“I’d think you’d want to clean house.”
“Oh, right. Like cops want to. Like doctors want to.”
“You’re not the same thing, Bruce.”
“Let me give you a scenario, Myron, okay?” Bruce finished up his drink, and now he pointed to his glass for a refill. “You’re an editor with, say, The New York Times. A story is written for you. You print it. Now it’s brought to your attention that the story was fabricated or plagiarized or maybe just totally inaccurate, whatever. What do you do?”
“Retract it,” Myron said.
“But you’re the editor. You’re the dumbass responsible for its publication. You’re probably the dumbass who hired the writer in the first place. Who do you think the higher-ups are going to blame? And do you think the higher-ups are going to be happy to hear that their paper printed something false? You think the Times wants to lose business to the Herald or the Post or whatever? And hell, the other papers don’t even want to hear about it. The public already doesn’t trust us as an institution, right? If the truth gets out, who gets hurt? Answer: everyone.”
“So you quietly fire the guy,” Myron said.
“Maybe. But, again, you’re this editor for The New York Times. You fire, say, a columnist. Don’t you think a higher-up is going to want to know why?”
“So you just let it go?”
“We’re like the church used to be with pedophiles. We try to control the problem without hurting ourselves. We transfer the guy to another department. We pass the problem to someone else. Maybe we team him up with another writer. Harder to make shit up with someone looking over your shoulder.”
Myron took a sip of his club soda. Flat. “Okay, let me ask the obvious question then. How did Stan Gibbs get caught?”
“He was dumb, dumber, and dumbest. It was too high profile a piece to plagiarize like that. Not only that, but Stan rubbed the feds’ face in a public crapper and flushed. You don’t do that if you don’t have the facts, especially to the feds. My guess is he thought he was safe because the novel had a negligible print run from some shitass vanity press in Oregon. I don’t think they published more than five hundred copies of the thing, and that was more than twenty years ago. And the author was long dead.”
“But someone dug it up.”
“Yup.”
Myron thought about it. “Strange, don’t you think?”
“Most of the time I’d say yes, but not when it’s this high-profile. And once the truth was uncovered, boom, Stan was done. Every media outlet got an anonymous press release about it. The feds held a press conference. I mean, there was almost a campaign against him. Someone—probably the feds—were out for their pound of flesh. And they got it.”
“So maybe the feds were so pissed they set him up.”
“How do you figure?” Bruce countered. “The novel exists. The passages Stan copied exist. There is no way around that.”
Myron mulled that one over, looking for a way around it. Nothing came to him. “Did Stan Gibbs ever defend himself?”
“He never commented.”
“Why not?”
“The guy’s a reporter. He knew better. Look, stories like these become the worst kind of brushfire. Only way to get the fire out is to stop feeding the flame. No matter how bad, if there’s nothing new to report—nothing new to feed the flame—it dies out. People always make the mistake of thinking they can douse the flame with their words, that they’re so smart, their explanations will work like water or something. It’s always a mistake to talk to the press. Everything—even wonderfully worded denials—feed the flames and keep it stoked.”
“But doesn’t silence make you look guilty?”
“He is guilty, Myron. Stan could only get himself in more trouble by talking. And if he hung around and tried to defend himself, someone would dig into his past too. Mainly his old columns. All of them. Every fact, every quote, everything. And if you’ve plagiarized one story, you’ve plagiarized others. You don’t do it for the first time when you’re Stan’s age.”
“So you think he was trying to minimize the damage?”
Bruce smiled, took a sip. “That Duke education,” he said. “It wasn’t wasted on you.” He grabbed more pretzels. “Mind if I order a sandwich?”
“Suit yourself.”
“It’ll be worth it,” Bruce said with a suddenly big smile. “Because I haven’t yet mentioned the last little tidbit that convinced him to keep quiet.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s big, Myron.” The smile slid off his face. “Very big.”
“Fine, order fries too.”
“I don’t want this to become public knowledge, you understand?”
“Come on, Bruce. What?”
Bruce turned back to the bar. He picked up a cocktail napkin and tore it in half. “You know the feds took Stan to court to find his sources.”
“Yes.”
“The court documents were kept sealed, but there was a bit of nastiness. See, they wanted Stan to provide some sort of corroboration. Something to show he didn’t totally make the story up. He wouldn’t offer any. For a while he claimed that only the families could back him and he wouldn’t give them up. But the judge pressed. He finally admitted that there was one other person who could back his story.”
“Back up his made-up story?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“His mistress,” Bruce said.
“Stan was married?”
“Guess the word ‘mistress’ gave it away,” Bruce said. “Anyway, he was. Still is, technically, but now they’re separated. Naturally Stan was hesitant about naming her—he loved his wife, had two kids, the backyard, whatever—but in the end he gave the judge her name under the condition that it stay sealed.”
“Did the mistress back him?”
“Yes. This mistress—one Melina Garston—claimed to have been with him when he met the Sow the Seeds psycho.”
Myron’s brow creased. “Why does that name ring a bell?”
“Because Melina Garston is dead now. Tied and tortured and you don’t want to know what.”
“When?”
“Three months ago. Right after the shit hit Stan’s fan. Worse, the police think Stan did it.”