Kill The Story Page 4

  I was left alone in the room with the sinking feeling that Sharps had been right. The shooting would prove to be the best thing ever to happen to Sen. Hammond Hollister.

  But only if they got the shooter before he could finish the job.

  Chapter 7

  Back at the paper, I was half-way through my second story of the day when the phone rang. Reluctantly, I halted my flurry of keystrokes and reached for the receiver.

  “Tellis,” I said.

  “Isn’t that just like you?” an instantly familiar female voice said. “You get a big story and forget all about us little people.”

  I smiled, pushed back from my desk and reclined in my swivel chair. The Hollister story could wait.

  “Don’t you have it the other way around, Cassie?”

  Just hearing her voice again made me feel better, more alive, somehow.

  “I mean, you’re the one who went off to New York,” I continued. “I’m right where I’ve always been. I don’t even have your number there. Figured you didn’t want me bothering you.”

  “The New York Times is in the book, honey,” she shot back.

  I could picture the sassy look on her young face. I longed to see her. But there were reasons I hadn’t tried to contact my former reporting partner. Cassandra Jordan’s departure from Harrisburg had not been under the best of circumstances. She had been reckless, made some bad decisions and people had gotten hurt. She had gotten too close to a source who ended up dead. There were even lingering questions about her own health. Only I knew of these dark secrets. I figured she’d been avoiding me to escape her own past. It had to be Cassie to break the silence between us. Now that she had, I wasn’t about to push. It was joy enough just hearing from her.

  “I didn’t want to bother you,” I said. “I figured you’d be off somewhere, covering God knows what.”

  “Excuses, excuses,” she scolded.

  “How is it being a newspaper nomad?” I asked. “You mind living out of a suitcase?”

  Being a national reporter for the New York Times was a ticket to travel the country. But it wasn’t a tour of the top travel destinations. Tragedy determined the itinerary.

  “You know the drill,” Cassie answered, sounding bored. Or at least that was the tone she wanted to strike, so I’d feel sympathy, not jealousy. “Mudslides in California. A multiple homicide with racial overtones in Alabama. An apartment fire in Chicago. It’s fun for a while, but it never ends. It’s a marathon of suffering. And my job is to extract essentially the same set of quotes from a different group of shocked, grief-stricken survivors. Gets to you after a while. We like to think we can shut it out. We’re journalists; we should be above all that. But it seeps in. It seeps into your soul.”

  I knew what she meant. Newsrooms were famous for their gallows humor. The bigger the death toll, the better the story. But there was a breaking point. There was always one story that got under your skin. Once it broke through, it burrowed deep and stayed for a lifetime. I had such a story. Not only had it affected me deeply, it derailed my career. It was twenty-plus years ago, but I was still feeling its effects. What I wasn’t about to do was feel sorry for Cassie. She was too young. And she was working for the goddamn New York Times.

  “Guess that means you’re ready to resign and come back to Harrisburg,” I said.

  “Not quite. But I wouldn’t mind a little detour to your neck of the woods. Tell me about this Hollister stuff. Sounds like you’re right in the middle of a hot story.’’

  I filled her in on the day’s events, but Cassie was unimpressed. “I need something more,” she said, exasperated. “Something different. I’m stuck in fucking Arkansas, for crissakes. The Times has one of its political guys on the Hollister thing. I need something I can take to my editors. Something new from the investigation to get me in.”

  “Arkansas?” I repeated. Now I was beginning to feel sorry for her.

  “Yeah. The roof of some shopping center collapsed. A bunch of kids were lined up to see Santa. A real mess.” Her comments were so off-hand, she could have been complaining about a broken fingernail. “So what can you get for me?”

  “Well, the FBI’s running the investigation. You know what tightasses they are. But I have this source…”

  “Course you do,” she said. I could almost see Cassie beaming on the other end of the line. “That’s the Telly I know and love.”

  The comment about my source reminded me that I still owed Dave Langhorne the pictures from the shooting. Otherwise, the detective’s tips could come to an abrupt halt. The day was rapidly slipping away. Deadline would soon be upon me. I’d need to enlist the help of Wally Greenfield.

  “Give me a little time here, Cassie. I’m up to my ass in reaction stories right now. Hollister’s the chosen one, dontcha know. I’ll start checking around for more soon as I get off deadline. You finish up in Arkansas, and I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Alright, Telly.” Cassie paused, then resumed in her most sympathetic voice. “Sorry I didn’t phone before. I don’t want you thinking I only call when I need something. You don’t think I’m an evil, ego-centric, demanding bitch, do you?”

  I chuckled. “No, I think you’re a reporter. A damn good one. I’ll share whatever I can, I promise.”

  “Get me something good, and drinks and dinner are on the Times,” she said.

  “You’re on. Just don’t blow your expense account at all those hot spots in Arkansas.” I couldn’t help but snicker. “I hear that place rocks on a Saturday night.”

  “Laugh it up, funny boy,” she said. “Harrisburg’s not much better. Just get me something so I can get the hell out of here.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said, thinking it was nice to be needed, even if it was only for my sources.

  Chapter 8

  I was back in the thick of writing my story when the bleat of the phone interrupted me again. I was pushing deadline to the absolute limit, and this time I was annoyed.

  “What is it?” I barked.

  “Francis, my God. I was so worried.”

  I should have figured. It was Mother. I looked at my watch. It was nearly 8 p.m.

  “You must have been on pins and needles,” I said. “The shooting was ten hours ago. That’s a helluva lot of suspense, even for you.”

  “I was out shopping. I just heard.” She sobbed. “It’s so terrible. Are you all right, Francis?”

  “I’m fine. I survived only to have them try to work me to death at the paper. I’m still on deadline. I really should go. Thanks for calling, though.”

  “You make it sound like I don’t care.”

  “I’m just saying it took you a while. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  The last thing I needed was another argument with my mother. Tensions were running high enough on account of the holiday reunion Maggie had orchestrated behind my back. Perhaps Mother was right on that one. It was high time I re-established contact with my long-estranged daughter, Jessi. And, surely, I could be civil to my ex-wife, Evelyn, who by all accounts had done a wonderful job raising our girl when I couldn’t even take care of myself.

  Jessi was an adult with a child of her own now, but she wouldn’t come to see her old man without her mother. I didn’t blame her. I had botched things pretty good when it came to my family. Then there was Lexi, the three-year-old granddaughter I’d never met. That was reason enough for a reunion right there. Still, I doubted I would have reached out on my own. Deep down, Maggie knew this. That’s why she had taken matters into her own hands. Then again, Maggie was the type to take control of everything. She was a Greek mother who had bullied my father into an early grave. Now, she was running my life. The shame of it was, I was letting her.

  Long ago, I had fooled myself into believing that our living arrangement was for Maggie’s benefit. She was the widow getting up in years. She was the lonely one, the one who needed me. Besides, she was there just six months of the year, spending the rest of the time at a small condo in F
lorida where she could meddle in the lives of people her own age. Ironically, it was during Maggie’s annual migrations to Florida that cemented her relationship with Evelyn and Jessi and had been waiting on little Lexi hand-and-foot.

  No, I was the one who needed taken care of. And Maggie was a force of nature when it came to taking care of people. She cleaned like an army of maids. Her Greek cooking was to die for. And now she had arranged for a second chance with my daughter and granddaughter. The girls were expected in from Florida on Thursday. I guess Mother wasn’t all bad.

  “If you’da sprung for that cell phone I wanted, I could check in more often,” Maggie said. “You know I shop on Saturdays. They had some really good door-busters at the mall. I saved lots of money and got some adorable things for Lexi.”

  This reunion was costing me a fortune. Already, Maggie had purchased new towels and linens for the guest room, and she’d been going crazy with Christmas decorations. I should have realized the gifts would be just as extravagant.

  “How much did you spend?” I asked, then instantly changed my mind. “No, don’t tell me.” For a fleeting second, I wished that a shopping center roof had collapsed in Harrisburg, not Arkansas. Then I banished the thought.

  As usual, Maggie skipped right over my concerns about money. “Wait till you see these cute little outfits. Lexi’s gonna love them. I want to make this the best Christmas ever.” She was beginning to sound like a Hallmark card.

  “Spending a fortune isn’t the way to go about it,” I put in. “All of us being together should be enough.”

  After all, I was footing the bill for three round-trip tickets from Daytona. That was enough.

  “It is,” Mother said. “It’ll be wonderful having everyone home. I can’t wait for the girls to open all their presents.”

  I gave up, resigned to my financial fate. “Yeah, sure, Maggie Whatever you say. It’ll be great. But right now, I gotta go.”

  “I’m just so glad you’re all right, Francis. I wouldn’t want anything to spoil this holiday.”

  Especially small, little annoyances like fatal shootings, I thought.

  “Everything’ll be fine,” I assured. I’d just have to remember to stock lots of booze. “See you at home.”

  * * *

  I raced through the rest of the writing to make deadline. I filed the story, feeling completely drained. Sharps, still helming the city desk, was on it in seconds, tweaking and trimming my copy for the front page.

  It was a good day’s work and then some. But I had one last thing to do. I forced my ass from my chair and went to find Wally Greenfield.

  The photographer sat before a large computer screen in the newspaper’s art department. He leaned close to the image and manipulated a computer mouse.

  Greenfield had told me he shot digital almost exclusively. No more film, and no more slopping around with chemicals in the darkroom to see what he had. He simply popped a card from his digital camera and slipped it into one of the high-powered, super-resolution Macs in the art department. Then, presto, everything he shot was right there on the screen, to be lightened, darkened, cropped and re-sized at the touch of a mouse.

  As I walked up from behind, I could see the dozens of thumbnail pictures lining the screen. He need only click on any of the thumbnails to enlarge it for closer inspection.

  I leaned in for a look, but Wally didn’t so much as glance away. He seemed so focused, I was reluctant to interrupt. I waited in silence, instead.

  “I got a couple of good ones of you helping the DOA,” said Wally, having glimpsed my reflection in the darkened surface of his computer screen. “Wanna see?”

  I didn’t, but Wally was quick with his mouse. In seconds, the large computer screen filled with an image of me leaning over Wayne Dykstra. My jaw was clenched, the veins in my neck strained, as I reached down with my handkerchief to Wayne’s pulpy, ruined forehead. It was a feeble attempt at first-aide, like someone trying to put out a house fire with a glass of water. In that way, it was ridiculous. I also noticed how badly my hair was graying and how the years of boozing had rutted my face. Yet my preference for walking over driving had kept me lean. But this wasn’t a time for vanity, and this particular photo wasn’t for judging my appearance.

  “It’s my best shot,” Wally said, still admiring the photo. “I’m talking my best image ever. The best thing I’ve ever done. And the goddamn newspaper won’t run it. They say since you’re a reporter, it’s too much like blowing our own horn. The old party line that journalists should never be part of the story. But when some nut takes shots at a pack of reporters, journalists can’t help but become part of the story.”

  I found myself having trouble taking my eyes off the photo, as well. It brought everything back. The sticky warmth of Dykstra’s blood as it soaked through my cloth handkerchief. And later, how the blood dried to a crust, matting the hair on the back of my hands. How I held my hands under scalding hot water in a hotel bathroom sink to wash it all away, rinsing and soaping, rinsing and soaping for the better part of fifteen minutes until my hands were red and raw.

  I looked down at my hands. Reddish-brown specks remained embedded in the grooves of my fingernails. Maybe I’d never be able to wash it all away. I knew I’d never erase the feelings and memories.

  “Maybe they’re right,” I said. “The editors, I mean.”

  Wally swung around, alarmed at my betrayal. His face flashed silver from his multiple piercings, his hair a mop of clashing colors. He looked injured that I would side with the powers that be.

  “I mean, it’s not like this guy, whoever did the shooting, was gunning for journalists,” I said. “Hollister was the target.”

  Wally frowned. Hollister’s politics were light years from the photographer’s liberal leanings. Perhaps he sensed the shooting would glorify the senator. The fact that the tragedy occurred during a raucous clash over gay rights and homosexual marriage could be all the more damaging to those causes. Especially if the shooter turned out to be some radical supporter gunning for the standard bearer of America’s family values.

  “You know, I scared myself out there,” Wally said.

  “We were all scared,” I assured him.

  He shook his head. “Not like that. When the shooting started, I just reacted. It was automatic. I just started snapping pictures. I didn’t even think about the bullets.”

  “That’s your job,” I said in support.

  Wally wrinkled his pierced brow. “No. It’s what went through my head. I was actually glad someone was shooting at that bastard. I know that’s fucked up, but that’s how I felt.”

  “And now?”

  “I know it was wrong. I know violence isn’t the way. It doesn’t accomplish anything. It’s the people that matter, who make a difference.”

  “So you’re not a pinko communist after all,” I smiled. “You’re an American.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” he said. “But I still hate the government most of the time. Is that allowed?”

  I patted him on the shoulder. “If it wasn’t, none of us would be Americans.”

  Wally turned back to the computer screen, which still blazed with the image of a dying Wayne Dykstra.

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” he said. “If the paper doesn’t use that image, I’m gonna sell it. I’m sure Time or Newsweek would be interested. I know it’s against policy. The paper owns everything we shoot, even what they don’t run. But it’s my best work. I want it out there.”

  Wally was young, but he was already getting a taste of the many ways newspapers can grind a person down.

  “Why don’t you wait on that,” I gently said. “I don’t want to see you doing anything rash and getting yourself fired. You’re too good. Anyway, there’s something else we need to do with those pictures of yours.”

  Wally turned. “Like what?”

  “Help solve this murder.”

  I told Wally about Det. Dave Langhorne’s interest in all the photographic evidence from the event. Wally
already knew of the FBI’s overzealous interest. And while he was skeptical of all authority, he was growing to trust me, and he knew I trusted Langhorne.

  “How long till you can get outta here?” I asked him.

  He checked his watch. “I’ve shown the editors all my stuff. They picked about twenty images as possibilities. They’ll narrow that down to five or six for the paper. I still have a few more images to crop and cutlines to write.”

  The photographer’s eyes returned to his computer. “I think I’ll send them this one, too. Just to be a wise ass.” Wally jerked his head at the image of me and Wayne Dykstra. His hands skillfully skimmed the keys as he typed the caption:

  “Veteran Herald political reporter Frank Tellis assists dying journalist Wayne Dykstra, a noted columnist with the Philadelphia Inquirer, moments after gunshots rang out during an otherwise peaceful demonstration over gay marriage.”

  I appreciated the sentiment, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to see that picture memorialized on the paper’s front page, much less in Time or Newsweek.

  “There,” Wally said, tapping the send key with added emphasis. “They won’t use it, but I made my point. It’s the best image by far.”

  “When you’re done making your point, print out everything for Langhorne,” I said, feeling the weight of the day. “Guess you never know what might be caught on film.”

  “Pixels,” Wally corrected. “It’s all digital now.”

  “Right. How long?”

  “We’re talking about more than two hundred images if you want everything I shot during the demonstration. It’ll take another hour, maybe more.”

  I dipped my head. My shoulders slumped. “I’m drained. This whole thing with Wayne.”

  I figured I’d play on the photographer’s sympathies. After all, he had captured my shining moment of sacrifice.

  “Is there anyway you can take the pictures to Langhorne?” I reached for the phone to set it up, but Wally appeared apprehensive.