Bill Dalton: Marty -30-

EDITOR'S NOTE: The views and opinions expressed are those of the writer and not of Ottawa News Network.

There are some things you shouldn’t write about. There are some things you can’t write about. And then there are the things you must write about.

Marty is one of those.

Marty and I were old school newspaper reporters, specifically investigative or “projects” reporters, the kind who spent months or sometimes even a year on just one story. They’re rare nowadays.

After that kind of investment, editors expected not only a series of long stories but also results. Somebody thrown in jail. Somebody freed from jail. Congressional investigations.

But the dirty little secret is it was mostly about awards.

Marty and I touched all those bases, but this is a story about Marty.

In a few words, Marty was a tortured soul with a huge heart. And that’s what always got him into trouble. He reminded me of that cartoon character Joe Btfsplk, who walked around with a dark storm cloud hanging over his head.

Marty’s storm clouds probably started after his mother died in a fire when he was young. Then he was diagnosed as manic depressive and bipolar. Then came alcohol, an occupational hazard.

If he’d become a lawyer — late in life, Marty briefly worked as a paralegal — he’d probably have avoided the pitfalls of our profession. Probably, but not likely.

Instead, he became a relentless reporter, the kind you didn’t want on your trail if you’d done something wrong. He even resembled the TV detective Columbo. His strength was that he never quit. His weakness was that he never quit.

One of his biggest hits involved exposing misuse of taxpayer money at the Rocky Flats nuclear weapons facility. When his cowardly Colorado paper refused to run the story, Marty bravely did what most reporters only dream about — he quit.

He took his expose’ to a friendly editor at The Miami Herald. After it was published, Marty got his Congressional investigation and awards. He later wound up at The Kansas City Star.

For some reason, we got along; he even invited me to his wedding. After their vows, I can still see him setting off fireworks like a kid outside the reception hall. No one lost a finger, but the marriage didn’t last.

When he once had a confrontation interview with a labor union boss rumored to carry a gun, Marty asked me to accompany him. I didn’t know whether to feel honored or run. Fortunately, no one got shot.

He later spent months proving the innocence of Richard Hadley, one of many victims of “rural justice” serving time in a Missouri prison.

After Marty’s stories showed that the sheriff’s department botched the sexual assault investigation, Hadley was released. Usually, it’s one of journalism’s finest moments. But the managing editor at the time — upset that it’d taken so long — told him: “Good job, Marty — don’t do it again.”

It could have been the low point in Marty’s career, but that came only a few months after Hadley was freed, when Marty called to tell me he’d died.

At first, I thought it was a sick joke. But Hadley dropped dead from a heart attack while helping his neighbor build a rock fence.

Marty took the irony hard. Freeing Hadley had killed him. I tried to cheer him up by wisecracking: “Good job, Marty — don’t do it again.” But it’s impossible to cheer up a manic depressive.

Yet Marty would do it again, over and over. Eventually, I became his editor, but I had a rule: Editors shouldn’t be friends with their reporters. Most reporters didn’t like that. Marty understood.

As he struggled with his demons, his personal life slowly went downhill. He got into trouble for drinking and driving. And when he didn’t come home one night, I felt compelled to tell his wife what happened.

When he showed up at my door the next day — livid that I’d ratted him out — I saw a homicidal look in his eye that made me uneasy, like the time an FBI agent pointed a gun at me but didn’t pull the trigger.

Then the look suddenly disappeared, and he was Marty again.

The spiral continued with Marty spending weeks spinning his wheels on stories going nowhere. When editors up the food chain finally lost their patience, he lost his job.

But he never blamed me.

He moved to Montana but had trouble finding another job as a reporter. It got worse when he became involved with a woman who eventually tired of Marty and wanted him to go away.

Marty, always relentless, couldn’t stop himself. She had him arrested for stalking — something he denied. But he was found guilty and placed on probation.

He struggled financially, working at a local club playing jazz piano. He kept in touch with friends. They warned me not to take his calls because sometimes he’d ask for money.

Marty never asked me for a dime. When we talked, we’d stroll down memory lane, exchanging war stories and laughing at our misfortunes. He wasn’t bitter, but he wasn’t happy.

A couple of years ago, unable to reach him for weeks, I learned he’d suffered a near fatal heart attack and had to be life-flighted to a hospital.

After returning home, he discovered all his beloved cats were missing. That same day, he had another heart attack. He spent months in a nursing home, relearning to talk and walk.

Marty never went home again.

The last time I spoke with him, he was slurring words, confused and rambling. He'd been sober 13 years and I suspected he’d either had a stroke or needed his medications adjusted.

So, I wasn’t too surprised when his brother emailed me a few weeks later and said Marty had died. He was 69. Naturally, I assumed a heart attack, but doctors had recently discovered stage 4 colon cancer.

They cremated Marty and returned him to his birthplace near Boston.

A few weeks ago, his family held a small memorial service. I wanted to attend. Instead, I made the excuse that it cost too much and besides, we were celebrating my wife’s 75th birthday on Christmas Day.

Still, we paused momentarily at the time of the service to remember Marty. For some reason, I also thought about the guy Marty freed from prison.

My wife wept. She said it probably was for the best. People always say that when somebody dies.

I never believed it.

Until now.

— Bill Dalton is a former reporter and editor for The Kansas City Star and worked for several Michigan newspapers. He spends summers on the family farm near Fennville. 

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