16.

Late Sunday afternoon, I saw LeMaire, J. on the street. I was walking up to the Pine Tree to get something to eat and he was sitting in a cruiser outside the Federal Bank, waiting as a clerk from LaVerdiere's made a deposit. The deposit escorts were one of the department's services for local business.

"How'd your pictures come out?" I said.

"Don't know," he said. "Might get lucky."

"You have a darkroom down there?"

"Got a room full of sinks. Supposed to make our own pictures, sell them to insurance companies. Accidents and stuff like that. So we go out and buy all this stuff and then the whole thing is forgotten."

"So much for that."

"Big ideas come and go. The rest of the stuff never changes."

The clerk from LaVerdiere's came back and got in her car, a white Volkswagen Rabbit. She waved at LeMaire, J. as she pulled away and he gave his siren a blip.

Service with a smile.

"How's the girl from the accident?" I said, still standing beside the cruiser.

"Gonna make it, I guess. Broken ribs. Something about her spleen. Ruptured. Possible punctured lung. I gotta call again tonight. Still hope the little bastard hangs."

"Before he kills somebody else," I said.

"It was my daughter, they wouldn't have to worry about that," LeMaire, J. said, and he put the cruiser into gear and pulled away.

I kept walking. Even if she lived, it was still page one. I made a note to call the parents for an interview. If they were both in Lewiston at the hospital, would one of them come home? I hated hospital waiting-room interviews, especially over the phone. Every one I'd ever done had left me feeling dirty.

For this, I made twelve bucks an hour.

I went into the Pine Tree and saw the heads turn as I walked to the counter.

"Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated," I murmured to myself, and picked a stool two from the door, four away from the next diner. I turned as I sat down and saw two old women turn in their booth to look me over. I smiled at them and nodded and they turned back, flustered. One came in every week with notes from the Androscoggin Baptist Church Auxiliary. She turned and peeked at me again.

So this was what Pauline and Martin would get. Times a hundred. For the rest of their lives. The lady who took a shot at the fella from the newspaper. What was his name? Almost blew his head off with a shotgun. Martin had an affair-you remember her, Meredith? Well, he did, and the fella wanted to do a story on it and she went over there and tried to kill him. I knew she wasn't right. Sad. You know, I don't think they should have let her out. Put her someplace where they can look after her, poor dear. Get some medication. You know she always was high-strung. Oh, yes. Even when she was at the school. You didn't think so? Oh, I always did. Maybe if I had said something to somebody, it wouldn't have happened. Oh, I know. You mind your own business or you get nothing but trouble. Oh, yes, I've learned my lesson on that score, believe you me.

Jo, the owner, waited on me at the counter. She was fifty and looked sixty, the answer to anybody who thought hard work kept you young.

"What'll it be today?" she said, wiping the counter with a white cloth and dropping a coffee cup in front of me.

"Tuna fish, I guess. Whole wheat and lettuce, and I guess that's it."

"You had some trouble, I hear."

"A little bit."

"Everybody okay?" Jo asked, pouring water in my glass.

"She hurt her arm. Could have been worse. You think I could have that to go? It's later than I thought, and I've got work to do."

"Sure, dear," Jo said. In a minute she came back with a waxed paper bag holding my sandwich on a paper plate.

Heads turned again as I left.

The trials of a celebrity.

I did have work to do, which said something about the relentlessness of this little paper. It didn't stop for my problems. It didn't stop for Arthur's death. It didn't stop for anything. The Review was like a train that always left on time and we were the crew, stoking its fire, taking the tickets, cleaning the bathrooms, and trying to keep it on schedule, and on the track. The same was true for any newspaper, but sometimes this one seemed even more demanding, maybe because there was no other crew to take over.

The crew.

Vern would have to write something about the shooting at my house, I guessed. If we didn't report anything, people would say we covered it up. Maybe something straight for the police log, bare bones from the report. Cover ourselves and nothing more. There was no need to exploit Pauline's mental problems-or was that all there was to it? Jack McMorrow, the great rationalizer. The man of a million excuses, the answer to every ethical question. Like most news people, I did not apply the same standards to my coverage and to myself.

So the pragmatist ate his sandwich at his computer terminal, focusing not on larger issues but on the task at hand, which was to get the editorial page done and out of the way by Monday. That was when the pre-deadline chaos would begin. But if this was not chaos, what was? Did chaos plus chaos equal calm? Screw it. I started typing. And when I felt I'd said everything that needed to be said, I stopped and reread it.

As most of us know, Arthur Bertin drowned last week in a canal near the St. Amand Co. mill.

Some of us saw Bertin pulled from the water by rescue crews. Some of us may still grieve over the death of someone who was such a familiar face at ball games and Grange meetings and school plays, someone who was such a part of the fabric of life in Androscoggin.

And many still may wonder what happened.

This was not a typical drowning, if there is such a thing. Arthur Bertin did not go for a moonlight swim. He did not capsize a canoe in cold waters on a spring fishing trip. Arthur Bertin died in the murky water of a walled canal in a remote and deserted industrial area. The circumstances of his death would lead any sensible person to ask questions. Apparently, the local and state authorities charged with investigating incidents of this type are not sensible people.

What other explanation could there be?

After examining the body, Chief Medical Examiner Dr. Richard Ritano ruled that Bertin's death was an accidental drowning. When pressed by the Review, Ritano himself said there were no discernible signs of foul play. He also said the fact that no one knows why Bertin was in the area isn't enough to rule the death suspicious.

But if these circumstances are not enough to raise the question of foul play, what does it take?

Facts to consider: As of this writing, the Androscoggin Police Department has not interviewed any of Bertin's acquaintances to determine if the victim was despondent or suffering from any other mental condition that might be relevant to his death.

Police did not search the canal or surrounding area to see if any clues to the death could be found.

The autopsy showed the secondary cause of death was hypothermia, indicating Bertin was in the water for some time before he died.

State and local police are responsible for two things in the event of a violent crime: One, they must uphold the rights of the victim by bringing the perpetrator of the deed to justice. Two, they must protect the public by keeping the criminal from repeating his crime.

In this case, local and state authorities have done neither. They have not upheld Bertin's rights. Nor are they protecting the rest of us. A full investigation should begin immediately. The community deserves more from its police and prosecutors than just a rubber stamp.

It was long, but they'd read it.

I pored over it for a few minutes before closing the screen. As I pushed the chair back from the desk, I hoped I was doing the right thing. New York agitator, Vern had said. Maybe I was. And what about New York? If they had pulled Arthur out of the East River, would the investigation have been any more thorough? Would there have been any investigation at all? Would I have cared?

Maybe not, but Androscoggin was different. The numbness that comes from anonymity had not found its way here. People lived in a town like this because they expected to matter to many people. They gave to the community and the community gave back. That was the deal. And in this case the deal had been broken. Arthur had given to the town and the town was not giving back. It was a double cross-welshing on a debt. It wasn't right, and the newspaper was the only institution in this town that would do anything about it. And the newspaper was me.

I opened the screen, read the top few lines, skipped down to the conclusion, and closed the file. And when I did, when the screen went blank, I felt something else.

Fear.

I was crawling out on a limb on this one, way out, farther out than I'd ever gone at the Times or the Courant or the Journal. I was the paper. I was the whole thing. The entire paper was my opinion column, and this opinion was not going to be well received. The day it came out, I would walk down the street. I would walk into the Pine Tree and sit at the counter. I would sit at my desk and answer the telephone. I would sit at home with my name in the phone book. And things had been nuts already. What would the next Pauline Wiggins do? Who would I find in my living room next week?

In New York, the security guards would catch the crazies in the lobby. I was anonymous, a face in a room that couldn't be reached, a gun in a building where nobody knew anybody else.

This was not like that.

I couldn't avoid it forever, and Monday morning, I got it full force.

When I walked in the door, Cindy, Marion, Paul, and even a woman I didn't know, hopefully a paid-up subscriber, crowded around me. Vern watched from his desk, a phone stuck in his ear, the model of discretion.

They wanted details. How many shots were fired? How close did I come to getting hit? Did I have to wrestle with her to get the gun away? Did I break her arm?

I looked at them, at the woman I didn't know, and held my arms out straight.

"It wasn't like that," I said. "She's got some problems, that's all. That's all there is to it. Really. She got upset and it happened and it's too bad. For everybody. But it worked out the best it could, and that's all I can really tell you. You understand, I'm sure."

We understand one thing, their faces said. It was the most excitement around the Review in years, and I was ruining it.

"Well, God, Jack," Cindy said, speaking for the group. "You could have been killed. It's not like this happens every day. You make it sound like, 'Oh, yeah, somebody came over and tried to shoot me. La dee dah dee dum. Pass the potatoes.' I mean, you could've been killed, you know? I mean, it's Pauline. It's not like it's some criminal. So why did she do it? I mean, go over and try to blow you away. It's unreal; I mean, it's just unbelievable."

And wonderful.

Cindy's eyes were glittering. She was energized, as alive as I'd ever seen her. A monotonous life transformed instantly by proximity to near tragedy. Something extraordinary could have happened. It could have happened to this guy she knew. Oh, yeah. She saw him every day. And then bang. Shot dead by somebody else she knew. If this was possible, anything could happen. Cindy could meet some really rich and cute guy and he would think she was great and they would get married with this really ritzy ceremony and move to California or Florida, where the whole town didn't stink like something had spilled in the oven and it was burning. Marion could win the lottery and buy her kids new mobile homes and put in a pool, an in-the-ground pool, none of this above-the-ground junk, and they would get a camper or even a motor home and drive to Alaska. Paul could get into this business where you never have to do anything, once it gets off the ground, but you rake in the dough and you buy a new 'Vette and you never have to kiss ass in this town again. And Vern ... I didn't know about Vern.

"Maybe we ought to give Jack a break," he said. "You know, 'Stand back, give him some air.' Think so, Cindy? Get the dirt later. Let the guy at least take his coat off."

"God, Vern, I was just worried about him," Cindy shot back. "Something wrong with wanting to know what happened? This is a newspaper, you know."

"That's the rumor," Vern said, leaning against the counter, a toothpick in the corner of his mouth.

"Well, I don't care," Cindy said. "Do what you want. I've got work to do."

Then, as she turned and walked back behind the counter, she said, "I don't know where the hell you get off."

I stood there in the middle of the entryway for a second, then sighed and went to my desk. The phone rang. A college kid named Dirk or Bert or something wanted to spend the month of January working with us as part of a journalism course at the University of Maine at Orono.

Do us both a favor and stay home, I thought.

"Call me in a week," I said.

A middle-aged woman came in to put in a classified, apartment for rent. Something about her daughter and her boyfriend. Paul was on the phone, taking some heat about an ad. Vern drifted over.

"How you doing?" he said quietly, sliding his sandbag body onto the edge of my desk.

"Could be better. Could be worse."

"I guess. Missed you, huh?"

"You did?"

"Pauline did," Vern said.

"Had me all choked up there for a minute."

"Sentimental fool," Vern said, and he smiled.

He had his coffee cup resting on his lap. When he lifted it up, it left a dark damp ring on his pants.

"It boggles the mind," he said. "This old lady. She probably never shot a gun. Never did anything violent at all. In her whole life. Then she goes berserk. Nutzo. You know what it shows?"

"What?"

"That people have sides to them that nobody sees. Nobody. I've always said that. You only see what shows on the outside. The tip of the iceberg."

Vern held his forefinger and thumb an inch apart. "The tip," he said. "What pissed her off?"

I hesitated.

"I'll ... I'll tell you later. No, I can tell you."

I lowered my voice.

"You know the picture of Martin? Well, I guess he just went to her and told her all about it. A clean breast of things and all that. I guess she decided it was gonna ruin the guy or something."

"Stuck by her man, huh?"

"And then some. It was kind of noble, really. And sad. Jeez, I still can't believe it happened. Think it'll be in the Sun? God almighty. That's all I need. God, talk about ruining a guy."

"Hey, it's what we do best," Vern said. "But the Sunday people, not from around here, might not have even heard about it."

"About time I got lucky. Hey, you got a second? I'd like you to give something a read for me."

Standing at my desk while I flipped most of the mail in the trash, Vern read the editorial twice.

"Two things," he said.

He flipped the toothpick from the left side of his mouth to the right.

"I'm glad it's you and not me. And I think you're right. No, I really do. He wasn't canoeing down there."

"Nope."

"He had bad circulation. He'd turn blue in a cool breeze. Remember how I tried to get him to do those ice-fishing pics last spring? First time Arthur, meek, mild-mannered Arthur, told me to take a hike."

"Yeah, I remember that. He said he wasn't going to get frostbite for pictures of dead fish."

I smiled.