lloyd's autopsy results are not in yet, and will not be in until tomorrow. Until those results are in, we have no idea whether he was on every drug known to man, or whether his system is as pure as the New Hampshire snow.

And the final, most important fact. In its zeal for sensationalism, the press of the free world today surrendered its honor. Utpon Sinclair, H. L. Mencken, Edward R. Murrow, Walter Cronkite, Carl Bernstein, and Bob Woodward - these men, and those like them, forged a heroic legacy. A legacy to which the mob I witnessed today simply have no claim.

I pray that today's hysteria was just an anomaly, and that I may be proud to be a reporter again someday.

PROMINENT SCIENTIST KILLS SELF AT PRESS CONFERENCE

The Facts of the Case, and Nothing but the Facts

-Carl Kolchak, INDEPENDENT NEWS SERVICE

Dr. Arthur Philip Lloyd, 47, shocked a large assembly of reporters and scientists when he committed suicide directly in front of the crowd, at the very time he was scheduled to deliver an address for a press conference.

Dr. Lloyd's address, and the following press conference, was to open a 3-day scientific conference at the Highwater Medical and Scientific Research Center in London, England. The speech was to be delivered at 9 A. M. on August 11. A few minutes after nine, Lloyd appeared in the conference hall holding a gun of unspecified make and model. He appeared to be in a state of confusion, saying repeatedly that he was "Sorry" and "Didn't know," though he made no indication of what it was he did not know.

Dr. John Smith, a scientist attached to the United Nations, was also attending the conference and made a strong effort to talk Lloyd out of his actions. Ultimately, despite Smiths' brave efforts, Dr. Lloyd aimed the gun at his own head and pulled the trigger. From all appearances, his death was instantaneous.

Exact reasons for Lloyd's suicide remain unknown. Though certain members of other press agencies have speculated about drug use, as of this writing such claims remain exactly that: speculation, with no evidence behind them. The autopsy was scheduled for the evening of August 11. Results should be made public sometime tomorrow.

FROM THE DIARY OF CARL KOLCHAK

August 11, 5:48 P. M. After I extracted myself from the UNIT men and left the Scientific Centre, I spent the bulk of the afternoon developing my pictures and typing up my two stories, one a brief news story and the other a long opinion piece. I wired the stories, along with the selected photographs, direct to Tony.

As the adrenaline rush of the morning wore off, I found myself less and less confident about my approach to the story. I had never been much of an opinion columnist, and I wasn't entirely sure how Tony would react to a long rant about the state of modern journalism. I was definitely taking a chance. But, as Geoff had said, it wasn't like there was much mystery about how every other paper would be treating this story.

Less than half an hour after I wired the story, Tony called back. Unusually for him, he didn't even call collect. There was unusual sound in his voice, and at first I wondered if he was coming down with a cold. Then I realized what I was hearing: Tony was actually pleased.

Tony Vincenzo happy is as incongruous as a ferocious tiger wearing a paper party hat and a rubber clown nose. I was glad I only had to hear him - I can only imagine how bizarre the smile on his face must have looked.

It was like I had stepped into a parallel world. Tony loved my column, everything about it. He loved the time I spent on great moments in journalism, and he loved my rant against sensationalism. He really loved the idea of sticking it to the TV crowd. By the end of the conversation, he was talking about transforming this one column into a weekly series on gutter journalism. I cringed at the suggestion, but did my best to sound enthusiastic.

By the time he finally hung up (another good half-hour later), I knew two things. One: I'll take an angry Tony Vincenzo over a happy one any day of the week. And Two: I desperately needed a drink.

Carl headed straight for the hotel bar and ordered a Scotch on the rocks. He was just about to ask the bartender if London bars had peanuts when a familiar voice piped up behind him.

"Carl! Come share a drink with a fellow dinosaur, mate!"

Carl grinned, and happily took his drink to the table where Geoff Mackenzie sat, drinking heartily from a tall vodka martini.

"Hell of a day, eh?" Geoff greeted him. "Get your story in?"

"Oh, yeah. Just got off the phone with my editor. That's why I came down for this." Carl indicated his Scotch.

Geoff chuckled. "Editors'll do that to you, all right. My paper's got a fuckin' woman editor, if you can believe it. Nice-lookin' girl too. The kind of gal you'd try to scoop up at a single's bar. But she's got brass ones down here. You believe she chewed me out for not having an original angle? Now I ask you, mate. What the fuck kind of angle are you supposed to have on a guy blowin' his brains all over the fuckin' floor?"

Carl took a big sip of his Scotch, and discreetly changed the subject.

He and Geoff sat there for a few more hours, and several more drinks, talking about all kinds of subjects. They both sneered and spat on the television journalists, though Geoff continued to insist that TV was the future. They talked about Vietnam, where Geoff had done a stint as a war correspondent. They talked about Korea, where both men had served their countries and lost their innocence. And, after enough liquor had gone under the bridge, they talked about their private lives.

"Two exes," Geoff said. "Two exes and five kids, and they slurp down every penny I make between 'em. You married, Carl?"

"Who, me?" Carl shook his head. "Came close once, a few years ago in Vegas."

"She walk out? Whine about you spendin' too much time chasing stories instead of chasin' her?"

Carl shook his head. "No, no. We had a sort of an agreement. She didn't complain about my hours, and I didn't complain about her work."

"Her work?"

"She was a hostess, at a Vegas casino. Gail Foster." Carl stared forward a moment. That was a name he hadn't thought about in a while. "Beautiful girl. Blond hair that was practically golden, and it smelled like... like flowers and honey."

"And what was a girl like that doin' with a mangy old dinosaur like you, mate?"

Carl laughed, shook his head. "I never really knew. She loved animals, and her apartment building was strictly no pets. I think she may have just been taking in a stray."

"So what happened?"

Carl shrugged. "Vegas. Just... Vegas." Carl didn't really want to pursue this subject further, so he changed it to one he was more comfortable with. "Those soldiers that came by the Centre. UNIT, you said."

"Yeah, bloody UNIT."

"Who are they? I mean, I consider myself reasonably well-informed. But I never heard of them."

"United Nations," Geoff said, flagging down a waitress and ordering yet another vodka martini-- "and no bloody ice in it this time." Then turned back to Carl. "United Nations Intelligence Task Force."

"Intelligence?"

"Yeah, but don't go creamin' yourself over that word. UNIT ain't about Checkpoint Charlie, the Iron Curtain, or the fuckin' Russkies. They'll pop up those places now and then, but that's not the real story on 'em." Geoff leaned forward. "Tell me, mate. Do you believe in weird shit?"

Carl felt a familiar chill crawling up his spine. "What do you mean by weird? The supernatural?"

"I mean what I say. Weird shit. Things most people would laugh at you, or lock you up, or both for sayin' you believed in."

Carl traced his finger along the edge of his glass. "I have seen things," he said. "Things I was never able to print, stories I was never able to tell. And not just once or twice, but a lot of times."

Geoff nodded. "Me too. First time I saw something was in Da Nang, '67. The locals said the dead walked. I laughed at 'em for bein' superstitious morons. Then I saw a whole platoon get cut up. And the guys who attacked 'em, they got shot. Over and over. And kept right on coming. The soldiers who survived got reassigned, and the pictures I took of the battle... well let's just say they got 'disappeared.' And the funny thing? After that, after never having seen any weird shit before in my life, I started to see it all the time. Everywhere."

"You know what I think?" Carl said. "I think we saw it before that first time. Me before Vegas, you before 'Nam. I think it was always there. We just didn't register it, because our noses hadn't been rubbed in it 'til we couldn't deny it anymore. I know in Vegas, I had to have my face shoved right in it about three different times before I admitted it to myself. But then, once you see it--once you really see it, and admit it's there--you can't go blind again. And the things you conveniently blotted out before, you suddenly see standing there in Technicolor."

"You hit it right on the head, mate," Geoff said, taking another big slurp of martini. "And that's UNIT. Standing toe-to-toe with the weird shit, in full fuckin' Technicolor glory. You follow them close, and you'll see. They go where the weird shit is. And they usually leave a trail of corpses behind 'em."

Carl took a long sip of his Scotch, turning Geoff's words over in his mind. "That suicide this morning. You have to admit, it was weird. And those soldiers showing up right afterwards? Sealing up a Research and Development institute like it was Fort Knox. Pretty damn weird."

"Oh, mate. Don't be getting' that gleam in your eye," Geoff said. "You just listen to Uncle Geoff's advice and forget it. No one ever gets a good story outta UNIT. A guy from New Zealand about five years ago, word is he tried to run a story on UNIT. A big expose, carefully fact-checked and everything."

"What happened to him?"

Geoff grinned, fished an olive out of his martini with a toothpick. "This." He took the olive between his teeth, chomped down hard, and swallowed it. Then he held up the toothpick, right in Carl's direct line of vision. And he snapped the toothpick in two and let the pieces drop onto the table.

As dusk fell over London, a man shuffled along the streets near Victoria Station. His jerky movements and unfocused, vaguely wild expression were those of a drugged-out dropout. Of which there were no lack, in the streets of London.

But his clothes belied his movements. The clothes were tailored. Expensive. His watch was a gold Rolex. And yet he continued to walk in fits and starts, moving like a marionette along the stage of the darkening sidewalks.

He took no notice of the people around him. They were a blur. The sights, the sounds, the cars that passed. It was all out of focus, not quite real. The only real things in his world now were the voice in his head, and the music. And right now, the voice was withholding the music, demanding that he listen.

We have to hide, the voice insisted. Dangerous to stay out in the open right now. Dangerous to let anyone see us.

If asked what his name was, the man could not have said. His name, his past, his family... they were there somewhere, a distant blur just outside the edge of his consciousness. But those details didn't seem important now. The important thing was the music, so vivid and haunting and tangible. He would do anything to be allowed to hear it once more.

And right now, the voice was telling him that he could not hear it until he found a place to hide. But where?

Words on a sign over a cottage. "Bed & Breakfast." Words that had meaning. What was the meaning?

Refuge.

He didn't so much walk to the door as fall against it. The voice told him to assume control of himself. He had to seem... what was the word? Respectable.

Just enough of the world came into focus for him to draw himself up and ring the doorbell.

The woman who answered asked if he was looking for a room.

"Yes." The voice supplied the words; all he had to do was speak them. "Room for the night. I didn't make a reservation, I'm afraid. But I do have cash."

The voice told him to show the cash in his billfold. The woman smiled, opened the door. She said they had a few rooms free, chattered something about the time of year. The voice told him to nod politely. She asked his name. The voice supplied one.

"Jones. Franklin Jones."

A few more formalities. He had to sign in a book. Something about luggage; no, he didn't have any.

"Car broke down, couldn't make it home." The voice supplied the excuse. "Just need a place for one night, I'll be leaving early tomorrow."

He handed the cash to the woman. More chatter. No, he wouldn't require a meal. He was tired, and just wanted to lie down and sleep undisturbed.

A girl came, led him to the room. Yet more chatter. Noise. He filtered it out, ignored it. Closed the door, locked it.

And then he was alone. Then he was safe.

The voice told him he could have the music back, now. He removed the crystal from his pocket--the crystal that spoke to him, the crystal that sang to him. He sat on the bed, and set the crystal carefully on the bureau.

He leaned in, his head so close that it was almost touching the crystal. And he listened to the music.