We met at midnight in the EPA headquarters.
The hallways were dark, but my informant still wore sunglasses and a large rubber nose to conceal his identity. A black fedora and trenchcoat completed the disguise.
"Keep your voice down," he whispered, "and call me JoJo."
"But your name's Bob," I said.
"Do you want the story or not?"
I thought it over.
"So, Jojo, is it true the EPA is considering a special David Boyer smog alert for the area surrounding Vincennes, Indiana?"
He glanced furtively up and down the hallway. His real job was night shift janitor for the EPA. All good reporters know that janitors are the best spies. The dirt, as my old editor always said, is usually in the waste basket.
"Can we step into this broomcloset?" he asked.
"I'm not that kind of guy."
"Neither am I, but this is confidential stuff. Director is going on TV soon to announce a quarantine of the whole town. Pollution's so bad you can't tell clouds from the air. It's all the people driving away from Vincennes, Indiana. Town's got a bad name because of David Boyer's plagiarism. Nobody wants to live in the same town with a scam artist like him. Tailpipe exhaust from all of those people trying to escape has caused a cloud of smog over that city that's starting to block out the sun."
This reporter was stunned.
"All the trees will die," I said. "People will have to wear face masks just to breathe. Incredible. How long do I have to break the story?"
"Better hurry," he said. "Word is Boyer is plagiarizing faster than you can type."
That offended me. All good reporters type quickly and this reported is darned proud of his typing speed.
"But I type 106 words per minute," I said.
He faded back into the shadows.
"Better type quicker," he whispered from the darkness. "You're falling behind."