So, there I was, in Sankt Poelten, Austria, covering one of the biggest news events of the century. Press from all over the world were on hand to cover Austria’s most heinous case: Josef Fritzl - accused of imprisoning his daughter from age 18 in a tiny, windowless, unheated, rat-infested basement that reeked of mold and lacked warm water, repeatingly raping her in front of their children, three of whom had never seen the light of day. His murder charge arose from the death, shortly after birth, of one of the seven children he fathered with his daughter. The Manic Press Corps had sent me over from the States. I would no longer cover Fresh Off The Field stories of adultery and assassinations. It was to be my lead into real journalism; haunting, gritty stories, the kind that get you recognition for with your peers, the kind that get you your drinks on the house. It had been a long, exciting week in Sankt Poelten, when something occurred to me…I had completely missed it.
I had awoken in my hotel room: tired, dehydrated, raw. I got a call from a cute little Spanish reporter with whom I had been tripping the week fantastic. Her name was Agata, meaning Agatha, meaning “good.” She rode me like the Orient Express. I wasn’t surprised about her absence this particular morning. It was her MO. She told me she was leaving. The trial was over. Evil had lost. So was I. I tried to piece together the preceding days. 
I recalled that after opening statements by the prosecution and defense, reporters were ushered out of the courtroom for the duration of the trial. We were herded into a large marquee reminiscent of a beer tent, flanked by sausage stands and a mobile sweetshop. It had been erected outside the courtroom to accommodate the hundreds of journalists who've arrived here to follow the trial. We were inundated with folders handed out in the press tent helpfully listing gourmet restaurants and fashionable new nightclubs in town and included brochures from the local tourism board. Mayor Matthias Stadler sought to promote his town as a tourism and cultural center, enthusing, "Sankt Poelten has never been in the spotlight like this before, and I hope to use this opportunity to make good contacts with the media for the future.”
At first I was appalled by his desperate declaration. Mayor Stadler was trying to make the most of their sleepy, baroque town's misfortune of being the venue for perhaps the most grotesque trial in Austria's history. Then it hit me, she hit me. I saw her in the tent area with a beer in one hand, and a huge sausage in her mouth. I was done. Agata and I hit it off immediately, and all of a sudden the pamphlets and nightclubs began to look enticing.
We would make a point to check back in with the Press tent. We would get updates, and sound bite testimonies from second hand sources like, “I am deeply sorry with all my heart for what I have done, but I cannot go back and change it,” and, “I had a very difficult childhood. My mother didn't want me. I was beaten.” Things of that nature. I noted that he was a textbook socio-path. Right out of an awful John Douglas profile book, equipped with an evil lair, and a bad childhood. The updates to my main office in the States were general and placating. I would write the whole thing at the end. It would be great. They trusted me.
I arrived to the Press tent and almost everyone was gone. The jury had found Josef Fritzl guilty of raping and imprisoning his daughter for more than two decades and sentenced him to life in prison. They found Fritzl guilty of incest, rape, enslavement and false imprisonment of his daughter Elisabeth. It also found him guilty of two assault charges and murder in the death of the baby, one of twins, which died 66 hours after birth. I was told that the eight-member jury returned a unanimous verdict on all counts. I heard that Fritzl, dressed in a gray suit, blue shirt and dark tie, stared blankly ahead and showed no emotion as the jury delivered its verdict. I was informed that my article was due in an hour.
I sat down, and milked one last beer to assuage my guilt. I had to regroup and give this horrible story the attention it deserves. Mayor Stadler spotted me in my solitude (Christ I was the only one in there, he couldn’t have missed me). He sat next to me and asked if I had visited the Austrian Museum of Tin Figures. “It’s a great miscellaneous collectibles museum,” he told me. I said maybe next time. Mayor Stadler's efforts to use the occasion to promote tourism in Sankt Poelten may be emblematic of Austria's inclination to evade the uncomfortable questions raised by the Fritzl case. The number one being: How could this have gone on for so long without any indication? I thanked him and left.
I sat in my hotel looking over my press packet. My notes were barely legible. Agata’s number in Spain was written in red lipstick on Fritzl’s biography and wrap sheet. A wrap sheet that told anyone that looked at it that they should have seen this coming. My press pack was all I had. I had to get this done. I had to give this story justice. I had to report the news. I had to lend it heart. The heart that I didn’t give it all week. The heart that I gave to Agata along with all of my cash and a possible case of herpes. My press packet will remember for me and hopefully allow me to at least keep my Fresh off the Field job. And then, as Mayor Stadler hopes, the press pack will remember Sankt Poelten for its pear brandy and its wine, and its new nightclubs and gourmet restaurants.
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