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  KILL THE STORY

  A Political Thriller from the Author of FATAL DEAD LINES

  BY

  JOHN LUCIEW

  Copyright © 2009 by John Luciew.

  All rights reserved.

  Banner headlines for John Luciew and

  FATAL DEAD LINES

  “A great newspaper tale”

  Associated Press

  “Luciew’s writing is assured.”

  Publishers Weekly

  “A page-turner … spell-binding.”

  The Patriot-News (Harrisburg, Pa.)

  Newspapers Are Dead!

  BECAUSE THIS SERIAL KILLER KNOWS THE MEDIA BETTER THAN THEY KNOW THEMSELVES. HE’S DETERMINED TO:

  KILL THE STORY

  He stood in the December chill watching the commotion from across the street. One after the other, the cop cars rolled up on the newspaper building. The crime scene truck was there, even an ambulance, though he knew that was unnecessary.

  He watched, yet couldn’t enjoy the event he had created. His story.

  Up until now, he had tried to be so artful. He had re-created the stories so lovingly and with such attention to detail. This had required years of research, months of planning and a lifetime of reading. He had finally done it. He had put the reporters inside their own stories. Perhaps now they could see how it felt.

  He had accomplished all of this with such precision. Three of them and counting. All according to plan. Yet they still hadn’t seen it. He had to be graceless and obvious, and send them the head. Even in this, there were nice parallels. In Pakistan, the terrorists had sent Danny Pearl’s decapitation death tape to the media. He went one better. He delivered the decaying, stinking head -- right to the newspaper.

  Maybe now they would wake up. Maybe now they would realize the story. Maybe now they would see what was coming. All that was coming...

  KILL THE STORY

  By John Luciew

  Chapter 1

  “Telly? That you?”

  The voice broke through the noise of the protesters. I felt a hand on my shoulder and spun around.

  “Christ, yes!” said a well-barbered man in an expensive-looking cashmere coat. He must have noticed me while maneuvering his way through the throng of journalists. The man’s eyes scanned me up and down. “Frank Tellis. How have you been?”

  I could see by the look on his face that he had answered his own question. I hadn’t been doing all that well, at least according to his custom-tailored standards. He didn’t know the half of it. My herringbone overcoat may have been no match for his cashmere, but these days I was on the comeback trail. He should have seen me before.

  “Two veterans from the old Capitol gang back in city, eh?” said the man. He was middle- aged, virile and energetic. He gave my shoulder a good-natured slap and grinned broadly.

  I studied him. His eyes were glassy, his cheeks red from the December chill. His smile was wilting a bit under a meticulously trimmed moustache, no doubt disappointed that I hadn’t recognized him.

  “The bureau, remember?” he prodded. “Back in the ‘80s? Course, I was just a rookie then. You were ruling the roost.”

  A gear turned in my brain and the memory came back. “Wayne?” I said. “Wayne Dykstra. Sure, I remember. You were working for that piece-of-shit news service. You’d re-write my stuff from the Herald and slap your byline on it.”

  His face soured. “Well, not any more,” he sniffed, then jutted his chin. “I’m the Inquirer’s chief political columnist. Who are you with?”

  “The Herald.”

  “Still?” Dykstra couldn’t keep the surprise from his face. “You’ve been in the bureau all this time?” He meant the news bureau inside Pennsylvania’s Capitol building.

  “Nah,” I shrugged off the question as quickly as I could. “But it’s good to be back. I feel fresh.”

  I wasn’t about to elaborate on my resume. I could never let a career-climber like Dykstra know I had spent the last quarter century stuck at the same newspaper. That was the problem with being back on the political beat. I was always bumping into people from my past. Invariably, they had done far better than me, even in our dying industry. It was an ambitious bunch we had in Harrisburg back in the early ‘80s, a collection of journalists now at the pinnacle of the profession. I had long ago stopped keeping track of their career advancements and journalistic exploits. It was too damn depressing.

  “So, Wayne, tell me. They pay you all that money down in Philly to write any ol’ thing that comes into your head? I mean, they’ll print anything in those columns, won’t they? You don’t even have to bust ass digging up facts. You can just sit there and make shit up, long as it sounds good. Tell me, Wayne, what’s the difference between you and those know-nothing bloggers on the Internet?” I couldn’t resist the cheap shot.

  Dykstra glowered. I had ruined his walk down memory lane and doused his hopes of receiving my praise for his plumb position.

  “I don’t just make stuff up.” He clipped his words. “I formulate well-reasoned arguments. I get people to think. The paper relies upon me for provocative opinion. You’re a journalist, Telly. Surely you realize the value of a vibrant op-ed page?”

  I smiled. “Now, Wayne, you know what part of the anatomy they liken opinions to, don’t you? Guess I’m too much of a newshound, myself. Facts are what I’m about. But you go on and write something well-reasoned about Hollister. Make it real provocative, too. That’s exactly what this debate needs. A little more stimulation. The people here are just too low-key.”

  I gestured to the boisterous crowd behind us, just as a young effeminate man screamed at a right-winger, “Don’t devalue my gay currency!”

  Another cried out, “I love men, not sheep!”

  To which a woman replied, “God loves straight people.”

  Dykstra pursed his lips and looked down. “Well, then, Frank, I guess I’ll leave you to your facts. I need to get up front anyway. The senator should be out any minute.”

  Dykstra turned, giving me the back of his wonderful coat. As he moved forward, the usually competitive pack of journalists parted as if he were Moses. He smiled and shook hands as even the most jaded reporters radiated respect.

  I called out to him. “Good luck with your assholes -- I mean, your opinions, Wayne.” But he didn’t hear me. The crowd was too loud, too angry.

  I watched as Dykstra took his place at the very front of the roped-off press section. He was within spitting distance of the raised, outdoor platform and wooden podium, from which U.S. Sen. Hammond Hollister would be speaking in just a few minutes. It was a prime position for any journalist. Most fitting for a reporter with Dykstra’s impressive resume.

  And it’s probably what got him killed.

  Chapter 2

  The piousness, passion, and pure hatred of America’s gay marriage debate had come to Harrisburg that Saturday. Protesters jammed the city’s Market Square Plaza, which was strung with lights, garland and plastic candy canes for the Christmas season.

  The protestors had brought their own, much less joyful decorations. All around me, there were angry signs and hateful banners. Everywhere I looked, arguments raged. The conflicts were as intense as the contradictions.

  Two middle-age men were kissing blissfully as an old lady standing nearby clutched a Bible and pronounced eternal damnation upon their souls. “Extinguish the devil’s fires in your lustful loins,” the old woman commanded, raising a withered hand with evangelical flair. “Or burn in the everlasting inferno of hell, ‘cause God hates homos!”

  Nearby, an obese woman in black leather bellowed, “My love deserves the light of day!”

  To which a mousy guy with a moustache retorted, “Homosexuality is a choice. God wants us to be straight.”
r />   Across the plaza, a bride and groom, outfitted in tux and tails and flowing white gown, made their way through the chaos. Some in the crowd threw confetti. Some blew bubbles. Others hurled epithets. Upon closer inspection, not only was the groom a he; so was the bride. At least he looked decent in drag.

  The dueling protesters had come in honor of Pennsylvania’s junior senator whose reckless remarks to a reporter had made him an enemy of the gay community and a rising star in the Republican Party.

  Hammond Hollister had made the offhand suggestion to a reporter that gay sex was the moral equivalent of incest or bestiality. The effect had been the same as a naïve kid sticking his hand into a beehive. Hollister’s comments weren’t a week old, yet they’d been the subject of countless newspaper op-ed columns and numerous vein-popping ideological scream fests on the cable TV talk shows. The gay and lesbian crowd quickly dubbed the senator “Holier-Than-Thou” Hollister, a slogan that was in no short supply among the sign-carrying protestors crowding the square. One popular chant went like this: “Homophobe Hollister, go away. You’re racist, sexist and anti-gay.”

  But as reviled as Hollister was among this contingent, he was equally beloved by the equally represented throngs who had flocked here to uphold America’s family values. To them, the senator was a saint and his comments were right on the money. Their signs tended to strike themes centering on the defense of marriage and the supposedly well-known fact that God wants us all to be straight. Of course, there were liberal doses of hellfire and brimstone thrown in for good measure.

  “Prepare to Meet Thy God!” declared one placard, complete with imagery of lapping flames. “Fornicators Take Heed. God Hates Fags,” read another.

  This cultural circus had come to town because Hollister had decided to attend a holiday prayer breakfast at the Harrisburg Hilton. The gathering of bacon, eggs and bowed heads was taking place inside the cozy confines of the grand ballroom, while the massive protest was kept at bay outdoors in the mid-December chill. The chanters, sign-holders, and costumed protestors were restricted to an open-air plaza in front of the hotel. Cold winds coming off the Susquehanna River raked the crowd. Yet the freezing weather did nothing to diminish its size or cool the spirited debate.

  Unfortunately for me, the media had also been barred from the prayer breakfast. This was done in order to preserve the “spiritual integrity” of the event. I guess one couldn’t get a clear channel to the Almighty with all those TV cameras and tape recorders around. Either way, I was out in the cold with the rest of them, caught in the angry crossfire over whether two human beings with the same set of sexual equipment ought to be allowed to marry.

  I wasn’t happy.

  Personally, I believed all those gay and lesbian protesters didn’t know how lucky they were. Up until now, society had spared them from the misery of matrimony and the financial devastation of divorce. They’d been handed a free pass. Given a get-out-of-jail-free card. They couldn’t just accept this kindness and go on their merry way. No, they wanted in on the wonderful world of wedded bliss. Meanwhile, a whole lot of heterosexuals who were married wanted out.

  Perhaps Wayne Dykstra should stick that in one of his columns, I thought. But that was just me. And what did I know? I had screwed up my own marriage long ago. As punishment, I’d been dealt a far worse fate. My meddling mother came to stay with me. At the time, she sold the arrangement as temporary, just to see me through the trying trauma of my divorce. Temporary was eleven years and counting.

  * * *

  Coldness from the concrete seeped through the leather soles of my wingtips. I plunged my fists into the pockets of my overcoat. Periodically, I’d stamp my feet like a cop on the beat, trying to keep the circulation going. I wondered how some of the protesters in far skimpier outfits could stand it. Some of the more outlandish getups exposed far too much flesh for December. Surely, they’d end up with frostbitten privates.

  What I really needed was a little anti-freeze. If only I could slip over to the Pepper Grill for an eye-opener. The dive bar was just around the corner and it always opened early for the morning drinkers.

  The temptation was strong, but I resisted. Daytime drinking was one of the many sins that had gotten me into trouble at the paper over the years. There were times, many times, when I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. I’d have been in that bar draining shot glasses of Ouzo. But I was running out of second chances. I was in my late 40s. More of my career, if you could call it that, was behind me than ahead. I had pissed away most of it nursing anger, regret and resentment on a bar stool huddled over a drink.

  In the newspaper business, one never knew when the next round of buyouts or layoffs was coming. Then what would I do? God help me, I still loved the job. I loved being a reporter. This could be my list shot for something more. Something bigger.

  My former reporting partner, Cassandra Jordan, certainly found something bigger. Cassie left the Herald last year after landing a job at none other than The New York Times. She was young, beautiful and ambitious. I was older, rumpled and burned out. Yet we’d been thrown together by events, and together we had taken down a corrupt governor. For our troubles, Cassie received the spoils in New York. I got my old beat back at the Herald.

  These days, Cassie was traveling the country as one of the Times’ national reporters. She was at the beck and call of only the most important news. In journalism, that meant just a few things -- major political scandals, calamitous natural disasters, bizarre sexual situations, big body counts, or any combination of the above.

  With Cassie consumed by such lofty tasks, I hadn’t heard from her since she left Harrisburg. I didn’t expect that to change any time soon, though I badly wanted to see her again.

  I had no way of knowing that events would bring us together.

  “See anything you like?”

  The ridiculous question brought my mind back to the present.

  I spun around and sneered, figuring some smart-ass activist was trying to bait the conservative-looking guy in the overcoat.

  “You trying to be funny?” I snapped.

  It was an activist, all right. Only he worked for the paper. Herald photographer Wally Greenfield was young and wiry, favoring black T-shirts, baggy jeans, and all manner of tattoos and piercings. His hair was dyed about five different colors. In other words, he fit in perfectly with this crowd.

  “I meant, do you see anything that would work with the story?” Wally corrected himself, as he fiddled with the lens of one of the three cameras he had slung over his shoulders. “Anything you want me to take a picture of?”

  “Seen lots of shit,” I said. “Most of it should never run in a family newspaper. Anyway, you’re the expert, Greenfield. I imagine you already have the shots you like.”

  Wally grinned, metal piercings flashing from his eyebrows, ears and mouth. “Got some good stuff, all right,” he said. “Hard part’s gonna be editing it down. I mean, it’s a photographer’s field day out there.”

  “Nice to see someone taking pleasure in his work.”

  “Work?” Wally said. “You mean they pay us for this?”

  I scowled at him. Just then, another loud flare up among the protesters caught the photographer’s attention. Wally swung around, raised a camera to his face and plunged back into the currents of the crowd.

  I turned away and stomped my feet again, resisting the call of alcohol. Maybe there’d be time for a nip later, I told myself. But the main thing now was Hollister and his speech. In his own, outlandish way, Wally had reminded me of this. I needed to stay sharp and regain my edge.

  Hollister’s handlers had promised that the senator would address the crowd immediately following the prayer breakfast. That was the story: A lightening rod politician meets his deeply-divided public. Reporters from newspapers and TV stations all across Pennsylvania and beyond had come to cover it. At least thirty journalists, maybe more. All of us assembled in a roped-off section near the hotel’s entrance. Another two-dozen news photo
graphers and TV cameramen were wandering about, capturing the bizarre scene for posterity. Wally had immersed himself somewhere in that sea of humanity in quest of the perfect shot -- a single image depicting all of this madness. Wally was out to beat his competition, and I was out to beat mine.

  I’d have to out-write the likes of Wayne Dykstra and some of the other top dogs of journalism who had flocked to Harrisburg. All the big guns were there, including, I was sure, a scribe from the New York Times. Unfortunately, it wasn’t Cassie Jordan.

  Damn, I scolded myself, I was still thinking about her. Cassie was preoccupying my mind far too often of late. It would have to stop. I had my responsibilities to the newspaper. That was part of it. But even more daunting, my meddling mother had been scheming to arrange some kind of a fucked-up family reunion. She invited my ex-wife and my estranged daughter back home to Harrisburg for Christmas. In just over a week, I’d meet my granddaughter for the first time.

  Slowly but surely, I was getting my life together. I was making a comeback, despite what self-important assholes like Wayne Dykstra might think.

  Looking back, perhaps things had been going a little too well. I should have realized that no one lives down his past. It’s inescapable. And it can be deadly.

  My own past was a minefield of mistakes and a graveyard of buried secrets -- all of it returning to haunt me.

  Chapter 3

  The crowd noise reached a crescendo when Hollister appeared. He took the podium, flanked by ministers from the prayer service and members of his adoring staff.