Daily News had been wakened in the small hours by the ringing of his bedside phone. The night editor was terse; Baby-face and the old hand both shot dead, reports of their killer’s suicide to be confirmed shortly, the killer a Commission employee but no name as yet. The local paper had their man at the scene. Daily News were promised an exclusive.
“I’m on my way, Phil,” he said. “Can you get me the next of kin contact details? If they are local, I’ll see them personally,” he reached to switch on the lamp, then got out of bed, hearing his wife ask, “will I make you some tea, dear?” Fifteen minutes later he was driving down a suburban avenue that led to the main road.
Despite the early hour, the office building was charged with energy and newsroom and publishing night staff were setting up a revised edition. A beat crime reporter had been despatched north, and the chief copy editor was already at his desk reviewing updates flowing from the newsroom.
Nic ignored the elevator and took the main stairway, choosing to walk a little way along each floor to gauge the mood. For once, the cynicism of hardened newsroom journalists was silenced by emotion. Baby-face had been an upcoming youngster, the photographer a survivor of conflict and upheaval on every continent. Dangers of their profession were associated with foreign assignments, not with home desks. In addition to the feeling of vulnerability, there was a palpable sense of shock.
Later that morning, Nic also received from Assistant Undersecretary his summons to a confidential evening meeting.