Turk Pierce ’61, Lancaster New Era

Chris Lee ’89, The Washington Post

Danielle Reed ’91, The Wall Street Journal

Don Sapatkin ’78, The Philadelphia Inquirer

Loren Ghiglione ’63, The Medill School of Journalism

Eye of the Storm by Steve Manning ’96
How I covered the DC sniper story – and how the story took over my life.

The first call was broadcast over the police scanner in the middle of a slow Thursday morning— a woman shot outside a post office. Two minutes later another shooting came across, a man found dead nearby, killed with a single shot. I called my editor. Probably a murder-suicide, she said, call the police, get the basics and work up a short story. All I got was a busy signal from the police. After ten minutes a third person was dead. By the time I got on the road, driving as fast as I could, the toll was up to four.

For most of that hectic day I still thought the story would last just a few days, another example of senseless violence that sparks some outcry from the public but soon fades from memory. But it quickly turned into much more, a story that spiraled into a major media frenzy and prompted pervasive and palpable fear in the community. For me, that day began what would be three weeks of nearly non-stop work, stress, and excitement. It tested my skills as a reporter, forced me to take a hard look at the ethics of my profession and challenged my personal limits in a way that few things have.
I’ve spent two years covering the two Maryland counties that border Washington for the Associated Press. As a one-person bureau, I write about all topics — business, transportation, politics, education. Crime isn’t high on that list, and most areas, especially Montgomery County where the shooting spree began Oct. 2, have few murders. My beat usually doesn’t attract much attention from national press, and only draws heavy media attention when there is a quirky crime or natural disaster.

But what would be dubbed the “sniper” shootings stood out. The victims were of all races, had no connection to each other and were engaged in everyday tasks when they were killed, like pumping gas, mowing the lawn, or sitting on a public bench. Everyone felt like a target— people avoided gas stations and school locked their doors and pulled classroom blinds tight.

Coverage on the first day was heavy, but grew rapidly that weekend as more people were shot in Washington and Virginia. The parking lot of the Montgomery County Police Department in Rockville, home to the multi-agency sniper task force, became a mini-camp of satellite trucks, tents set up by television crews, cables snaking across the pavement, and a podium stand that sprouted new microphones each day as the story grew. The weather seemed to go through a year’s worth of seasons, heat at first, then growing cold and driving rain. I nearly lived out of my car, filling my back seat with clothes I might need for any forecast, a stack of notebooks and books of maps.

Often we were killing time, huddling under what shelter we could find to avoid the rain, smelling the inescapable odor of exhaust from the TV trucks mixed with the sickly sweet scent emanating from the banks of porta-potties set up nearby. That boredom was punctuated by the chaos of the shootings. I would drive to the scene, trying to avoid police roadblocks, grab anyone witnesses I could find to figure out what happened. Then we would all wait on the police to tell us if the shooting was linked to the others.

Coverage of the story exploded Oct. 7, the day a 13-year-old boy was shot outside his school in Bowie, Md. The snipers had struck the part of society that was most vulnerable and prized, its children. Montgomery Police Chief Moose cried on camera that day, a display of emotion that would later make him loved nationwide, a tough cop with a heart. After that, the story reached a feverish pace. Cable news channels carried every press conference live, and network anchors hosted their shots from the police parking lot. Photographers and reporters lived with their police scanners and chased down every report of shots being fired. I once spent a whole morning at a flophouse motel with a handful of other reporters for what was likely the most intensely covered drug shooting in years.

The scene at the police station became almost circus-like. Geraldo Rivera showed up and Playboy had a full-time reporter covering the story. Patrick Buchanan, now a talk show host , came one day, looking out of place in his trench coat and briefcase among the rest of us in raincoats and jeans, crowded around for a press conference. John Walsh shot an episode of “America’s Most Wanted” from the parking lot standing in front of a police cruiser. Foreign press poured in — walking through the parking was to hear a jumble of languages, British, Spanish, German, Quebecois. When the story got slow, reporters started interviewing each other, working on stories about how crazy the scene had become. People drove by just to see the media encampment. The police eventually handed out press passes to the parking lot — I had number 40 of about 1,400 that were given out.

Competition was intense, as we all tried to get whatever piece of information that could put us ahead of the pack. The authorities gave out little information publicly, meaning most reporting and breakthroughs came from sources. Dozens of agencies were involved in the search — the FBI, several local police departments, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, the state police. Even the White House kept tabs on the investigation. Leaks came from all over, as did unsubstantiated rumors. The media hysteria created intense pressure to be first with a piece of information, to break a story. I would often spend the start of each day trying to verify or shoot down news that was in the New York Times, CNN or the Washington Post. Much of the information turned out to be true, but too often reporters went with information they got from a single source, breaking a cardinal rule of journalism that you must at least try to verify a tip before using it. Some news turned out simply to be wrong.

Covering the story became a delicate, contentious, and often maddening dance with the police. Authorities didn’t want to give out much information and tip their hand, fearing the sniper was watching television. But they ran into a press corps that was hungry for any bit of information, any scoop that could put them ahead of the competition. Press conferences were laden with hostility on both sides of the microphone. Chief Moose rarely answered a question with anything more than a “it would be inappropriate for me to comment.”

But by not giving out any details about what they knew, the police, in a way, fomented public fear about who was doing the shootings and when they might strike next. Authorities said they didn’t want to create tunnel vision by putting out FBI profiles of the suspects, but then they put out composite sketches of a white box truck and van they thought might be used in the crime. Police were flooded with tips about white vans thereafter, while the blue Chevrolet Caprice allegedly used by the snipers slipped away from crime scenes unnoticed.

We also hotly debated the decision by a local television station and the Post to report on a tip that a tarot card reading “I am God” was found at the school shooting scene. The station and paper got a lot of criticism from the police, who said it hurt their attempts to start a dialogue with the shooter. That may be true, but reporting that information also gave the public a much stronger sense of whom they were dealing with, afforded them some picture about what was until then a faceless terror. It was also an incredibly intriguing story.

I often had to remind myself of that as I tried to make it through the seven-day, 80-hour weeks I worked that month. It was a physically and emotionally demanding story to cover. I would go to bed at midnight after a full day, not knowing if I would be called three hours later to chase a shooting. I often fiercely guard my private time, but would feel guilty if I went out to dinner, or relaxed. The story was also filled with tragedy — I spent much of my time hunting down relatives of the victims and going to funerals. I was supposed to pepper them with questions about their lost loved one as they struggled with their still-fresh grief. I understand why this is necessary, to humanize the story for readers, to personalize it. But I also wonder how newsworthy it is to broadcast someone’s anguish to the whole world, as if that couldn’t be just assumed and we could give them the privacy they usually want.

Nevertheless, covering the shootings was one of the most extraordinary things I will ever do. I went into journalism in part because I wanted to see history being made first hand, to be a part of the life that goes on around me. It was also tested my capabilities, pushing me past my comfort zone and ultimately making me a better reporter. I learned how to be resourceful and pushy if necessary. I woke people up at 5 a.m., called a police chief on his personal phone, developed sources. A lot of this was hard for me, by nature I don’t like to bother people. There are still limits that shouldn’t be crossed, but I also learned it is up to me to push boundaries. That’s what the public needs to learn the full truth.

Journalism was never my dream job — I never wrote for the Bi-Co News or interned at a newspaper in college. I never had formal journalism training since Haverford offered little, an oversight in my opinion. But Haverford did give me an education that you can’t learn in four years of journalism school. In many ways I’m a true liberal arts product — my interests are broad and I resist finding a niche. I discovered that’s an asset for a reporter, the ability to think with an open mind, to look at all angles. You have to be able to think and digest information quickly, to learn on the fly. That’s perhaps what I value the most about my work, the license to explore, to satisfy my curiosity, to learn.

Steve Manning ’96 is a writer for the Associated Press in Maryland.

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“As an English major at Haverford with a minor in creative writing, I interned with the City Paper to basically rule out journalism as a career. I thought I’d hate it and go into teaching instead. I started working here the day after graduation and three years later, I’m the arts editor for an alternative weekly in a great city for the arts. I was born and raised here and I’m a diehard fan of this city — my parents own the Famous 4th Street Deli, so I grew up in the thick of things around lots of Philadelphia people.

“In this job, I can see how some people see Philadelphia living in the shadow of New York — especially in theatre and the visual arts. But more and more artists are choosing Philadelphia. For one thing, it’s vastly more affordable. But there’s also a thriving, vibrant arts community here. There’s a ton of angst and people out there every day working and fighting. The City Paper has limited space and resources to further the arts debate in this community, but I’m glad I’m helping the debate along.”

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