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the online edition, Mandy had printed off a hard copy and was brandishing it like some sort of weapon.
    I did my best to gather myself together. “What’s up, boss? Did I miss some new development in the CP style book?”
    She ignored my joke. “How come you identified the gender and race of the victim when the sites for other local media don’t? Everybody has an unidentified body while you have her being female and native. Tell me why.”
    “It’s called a scoop, Mandy. Didn’t they teach you that when you got your degree in English lit?” It was a nasty crack but it was justified. If any other reporter in the room had written the story, she would have come over and given them a nice pat on the shoulder for a job well done. Since it was me, I must have done something wrong. She didn’t trust my journalism, and for a reporter to have an editor not trusting him was a major insult.
    “Just tell me how you know the body is a native female and nobody else does.”
    “I know it’s a native female because I’m a better fucking journalist than the rest of those losers who have the story. Like I said, it’s called a scoop, and instead of coming over and giving me shit about it, you should be saying, Nice job, Leo.”
    Again she ignored me. “Just tell me how your story has this info and the others don’t.”
    Her attitude was making me angrier, but instead of grabbing her by the throat and giving her the basic lecture on why scoops were good, I took a mental step back. “I know the body was native and female because I saw the body.” I paused, and watched the effect it had on Mandy. Her face dropped and she could no longer stare at me. And then I added the kicker. “And I saw the body because they let me into the tent.”
    Those words caused Mandy to step back and lean against the desk behind me. The hand that was holding the hard copy of the story dropped to her side.
    “They let you into the tent?” a voice demanded. It wasn’t Mandy; she was shocked into silence for the moment. The question came from Brent Anderson, another police-beat reporter who had the desk next to mine. He had been a reporter at the paper for about seven years, a solid reporter who wrote good copy. He probably wouldn’t win any awards for his work, but it was readable, didn’t need much editing, and always arrived hours before deadline. In many ways, Brent was just like me except when his day ended, he went home to his wife and family, and I went to a small room under the stairs in the basement of a rooming house.
    “Who let you into the tent?” he demanded.
    “Are you talking about the crime scene tent?” Mandy said, finally getting over the initial shock. “They let you into the crime scene tent?”
    I nodded.
    “Who let you in the tent?” Brent demanded again. “They never let anyone in the tent.”
    “Whitford,” I said over my shoulder.
    “Whitford?” Anderson asked. His voice was a shocked whisper. “Al Whitford let you into the tent? You’ve got to be shitting me!” He wasn’t being insulting; he was just incredulous that someone like Whitford would let a reporter into the crime scene tent. And despite Whitford’s earlier explanation, I, too, was still surprised and confused about it.
    “Who’s Whitford?” Mandy asked.
    “Homicide detective,” Anderson and I both said at the same time. And Anderson added, “Whitford let you into the tent? Why would he do that?”
    I shrugged. “I don’t know. It was the craziest thing.” And then I turned to the assistant city editor. “So that’s how I know the body was female and native. You can believe it or not but let me tell you this, I’m no Jayson Blair, so this is how it’s going to work.” I waited for a second to see if Whittaker knew the name Jayson Blair, the New York Times reporter who got caught faking a bunch of his news stories. She blinked a couple of times and that told me she knew the name. Most good reporters did.
    “First, you believe me, run