Hollow Tree

by Ian Neligh

  Shrugging, there wasn’t much more we could do, Sal and I agreed to take off before the television crews showed.

  Behind the Curtain

  Half the lights in the newsroom were still turned off when Sal and I got there. Muttering to himself, he walked off to the photographers’ corner of the open floor. My own half cubicle was on the south side of the floor. It had a perfect view of a bus station thirty floors below. Traffic was starting to fill up the streets. Municipal City was a beautiful contradiction of two hells. On one hand you had freezing wind that cut like a razor and shrieked between the skyscrapers, like the ghosts of dead politicians. During this time of the year the weather blew frosty drifts off the top of the buildings into plumes of sparkling ice.

  Then, on the other hand, there was the light; harsh and blinding with no warmth, it filled the streets with the clarity and insensitivity of an operating room.

  Today it was overcast and rainy.

  I switched on my computer and decided to make some phone calls while it powered up. Taking out my faded notebook, I leafed to the last few pages where I kept most of my sources. Jeff Polar’s name and number were next to a bad doodling of a braying donkey—it wasn’t anything personal; I liked Polar. Punching in his number, I held the phone in the crook of my neck while jotting down some additional questions. I couldn’t tell if the body had been male or female. Admittedly, I’d been rushed at the time, it had been raining, and of course the missing head made it difficult. Well, it wasn’t quite missing. My subconscious put the gory image up in the forefront of my mind, and I shook my head. I didn’t need to be thinking about it all day. It was this kind of stuff that kept me from sleeping well.

  The phone rang on the other end. It was rare to see such a violent crime, if in fact that’s what it was, so close to downtown where the capes hung out. I started to add a few more details to the donkey to make it look like it was flying over a city.

  As usual for a public relations guy, he wasn’t in, and knowing my luck with deadlines, he probably wouldn’t be in until after lunch. I had his cell number—given to the media for any emergencies after hours. As one of the public information officers for the MCPD, he had to be accessible twenty-four hours a day. He wasn’t of course—but the important thing was he wasn’t Calhoun.

  “Jeff, it’s Jack Norman with the Daily Municipal,” I said, getting his voice mail. Sal walked by and motioned that there was coffee in the break room. “Just had some quick questions about the death near Broadway this morning. Give me a call as soon as you can.” I hung up.

  Just then there was a sonic boom. A blur of red-andyellow flashed by the window down the street. The windows rattled and everyone got up to look or crane their necks to see. It was The Champion. And just like that everyone sat back down and got on with their morning. My computer was still loading. Swearing at it, I got up and started heading for the break room. On the way I saw the paper’s managing editor, Mr. Fernley, coming in off the elevator.

  “Frank,” I said, waving hello and making my way over to him. “I got this—”

  “Jack, give me a goddamn second to get settled. I’m an old man,” he said, heading to his office.

  I spun on my heel and went back to my desk and sat back down. My computer was still loading, so I kicked up my feet.

  “Did you know the mayor is thinking about declining the police five-year salary raise, ’cause of The Champion?” Eddie was in the desk across from mine.

  I pushed the stack of reference books to the side so I could see his face.

  “What’d he say?” I asked.

  “That he would personally make the crime rate drop.”

  “By himself, or with the team he formed last year?” My computer finished loading. Sunlight washed over the mismanaged disaster that was my desk.

  “By himself, I guess.”

  “Good,” I said, finally getting to look through my e-mail. “Because it’s hard enough for one flying giant in a yellow-and-red suit to catch a single criminal in the act of committing a crime, not to mention five of them running around together trying to locate one—like some kind of circus. What criminal is going to miss that disaster coming down the street?”

  I started working my way through my new e-mail list. I got a handful of garbage news tips—one wanted me to call right away. I got about fifty of these a day. Eddie rolled his eyes, long ago bored with my negative attitude of superheroes.

  “Oh come on, we report on them busting crime all the time. Don’t you read your own paper?”

  “I can’t afford a subscription,” I said. “Plus, do you really believe a drug dealer, who has an almost sixth sense for spotting an undercover cop, is going to miss a flying clown in tights?”

  “You haven’t read the paper because you haven’t had a page-one story in years,” Eddie said. “Hell, not at least as long as I’ve been here.”

  “Quality, not quantity, asshole,” I said.

  “Guess that explains why you’re buried so deep in the paper—trying to find your byline is like digging for gold,” he quipped.

  I wanted to throw something at his head—but he was right. I’d been blacklisted ever since getting wrapped up in an investigative piece into city hall that turned out to have a false witness. The story ruined my reputation and dirtied that of the paper’s. I was lucky to still have a job.

  My phone rang.

  “This is Jack,” I answered.

  “Jack, this is Jeff Polar with Municipal City Police Department.”

  “Good morning. I didn’t know people on your side of the house called folks back before noon.”

  “Yeah—hey about that death, I just got here myself and know very little about it. I need some time to get the details. You can always talk to Calhoun. He’s up to date.”

  “I hate that guy,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said. “Give me a second to go across the hallway.” He put the phone down, and as I waited I added a mask to the donkey.

  “Here we go, I got it in front of me,” he said, back on the line. “What do you wanna know?”

  “Male or female?” I asked.

  “Male, we believe in his late eighties,” he said after shuffling through some papers.

  “A senior citizen?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Do we have a name?”

  “I’ll have to get back to you on that, as well as with cause of death.”

  “Call me back.” I hung up as Sara Reeves, the paper’s education reporter, stopped next to my desk.

  “Jack, Mr. Fernley is looking for you.”

  “Thanks,” I said, getting up. Eddie’s eyes lingered on her too long as she walked away.

  “Well, I’m off to see the Wizard.”

  “The who?” he asked.

  “The man behind the curtain,” I said, grabbing my notebook.

  The Wizard

  Frank Fernley was a classic newsman. Black-and-white photos of him with notable political figures throughout his career decorated the walls of his moderately sized office. Stepping into it was like taking a time machine back to the ’50s. There were pictures of him shaking hands with presidents and famous actors, and even a small photo of him smoking a cigar and drinking scotch with the original Patriot.

  Frank Fernley had been in every war zone in the last three decades. He even had a brief stint as a lightweight boxer for a series on the sport.

  Seeing him sit below those photos was like seeing what would have happened if he’d gotten off the time machine early, while the rest of the people from that decade left him behind to grow old.

  His eyebrows were now bushy and gray, his strong shoulders hunched and small. But the sharp flint in his eyes remained mostly the same, more diluted, but endowed with the same weight and now a new weariness the old pictures didn’t reflect.

  “What is it?” he abruptly asked, putting down the phone.

  “I’m sorry?” I asked.

  Mr. Fernley began looking through his desk. “What is it ab
out the mind that makes us think one thing when it is quite clearly the other?”

  Raising an eyebrow, I remained near the door out of respect for his inner sanctum.

  Almost as if reading my mind, he motioned for me to take a seat.

  “For instance”—he paused, thinking—“Norman…what is it in my mind that’s telling me I have a flask of Wild Turkey in this desk when I know that I stopped drinking the stuff at work when it went out of vogue in the late ’70s?” He sighed and directed his heavy gaze at me. It felt like a ton of bricks.

  “These are troubling times,” he continued, taking off his glasses and cleaning them with the hem of his sweater. “Papers are losing readers. Why do you think that is, Jack?”

  There was no quick answer. I shrugged, knowing he wasn’t looking for me to give him one.

  “Soon we’re all going to be a bunch of damn illiterate, celebrity-obsessed, television-watching morons,” he said, looking almost sad. “Not too long afterward, I figure human civilization is going to push that big red reset button. Booze would make that go down a lot better, don’t you think?”

  Fernley held his glasses up to the light, looking for imperfections. His eyes looked from one lens to the other, then, nodding, he slipped them back onto his hawklike nose.

  “I hope to hell I’m still alive to watch that—it’d make a damn fine story. What did you want to talk to me about?”

  Clearing my throat, I told him about the death. It was weird, and I felt there was more to it than a two-hundredword blurb. I angled to get out of my other assignments so I could focus on this story and asked for a second chance to work on an investigative piece.

  Fernley grimaced at an internal thought, then nodded. “What makes you think there’s more to the story?”

  “There may not be anything, but it is…unusual,” I said. “Call it a hunch.”

  “No, I’d rather not—you and hunches don’t have a good track record.” He chewed his lip for a second. “Fine, but I expect an initial story by deadline today, as well as a follow-up story by tomorrow—if there is one.”

  I started to thank him when he added, “And weren’t you the lucky bastard to get the new Little League ball field ground-breaking feature?”

  I cringed at the mention of it.

  “I still want it. Now get to work. I’ve got a meeting coming in the door, someone who might be interested in buying this old paper.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, getting up and heading for the door. If I was right and this turned out to be a decent story, there was a chance of clearing my name. I hoped to hell it wasn’t a dead-end story. Six years ago, I’d been on the fast track to being in charge of my own section. Now I was lucky to draw glances of pity and a paycheck.

  On my way out the door, I almost bumped into a well-built man with black hair. In his perfectly fitted suit, millionaire Richard Hanson was easily recognizable. Businessman of the Year, Hanson ran a host of successful businesses and nonprofits benefiting the city’s poor—and was apparently interested in buying a newspaper.

  “Sorry about that,” I said.

  He stopped, raising an eyebrow. “Do I know you?”

  “Um, I’m a reporter here, Jack Norman,” I said. He wouldn’t have recognized me, but I’d written stories about his events over the years and had talked to him on the phone maybe a half-dozen times.

  “Uh-huh, that’s right,” he said, as we shook hands. His grip was awesome. I was afraid for a moment that when he returned my hand there’d be nothing left but burger. I smiled and prayed he’d let go, when he did I tried not to whimper in relief.

  “I’ve read your articles before, good stuff. If you ever need a scoop, I’ve got tons of stuff coming up. Give me a holler for an interview anytime.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Will do.”

  He displayed a genuine smile and patted me on the shoulder before passing into Fernley’s office. Nice guy, for a business tycoon. The paper’s owners have looked for a buyer for years. Hanson would be perfect; he was both charitable and a good businessman — even if he did have the grip strength of a gorilla.

  Sitting at my cube and waiting the majority of the morning for a phone call from Jeff Polar was not my idea of a good time. But before I could really do anything with this story, I had to have the definitive cause of death. When he didn’t call, I wasn’t surprised. Sometimes it took days for the medical examiner to come to a conclusion and pass it down the proper channels to the press. I just didn’t have days.

  I surveyed my desk like one does a nasty car accident. Slumping into my chair, I brushed aside a pile of letters and memos with a broad backhanded sweep. I glanced at my watch and saw I was approaching my initial deadline. The story bled across my screen as I typed it, occasionally glancing at my notes. Finished, I filed it. With nothing left to do, I glanced at my phone, hoping it would ring. Like blood from a struggling heart, reporters, photographers, and copy editors filed in and out of the newsroom as the sun began to look for shelter behind Municipal City’s buildings. Getting irritable at the thought of a wasted day, I left my phone and plowed out of the newsroom into the streets below. Directionless, the crowd moved me from block to block. Loathing the idea of doing an about-face and walking back up to my desk, I continued on for another twenty minutes and sank my hands deeper into my pockets, hiding them from the chill. Not far from the crime scene, I decided to walk the two blocks to where it had been. The alley was empty, and the cops had left no sign that a death had occurred only that morning. The area was dark and motionless like an empty eye socket.

  Feeling invasive, I wandered in to have a look around. They really had done a good job cleaning up the area. I scratched the back of my neck and admitted to myself I didn’t know what I was doing there. A distant police siren wailed by.

  Leaning against a wet wall, I breathed through my nose and got a full bouquet. That ever-present smell of trash and the earthly smell of brick. That was the thing about bricks; no matter how they looked, or what they built, they were still just a bunch of dirt. It was time to stop hanging out in alleys; I decided to grab some lunch. Lacking originality, I went next door to The Pizza Pisan. Walking around to the front, I opened the glass door and noticed just inside a small security camera pointing out to the street.

  The place was stuffy and dark. There were no patrons, just a busboy sitting alone in a booth reading a book. A man in a greasy white shirt, with large nostrils, leaned over the order counter. “Pizza?” he asked.

  “If you say so, but who am I to judge?” I said, making my way up to the counter. “I see you got a security camera out front.” I tried to sound conversational and failed.

  He looked me up and down and snorted like a bull.

  “You plannin’ to rob the place?” he asked.

  I looked over my shoulder.

  “Not until you have more customers,” I said. “There was a death last night outside in the alley—”

  “The tape is gone,” he said, cutting me off. “I told the other cops that this morning. A cape took it. I told you guys that already.”

  I didn’t deny I was a cop and instead tried to look more stoic to fit the role. I was careful not to overdo it and give the impression I had some type of terrible illness.

  “A cape?” I asked.

  “Yeah, the bird one,” he said. “I told you that already.”

  I tried not to look surprised. Something wasn’t right. But rather than work it out in front of him, I thanked him and headed back outside into the cold. This time I had a clear destination.

  Flying South

  In living memory there have always been superheroes in Municipal City. Someone once told me they first came during the Great Depression as some sort of government propaganda campaign. The goal was to keep communism from infecting the hearts and minds of the poverty-stricken farmers and immigrants. But I’d argue superheroes have been in America since the very beginning. There they were during the Old West—cutting down whole forests with an axe or gunning do
wn dozens of men in the lawless streets of a small town.

  History is full of stories with men and women possessing extra-ordinary abilities. But to be fair, the honest to goodness “crime fighters” really didn’t make their appearance in the metropolitan landscape until the mid1940s—probably the brainchild of Roosevelt for the purpose of boosting the morale of soldiers. Propaganda is a powerful tool, especially one that’s not completely a lie. That was when the first Patriot was on the scene. The newspapers told of his exploits in the Pacific.

  It was good to know that your country not only protected its borders with legions of battle-seasoned troops, but also with heroes that possessed Herculean strength. They gave us the power to look past the misgivings we had in our leaders when the factories were later closed as politicians politicized. I lived in the suburb of Municipal called Adams, one of its growing bastards that popped up after the war. Superheroes mainly stayed in Municipal City proper, where, as I can only imagine they intended, more people could see them. Real crime doesn’t happen in the city, not really. It happens in places like Six Points, Station, and Adams. As a kid growing up in those places, crime was a natural force of life, like a thunderstorm or a flood. We lived and breathed in a world of double standards. A dumbfounded burglar in black-and-white stripes was punished in a comic book for robbing a bank after escaping from prison. My uncle regularly stole from the back of delivery trucks to make money so his family could eat.

  Not wholly unfamiliar with crime, I knew where the police department was located, like in the magnetic way birds flying south know where to go.

  Penchant for Violence

  I entered the grim concrete-and-steel building and was reminded that police stations stink. Quite literally. It’s like a strange combination of booze and that new-car smell. Or like finding, as you drive your new vehicle off the lot, a Kennedy hiding under the backseat. Ignoring the public-processing window and the bored officer sitting there, I made a sharp left and walked up to the administration window. Cough-drop wrappers decorated the woman’s desk like freshly driven snow. She stared at me, waiting to see what I had to say.