# 11 - Chapter Eleven "It Hurts to Say Goodbye"

It Hurts to Say Goodbye 

Chapter Eleven 

Rob Wong realized he had committed a serious career mistake: He agreed to switch his beat at The Philadelphia Inquirer to a relatively new section that made him think of happy news filler copy. 

For the past three years, he had covered business stories, in particular the energy and chemical industries. But when the Editor-in-Chief, Morrie Robbins, called him to his office and asked him if he wanted to take on a new, exciting challenge and help the suffering newspaper at the same time, it was tough to say no.

Like most print media, The Inquirer’s circulation and ad revenue were in a downward spiral. The paper’s leaders believed one way to increase readership and revenue could be by stressing positive news, as Robbins, put it, “Acts of charity and heroism by regular people, your neighbors and mine.” The section was called The Upside. 

When Rob very politely interjected that, “We all know that the best stories are the ones that bleed,” Robbins countered, “We all know that’s a cliché.” That was when Rob didn’t dare get into a back-and-forth disagreement; he admitted to himself that it was good to have a job. 

Rob agreed to give it a try. 

Maybe, he thought, an entirely new approach might be fun. And he might meet an entirely new group of sources for stories. Writing about business, Rob admitted that most of his contacts were older PR guys who only wanted puff pieces about their companies. His new contacts might even include young women, a group he desperately wanted to get closer to. 

Rob Wong had started his new assignment about a year ago with the best of intentions. Yes, Rob admitted, most of the stories were important for the city. Like Philadelphia notables making contributions to worthwhile causes, programs to help feed the needy and find lodging for the homeless, young entrepreneurs succeeding with new ventures, and family members being reunited after years-long absences.

Some of the Upside stories were fun, and he didn’t suffer from frequent deadline pressure, so common in business stories with breaking news and huge dollar amounts. 

But the excitement was missing. 

So, the day an old contact telephoned him, Rob was ready to listen. The contact’s name was Elliott Siegel, the former PR guy from the Belgian chemical company, Zout Chem International.

Siegel related he had information about something illegal affecting Philadelphia’s culture scene, but he couldn’t say more on the telephone. They agreed to meet at the café La Colombe, almost across Walnut Street from Rittenhouse Square that afternoon at three.

Rob Wong remembered Siegel as too honest for PR.  Wong thought back about the public relations types he used to deal with, and his general conclusion was that they were puppets whose strings were being pulled by their companies’ top executives. Of course, they stressed the positive and never introduced the negative. PR types were only useful for companies if they could get reporters to write stories that boosted share prices or attracted customers. There were rules, but some PR types were capable of direct lying if they believed they had to. 

Even though Wong had already set up the meeting, he told the City Editor, Del Wynn, about his tip, and Wynn agreed that Wong could go through with the meeting, but if a story ever developed, there’d be a stringent approval process – definitely involving the newspaper’s legal department – before it’d ever see the light of day.  

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The noise level hit high decibels. La Colombe was a hangout for artists, art students, and people who liked associating with the art world. The place had a fun vibe, and it was packed with mainly young people chatting, laughing and sipping coffee at the small tables so closely packed that sharing secrets was out of the question. 

Siegel suggested that they get their coffee to go, and then find a discreet bench in the nearby Rittenhouse Square. 

The popular square in the heart of Center City Philadelphia was filled with strollers enjoying the early summer day – tourists discovering the city, office workers escaping their desks to take advantage of the stunning afternoon, young mothers promenading their young children, and the elderly reading in the sunlight. A light breeze shifted the trees’ branches loaded with pink and white blossoms. 

Wong spotted a free bench on the east side of the square, and he hot-footed over to seize the prize before someone else grabbed it. 

Both men sat and looked at each other. They both took long sips of their coffees to fill the void.

Then, Wong said: “Well, here we are. It’s been a long time. I’m still at The Inquirer. I been changing beats a little, but I’m still a journalist.”

Siegel said, “Look’t, it’s good to see you. Really, I don’t keep track of time too well, but it’s been, I don’t know, more than a year since we talked. It was good to find out that you’re still at The Inquirer. Whatta you covering now?” 

“Frankly, my official beat is this new section, I don’t know if you read the paper all the time, but it’s called The Upside. It’s supposed to be positive stuff, like we’re trying to say that all news doesn’t have to be glum, you know, not all tragedy. Anyway, I told my bosses that I’d give it a try. It’s fun, and all that, but it’s not really exciting. So, when you called . . .”

“Yeah, I called you.” Siegel took another sip of coffee. He hadn’t decided how to make his pitch, so he decided to stall. “Well, you know, I was a director, a big deal, and I was irreplaceable. Well, wasn’t totally true. Zout Chem reorganized. They moved the corporate headquarter to Connecticut. Long story short, I was offered early retirement, and I took it.” 

Siegel paused. He knew he had to get to the point. “Okay, I guess it’s my turn. But first, I gotta tell you, this just might be a big story. I don’t know, I never been a reporter. So, there’s one thing I wanna avoid. I don’t want my name mentioned. I wanna be a confidential source. But I’ll give you enough specific info that you can really follow up on. Can you do that? If you can, I’ll just spill the beans, and I’ll help you as much as I can.” 

Wong stopped. He put his right hand on his chin and thought. “So, you want me to be the only person who knows your name, is that it? That means I can’t tell my bosses your name?” 

“Yeah, yeah, that’s right.” Siegel said. “Look, I don’t want this to be like a standoff. Look’it, I’ll tell you what it’s about. If you’re convinced it’s worth pursuing, without using my name, I’ll help you as much as I can. If it’s not worth it, just forget it and never mention it again. I’m gambling. I’m trusting you.” 

Wong stared directly at Siegel: “Okay, you can trust me.” 

Siegel said, “Okay, I’ll give it a try. This is it. A friend of mine was murdered, body discovered in Fairmount Park, really terrible. She was a real good friend, a wonderful person. When the police told me about it, I guess you might know they’re not exactly gentle, and it hit me, it was like getting hit in the gut, a real ugly time. Now, some people are telling me the cops are trying to pin the whole thing on me.”

“Man, I’m sorry.” Wong paused. “I’m not just saying that. I mean it. But what can you tell me?”

Wong could see Siegel was concentrating; he squinted, his jaw locked tight. 

Siegel knew it was a gamble. He looked at Wong and tried to remember the past, the times he wanted Wong to understand what was going on in the chemical industry without being cited as the source. Yeah, Wong kept his world. 

Siegel started talking. “Okay, if we agree, I can tell you my friend’s name, the date the cops believe she was killed, and the names of the two cops investigating the case. And, I don’t know if this’s helpful, but – except for a few people that knew her and the detectives talked to – no one seems to know about it. It was never announced, and it was never in your paper, and it wasn’t on TV. It’s like they’re trying to hide it. Anyway, if we agree, I could give you the names of some of the people that knew her. 

“But for the rest of it, I don’t know. I’m not the reporter, I just don’t know how your job works.” 

Wong said, “I’ll tell ya, and it’s never simple. There’s a press center at the police headquarters. It’s on the third floor at the big castle up on Race Street. There’s supposed to be a log that the cops keep, but I don’t know if they enter everything. And there’re press people, and they’re supposed to help. And then, there’re these websites, but I don’t think they can announce cases unless they come first from the log. 

“But when it comes right down to it, I’d have to just throw myself into it. Just dig like hell, and tell them I know this and that, and tell them I could print this and that. Like everything, it’s a crazy game.”

“So, we’re back to the question,” Siegel said. “If I give you the details, will you promise that my name stays with you?”

His hand back on his chin, Wong thought for a quick three seconds. Then, he thought about the stage of his journalistic career, and the words came: “Yes, I agree.”

Both men looked at each other. 

Siegel began speaking. “Okay, now this is it. It’s up to me, huh? The name of the victim . . .  Sounds impersonal, doesn’t it? The name of the victim is Faith Gruen. The cops are going on the theory that she was killed on May 13th, but I think that’s some kind of an estimate. 

“And the two cops investigating, and they’re detectives working out of the 6th District, they’re . . . Well, the boss, a lieutenant, is Douglas Boswell. And I gotta tell you, I wouldn’t trust him. And the other one, he’s a sergeant, and his name is Eddie Buckley, a black guy, and I bet he’s more down to earth and smarter than his boss. And the two of them don’t get along very well.

“This all has to do with poetry. You wouldn’t believe it, but there’re all these poetry clubs in Philly, and in all kinds of other cities. People that love poetry and write poems, well, they get together and recite their poems. There’s one group, it’s called ‘Wonder Words,’ and the leader of it is a guy named Bruce Moore.”

Wong stopped. “One question: why you trying to bring it all out into the open?” 

Siegel said, “If it goes public, there’s less chance they can trap me. They’ll have to follow all the procedures, the charges, the DA, the court system, all that. And this is important to me. It means I’m standing up to them; I’m not letting them push me around. Really.”

“Well,” said Wong, “good luck to both of us.”

The two men shook hands. 

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Editor-in-Chief Robbins pushed his chair back from his desk and closed his eyes. Then, he let the chair bounce him back to his desk, and he looked at Wong and City Editor Del Wynn, sitting across from him. “Let me warn you guys,” Robbins said, “my approach may not please you, but it’s the approach I have to take.” 

He paused to let his subordinates understand. “First of all, I seen a lot of stories, stories everyone thought would be big scoops, and they just fizzled out. Every one thought they’d rock the city, but the facts weren’t there, or someone drew some wrong conclusion, whatever. But if this’s a real good story, if it’s true, I have to consider how it could help The Inquirer, and we all know we need help, and how it could do some good for our dear Philly. So, it’s up to you, convince me!” 

All eyes turned to Rob Wong. “There’s this guy I used to know when I was in the business department. I trusted him. And I’ll be upfront about it. He said he wants to be a confidential source, and I agreed. I had to agree, or he wouldn’t tell me anything.” 

Wong stopped and looked from the City Editor to the Editor-in-Chief. No one spoke, so he continued. “He told me that he was visited by two Philly police detectives, they told him a young woman was murdered, and her body was discovered in Fairmount Park. I don’t know anything about their relationship, but he told me they were good friends, and he was, of course, all broken up.

“But there’re two strange things,” he continued. “One of them is that her death wasn’t announced by the cops, not on their log or on any of the websites that report police stuff. Just strange, because when a young woman is killed, her body found, that’s news, and the cops look like they’re trying to hide it. I mean, and this sounds terrible, but she’s not a homeless person, not the kind of person that turns up dead. And the other thing is this: he thinks, and friends told him, the cops are trying to frame him. 

“So, I don’t know. It seems kinda strange.” Wong moved forward to the edge of his chair. “Maybe I’m thinking things that just aren’t there, but it smells. It smells and I’d like to see what I can turn up. There has to be more there. I don’t know, there has to be more, something else.”

Robbins wanted the full attention of the two men in front of him, so he waited for a long five seconds. Then he spoke, “Okay, let me tell you, some big stories started out with less than that. Some of them turned out to be wild-goose chases, and we, the paper, we wasted some time and some money. But, you know something? In some cases, we, the struggling Inquirer, we won some Pulitzers and did some good. So, I’m not against our paper looking into this.” 

Robbins paused again. “So, Rob, let me ask you some questions. As far as I know, you were a good, maybe a very good business reporter. And then you agreed to join The Upside staff, and you did some good stuff there, and I appreciate that. But have you ever been an investigative reporter? You got any sources inside the Police Department? You done any criminal stories?” 

Wong knew he had to be honest. “No, I gotta admit. All that, it’d all be new to me. But I’d work like hell on the story, and I’m sure I’d learn a lot. I just think . . .”

Robbins cut him off. “Rob, I’m sure you’d try like hell, and I’m sure you’d learn a lot. But if this is a big story, we need some experience, we need someone with inside sources, we need . . . ”

Rob felt his stomach tighten and a hot chill along his spine. He could see it coming, he understood. They’re gonna steal my story. I come up with something, and they steal it, they push me aside. Maybe it makes sense. He had to admit it. “No, sir, this would be new to me,” he admitted. “I don’t have any inside police sources. I don’t have a record of crime stories. All I got is a ton of drive and energy, my smarts and a very good nose.”

Something happened: A smile broke out on Robbins’ face. “Okay, I got a few more questions: Would you work with someone, a more experienced hand, someone with a gang-busters track record, but work as true partners? Would you share a byline? You know any story has to go through a lot of hoops, confirmations, legal, et cetera, but my door would always be open to you.”

A smile broke out on Rob Wong’s face. “Yes, sir, I would. All my answers, they’re yes.” 

Robbins picked up his phone’s handset and dialed an extension. “Roberta, Can you get here, in my office, in under one minute?”

Seconds later, the door opened just a crack, and a face peaked in. It was the slightly roundish face of a middle-aged woman, short, chestnut hair, mascara and lipstick, but no other makeup. She pushed the door open, and stood up. She was a bit chubby,  and a bit short, maybe five-five. She wore a light gray turtleneck and dark gray pants.

Robbins announced: “Rob, I’d like to introduce you to Roberta Sessions.”

Rob Wong stood. As he extended his hand to shake hers, he noticed that she was only a hair shorter than he was, and she had intense, dark eyes. 

She looked directly at him. “Rob, I think we’ll do okay.”  

The two reporters shook hands.