A quirky editor

Of all the people who influenced my career in newspapering, Linn Brown had the biggest effect.

Linn was brilliant, a stickler for journalistic excellence and one of the quirkiest editors I've ever known.

Linn Brown hired me -- and fired me -- the same day, yet we were good friends more than 40 years, even during those long stretches when we lived so far apart we didn't get to share one of his gourmet meals.

As a cub reporter at The Kansas City Star in the mid-1960s, I competed with Linn. I was posted to the Star's Clay County bureau in North Kansas City. Across the street was the weekly Press-Dispatch, a fiery newspaper that turned local issues into campaigns. The Press-Dispatch also won all the top awards in press contests.

I once asked Linn what the secret was to winning all those prizes. His answer: "We enter more contests than anyone else."

True, but without the sheen of journalistic excellence, his newspapers would not have been a consistent winner.

Dozens of reporters who went through the Linn Brown School of Journalism while covering beats for the Press-Dispatch learned much more than the skills for churning out good copy. They learned integrity, thoroughness and a passion for serving the needs of readers.

Linn and I frequently had morning coffee while we competed for the same stories. One day Linn asked me if I would consider leaving the Star and working for the Press-Dispatch, a transition that went against the usual career path of moving from smaller to larger newspapers. I said I would, mainly because I knew I would get more hands-on direction from Linn than I was receiving from city editors at the Star, whom I saw face to face, at best, once a month.

So a few days after Linn's inquiry, I told him I would like to work for the Press-Dispatch. He said, "You're hired." He told me to give my notice to the Star editors. That afternoon, Linn appeared in the bureau office where I worked, in a building that also housed a real estate office and a travel agency. He sat down with a glum look on his face. He said he had informed his publisher, Press-Dispatch owner Hal Townsend, of his new hire only to be informed that Hal wanted to cut costs. Not only could Linn not hire me, Hal also expected Linn to cut an additional reporter from the staff.

"So," Linn said, cheering up. "I'm here to fire you."

Fortunately, I had not given notice to my bosses.

One of the local issues Linn turned into a cause celebre had to do with the hundreds of pigeons that roosted in the steel girders over the ASB (Armour-Swift-Burlington) Bridge that connected North Kansas City and downtown Kansas City across the Missouri River. Motorists using the bridge complained about the pigeon droppings, which coated their cars and the pavement, making for a hazardous commute and causing dozens of fender-benders.

Linn started a front-page campaign to clean up what he called the BS Bridge. You can figure out what the "BS" stood for. Within a few weeks, the highway department had deployed crews to eliminate the pigeon problem. I don't recall exactly how, but it worked. Linn was immensely pleased with himself.

Linn left North Kansas City for a daily newspaper in California. He called me one day, and I asked how he liked his new job. "Now I get to see my mistakes every day instead of every week," he said.

Several years went by. I moved on to jobs in Dallas, New York and Idaho before returning to community newspapers in Missouri. One day I got a note postmarked North Kansas City. It was from Linn, who had moved back to the Press-Dispatch. "If you're the same Joe Sullivan I knew in 1965, please get in touch. If you're not, go to hell."

That was Linn, who died a few days ago. A legion of reporters and editors with white hair will miss him -- and remember what fun newspapering can be.

R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.