'So why didn't you go through with it?' I asked.
'Oh Lord, where to begin,' Largo said, kicking away a cat who'd begun scratching at the couch. 'First off, Billy
Bonney's alleged grave site has been robbed so many times that nobody knows for sure just who's buried under that tombstone. Plus the man who bought Catherine Antrim's cemetery plot in Silver City claims he moved the headstone years ago and isn't a hundred-percent sure just where Antrim's body is actually buried. He said he'd die and come back as Christ himself before we marched in there and accidentally dug up somebody's poor dead grandmother.
'It didn't matter, though,' Vance continued. 'The fact is if the government wanted to conduct the tests, they would have bent over backward to do so. When it comes to proving a live man's guilt or innocence, there's no limit to what our government will do. But when it comes to proving the life and death of one of the biggest legends in human history, and in the process possibly destroying one of the most enduring American myths of all time, well, they'd rather discredit an honest old man, call him a loon, get his tenure revoked and make him live out his days miles from where he might crack their wall of lies.
'The truth is Pat Garrett did not kill Billy the Kid. William
H. Bonney died under the assumed name of Oliver P. Roberts, in Hamilton, Texas.'
'What makes you so sure?'
'Let me give you an example of the idiocy-or just plain ignorance-of those wishing to protect the legacy. As I was trying to have the bodies exhumed, both the mayor of Fort
Sumner and the governor of Texas claimed that Brushy Bill and William H. Bonney could not be one and the same person, for the following reason. When Ollie Roberts died, it was a well-known fact that he was right-handed. The most famous photo of Billy the Kid depicts him holding his beloved Winchester 1873 model in his right hand, with his single action
Colt revolver in a holster by his left hip. By this photo you would deduce that Bonney was, in fact, left- handed.'
'So they claimed that Bonney was left-handed but Brushy
Bill was right-handed.'
'That was their claim.' Largo stood up and pulled a book off his shelf. He flipped to a page on which there were two photographs. Both depicted the famous photo of Billy the
Kid, standing slightly awkwardly, holding his Winchester rifle, a mischievous grin on his face.
'If you look at this picture, the Colt is by his left hip.'
'Okay,' I said.
'But what the blue bloods in their marble castles failed to realize is that this photograph is actually a ferrotype. In other words, a mirror image of the actual subject.'
'So in real life, Billy the Kid had the Colt by his right hip.
Meaning he was right-handed.'
'Just like our friend Brushy Bill.'
'Would you be willing to go on record?' I asked.
Largo seemed taken aback. Another cat jumped onto his lap. He was too distracted to scratch it, so it simply nuzzled against his chest and closed its eyes.
'On record? You mean like in the newspaper? Would I be willing? Boy, I've been waiting for years for somebody to ask me that.'
'Is that a yes?'
'Let me put it this way. If I'm not on the record enough,
I'm coming down to that paper of yours and shoving a cat up your keester.'
'That's fair,' I said, pulling the tape recorder from my bag. 'Now let's get started. Tell me everything you know about Brushy Bill Roberts, why you believe he was Billy the
Kid, and leave nothing out.'
When I arrived at the Gazette, the newsroom was abuzz in a way I'd never seen it before in my brief tenure at the paper.
The stringers seemed a little louder, the phone calls a little more urgent. A palpable electricity ran through the place.
The whole organization seemed galvanized, charged, like a black cloud had been dragged away to let the sun back in.
It wasn't a minute after I stepped off the elevator when
Wallace came jogging up to me. His hair was slightly askew and his right ear was red as though he'd been pressing a phone to it the whole morning.
'Henry, glad you're here,' he said, catching his breath.
'Come with me. And don't say a word unless I tell you to.'
I opened my mouth to ask what was happening, but Wallace held up a finger and said, 'Not one word.'
I followed Wallace, quickly realizing that he wasn't leading me toward his office or my desk, but to the conference room at the end of the floor. The Kemper Room. In over a year working at the paper I'd never set foot in it.
I desperately wanted to ask Wallace what was so important that he'd grant me access to such hallowed ground, but on the off chance he'd change his mind I stayed quiet.
The room was named after Peter Kemper, the Gazette' s editor-in-chief from 1978 to 1984, but was more commonly known among the Gazette staff as the War Room. Every morning the editors from each department would gather in the
War Room to go over the next day's stories. Each section editor would fight, scratch and claw for page one space, better coverage for their department. Each day every editor left the room either thrilled or disappointed. Then they would return the next day to keep up their good run, or dig their way out of the hole. Had they been shafted the day before they'd use pity points. If they'd been granted better placement, they'd claim sales were up due to them.
The War Room was where other bureaus such as Washington and Los Angeles would call in to battle for their share of the table scraps, often frustrated with their perceived lack of respect from the New York home office.
Jack would fill me in on War Room gossip from time to time. He took a little too much pleasure in recalling the greatest stories ever, like the time Metro editor Jacquelyn
Mills had a story negged and threw a glass of pomegranate juice in the editor-in-chief's face. The time Wallace himself told an editor that his stories showed as much life as Jimmy
Hoffa, and smelled worse. Between New York and outside bureaus there was a natural conflict; reporters in Washington felt the ebb and flow of the political arena was the spark of the journalistic world, while the reporters in New York felt they were the center of the information universe. Los Angelenos felt their coverage of red-carpet shenanigans trumped all, that popular culture and celebrity scandal whet readers' appetites. They didn't win the battles very often.
As the War Room came into sight, I counted a dozen or so editors already seated, cups of coffee and bottles of water in various stages of being sipped or ignored. Far as I could tell,
I would be the youngest person in the room by a good ten years.
When Wallace threw open the door, a dozen pairs of eyes focused on me. Not to mention the speakerphone in the middle of the conference table whose red 'on' light meant another half dozen were listening in. And the guy in the corner with a pen and pad who was presumably there to take minutes. I coughed into my hand. Smiled meekly. The editors in attendance didn't seem to care much about meek smiles.
Wallace stated, 'Henry, you know everyone here.' I didn't, but remembered Wallace's 'shut the hell up' rule. 'Folks, this is Henry Parker. As you know Henry's been the lead on the
Paradis murder story and the subsequent victims of this killer as well. He was attacked in his home yesterday, but as you can see he's alive and well.'
'And glad to be here,' I added. Wallace nodded his approval.
'Terrific scoops so far,' said a man I believed to be the Arts editor. He had a neatly trimmed beard and thin glasses, a polite ink stain at the bottom of his shirt pocket. I'd only met him once, at the holiday party last year, the details of which ended up being reported on every gossip website between here and
