Periodismo como novela de Raymond Chandler. Y un final abierto.
Once Mancini was gone, in the cloak of darkness, a shadowy figure — a man — walked across Somerset Street. He entered the crematorium, placed the body bag containing Rose Oprea’s remains on a gurney, and wheeled it back across the street, to a funeral home that Lou Garzone owned, where the cutters were waiting.
The cutters drove down from New York usually in the morning. They arrived in broad daylight. They went to work on a rusted table in a cramped, fetid, windowless, blood-encrusted embalming room one of them would later liken to the back of a butcher shop.
O’Brien began Googling addresses from forms Johnson had also shown her: All were for tissue-transplant companies, scattered around the country.
Y el hecho de que sea como una novela no lo hace mejor periodismo. Y sin embargo, la prosa, indisociable de los hechos, es tan efectiva que pareciera que el que sea como una novela lo hace mejor periodismo.