Bill Treml was, to me, bigger than life. I always turned to the crime page first, from the time I started reading the News regularly in eighth grade. His stories were peppered with words like “loot,” “culprits,” and “heist.” I pictured him sitting at his Underwood, pint of Jim Beam in the bottom drawer, typing up the day’s adventures late into the night for the morning deadline. Or downing a meal after work at the Round Table where I’m sure he was on a first name basis with the Chief of Police. I remember more than one story told from the vantage point of a squad car, where he often rode along.

I don’t think an RSS feed from the virtual blotter can replace him.