The revelation

In a column published Feb. 3, 1992, the Times-Dispatch revisited the story of WTVR TV's erroneous report of the death of Senator Harry Byrd Jr., this time with an ending.

Ultimately, I found out it was the schmuck who did it.

And that sentence works on two levels.

If you've been following this narrative, you'll remember my previous blog about the viewer who was upset because WTVR's movie critic used the word "schmuck" in a review of "The Dirty Duck."

That was in 1974.

In 1978, I was fired after WTVR TV, at my direction, aired what turned out to be an erroneous report of the death of U.S. Senator Harry Byrd Jr. of Virginia.

In 1982, I found out why -- and how -- it had all happened.

By then I had been at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts for four years, and I was thoroughly enjoying my new job.

I was alone in my office in the communications division one early afternoon when the telephone rang. It turned out to be one of the most chilling calls I've ever had. The man on the other end of the line had called to gloat.

"I want you to know that I was the one who made that call," he said. I knew right away that he was referring to the hoax call about the death of Senator Byrd.

He went on to say his company was transferring him to another city and that he couldn't leave Richmond without letting me know he had cost me my job. He wanted to brag to me about bringing me down.

I was so stunned by the revelation that I just listened and let him talk. He rambled on, telling me why he had done it. He said he was the viewer who had complained because we used the word "schmuck" on the air in 1974. He was still seething with anger because I had refused to apologize. "That's why I got you fired," he said.

He said he had tracked me down at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts after he had seen me doing a museum promotional interview on television -- ironically, on WTVR. "I just wanted you to know that I got you after all. I wanted you to talk to the guy who got you."

I still hadn't said anything to him, but I had broken out into a cold sweat. At the time of the hoax, nobody had known who did it or why. The station and even the Commonwealth's Attorney's office in Richmond had investigated but had come up empty. The hoax had a major impact on my life, prompting a complete career change, and here I was, four years later, learning for the first time why it had happened.

When he stopped talking, I thanked him. "You did me the biggest favor of my life," I said.

And he had. What I said was no snappy comeback. It was sincere. I loved my job at the museum. It satisfied me in ways that nurtured my creativity and broadened my view of the world. I was challenged and I was content.

My response befuddled him into silence. At the same time my old reporter's instincts kicked in. "Would you mind telling me who you are?" He refused. "What kind of job is taking you out of the city?" He wouldn't tell me. "What city are you moving to?" He hung up.

I remember sitting there after the call ended, my mind reeling. An anonymous call had finally explained the story behind the story that had led to such astonishing changes in my life. At long last, I had the full picture of what had happened.

Over the next few days, as I digested this new information, I realized that the angry viewer should never have succeeded. He had cleared so many hurdles in his quest for revenge. His hoax call had been taken by the newest reporter on our staff. She had neglected to verify the information. I had made baseless assumptions. By all rights, his hoax should have failed. He wasn't clever. He was lucky.

And I realized that in the long run, so was I.