Song of Suzies

by Dave Balcom

  “No, I don’t think so,” she said in her pouty voice. “She wasn’t smiling until you turned around. She was just staring at your back.”

  I casually looked back over my shoulder and saw her heading towards the convenience store to pay for her fuel.

  I topped off my tank, closed up the cap and with Sara’s hand in mine started in that direction as well.

  I couldn’t see the tall, well-dressed woman as we entered the store, but Sandy and Jeremy were waiting for us at the checkout. Sandy had her hands full of baby and snacks. I took Jeremy and the snacks, and suggested she escort Sara to the girls’ room. I put the snacks on the counter and paid for them. “Can I leave them right here for the moment?” I asked the clerk.

  “Sure,” she said, sliding the bag away from traffic.

  I took Jeremy into the men’s room and handled my business one-handed, and returned to find the girls waiting.

  “So, who was your lady admirer?” Sandy asked as we settled into the car.

  “What?”

  “Sara said you caught some pretty lady’s eye at the gas pump.”

  “No accountin’ for taste, is there?”

  “She was pretty insistent that you were the object of the lady’s stare...”

  “I missed that, but when I turned, she smiled like she was embarrassed and went about her business. You must have seen her enter the store ahead of us.”

  “Missed that.”

  “No big deal.”

  “It was to Sara; she has become very watchful for a five-year-old. It’s a hangover from the Suzanne stuff, I’m pretty sure.”

  “Being aware of your surroundings is not a bad thing for a little girl.”

  “Or a big, tough guy, either.”

  “Amen to that,” I said with a chuckle.

  39

  The Inland conference was a reaffirmation of everything that made the newspaper business so fascinating to me.

  Most community journalists are isolated in their world. There are many bankers, lawyers, merchants, teachers and doctors in any small town large enough to support a daily newspaper, but there’ll be only one editor. There are only a handful of writers and photographers as well.

  So, when you wake up and find yourself in a hotel where hundreds of editors are sharing breakfast, insights, lectures and all of them share your problems, challenges, victories and defeats and all of them are looking to learn something new – well, it’s a big-time rush.

  “Mr. Stanton?” I turned to see a man about my age with his hand out, “Hi, I’m Mark Boles. I’m the managing editor of the Monterey Express, a small newspaper in Ohio. I just saw the work you guys did on the Suzanne story, and I had to come find you and shake your hand.”

  “That’s very nice of you Mark...”

  “We had a story like that when I first joined the Express. I so wish we’d done for our city what you all did for Lake City. We covered it as best we could, but to this day we don’t know what happened to our Becky Sue Tischman.

  “She disappeared just like your Suzanne, and she was a high school state champion track star, too. Her events were sprints, but she was the prize of Monterey, Ohio, I can tell you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, it was miserable. Our town turned on the police when they couldn’t solve the mystery, and then, they turned on us for keeping the story alive... our bosses couldn’t stand the heat from the business community, and we let it drop. Never did a retrospective or an anniversary piece... She was just lost to us. It destroyed her family, too.

  “I’m so proud to know that there are newspapers like yours and in towns that appreciate them.”

  I was stunned by this outpouring from another journalist. “Did you get letters from the perp?”

  “No,” he said with animation. “I saw that in your nomination. That must have been alarming. No, we just had a missing girl. We did stories on how many young people go missing every year, and everyone kept hoping that the next time her momma’s phone rang it would be Becky Sue asking if she could come home, but that hasn’t ever happened...”

  We were standing in a hallway outside a lecture on the need for a federal Shield Law.

  “Are you going to this lecture?” I asked him.

  “I was, and then I saw you... I’m sorry, I don’t want to come on like some weird groupie, but because of our story I had to meet you and tell you how much your efforts meant to me.”

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s sit through this together. I actually have had some thoughts about this issue over the past couple of years.”

  We found seats in the middle of the room, and listened as experts from the news and law fields discussed the need for a federal law that would protect journalists from having to reveal their sources. New York had such a law since 1970, but there was a growing movement toward a federal statute.

  I sat there and listened to the usual stories about how the lack of federal protection was stifling the ability to report, but my mind kept playing with the similarities between Mark’s lost Becky Sue and my Suzanne. As I sat there, my thoughts started making me antsy with ideas.

  “I’ve gotta go,” I whispered to Mark as I stood up.

  “Wait up,” he said as I excused myself down the row. He followed me up the aisle to the door.

  “That was just getting interesting,” he said. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “I’m fine. I just started thinking about your Becky Sue story and all kinds of questions popped into my head, questions I need to start asking.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “Like, what was the date of your Becky Sue’s disappearance?”

  “August of nineteen eighty, why?”

  “That’s three years apart; I wonder how many more there were in between?”

  “Yuk! That’s an ugly question.”

  “I can’t help it. I’ve gotta do something. I’ll find you later. You go back to the lecture.”

  “You sure? I’m willing to help.”

  “Appreciate it, but I’m not sure what I’m going to be able to do. I’ve got to do something if I can. You go back to shield laws.”

  “You said you had thoughts about them.”

  “Yeah, call me cynical, but I’m all about the First Amendment. I think that’s pretty permanent. But these legislated rights? Not so much. I figure if they can pass a shield law, it’d be real easy to pass another law taking it away, wouldn’t it?”

  He started to laugh. “Yeah, you’re cynical all right. Catch ya later.”

  I went to the desk in the lobby manned by the staff from Inland. I had spoken to a secretary a couple of times in the past, but couldn’t remember her name. There were three women chatting at the table. The lobby was practically empty otherwise, and I approached behind a smile.

  One of the women, seeing my badge, gave me a hundred-watt smile in return, “Congratulations, Jim! I knew you had a winner when the entries first arrived.”

  “Thank you. I was wondering if you folks could help me with something.”

  “Sure.” The smiling woman was wearing a nametag that simply said “Joanne.” “That’s what we’re here for.”

  An older woman with the nametag “Maggie” stood up, “We’ve spoken on the phone before, Jim. I’m Maggie, and it’s nice to put a face with a name. How are things in Lake City?”

  “I’m sure they’re fine, but the help I’m looking for is this: I wonder if I can get a piece into the Inland Daily that you circulate each morning. It wouldn’t take much room, but it could be important to all of us here.”

  “Jim, it would be easy if we were having another edition this conference, but we’re not. Tomorrow is get-away day, and we don’t publish a Daily again until next year.”

  “Aw, shoot,” I said with a rueful smile. “That makes sense.”

  “But you could just give me the note today and I’ll make sure it goes into the monthly bulletin we put out next week, recapping the convention.”

  “That would be
good. Can I compose it right here, right now?”

  “Sure. You want to write it out or type it?”

  “You want to be able to read it?”

  She smiled, and hooked her finger at me, “This way.”

  There was a door behind the table, and she led me to a desk with a Macintosh computer on it. “Familiar with this?”

  I was, and said so. She powered it up and opened up the Write program for me. She typed “Stanton’s brief for bulletin” and saved it to a folder on her desktop. She got up and pointed at the chair. “Just write it up and save it; it’ll be there when I get ready to publish. Be sure to include your phone number in case I have questions.”

  I thanked her, and sat down, comfortable with the computer; it was just like mine at home. About ten minutes later, I sat back and proofed my brief note:

  Too similar to be chance?

  Has your newspaper covered a story about a young woman that disappeared never to be heard from again?

  Jim Stanton of the Lake City (NY) Sentinel-Standard and Mark Boles of the Monterey (OH) Express have. Their two missing women were both called Sue, both were standout track athletes, and both were abducted in the late summer following high school graduation.

  Has your community suffered through such an event? Do you know anyone who has covered such a story? Share your story with Jim at (315) 565-2226.

  I saw that the computer was connected to a printer, so I printed it, closed the story, and went out to the table. “Maggie, this is what I came up with; I hope you can get it in the bulletin.”

  She read the brief item, and then cocked her head a bit to look up at me. “Really? Two of them?”

  “I just met Mark a little while ago. He came to see me and told me about his paper’s experience with Becky Sue Tischman. I have to wonder how many there might be if this is some kind of serial thing, you know?”

  “I’ll be sure to get this in the bulletin. Are you keeping that copy?”

  “I need to show it to Mark. He doesn’t know I’ve included him, so I might be back to edit, but I want that to get to all the members...”

  40

  Bill Price and Sara were at the airport to meet me when I arrived from Chicago. Sara was bouncing up and down like some kind of toy, and ran to me as I came out of the jet way into the gate area.

  “DAAAAAAADDY!”

  I scooped her up and gave her a big hug, then shifted her to my left arm so I could shake Bill’s hand.

  “Welcome home,” he said with a broad smile. “Let me get your carry-on.”

  I relinquished the luggage so I could maneuver safely with Sara in my arms. “Have you been a good girl?”

  “I have!” Then she looked at her grandpa, “Haven’t I?”

  “Of course you have,” he said with a smile. We were walking out of the airport when Sara said, “I didn’t even cry when Mommy made me stay in the car while she went to the phone.”

  I had been listening to Bill tell me about the number of reservations for his hunting camp that were coming in as the waterfowl seasons were opening up north, so her comment took a second to register with me. I stopped in my tracks. “Your mommy made you sit in the car while she used a phone?”

  “Yes, and I didn’t even cry. I could tell she was worried, so I didn’t cry or anything.”

  I looked a question at Bill, and he nodded, “I’ll tell you all about it when we’re home. It turned out to be nothing. Everything’s okay.”

  I got the royal welcome again when we walked into the Price’s kitchen. Mary had soup on the stove and the table was set. “I figured you’d be starving,” she said with a warm smile.

  “In your kitchen? I’m always starving.”

  Sandy was just finishing feeding Jeremy, and I took him from her, changed him and put him down for his post-dinner nap. I came back to the kitchen just as Mary was setting the soup pot in the center of the table.

  “Welcome home, darling,” Sandy whispered as she hugged and kissed me. “I missed you.”

  “Come and get it while it’s hot,” Mary said too brightly. I gave Sandy a look, and she avoided my eyes. I held a chair for her, and took the next one. Dinner passed with just the usual chatter, and as Mary got up to clear dishes, Sandy jumped up to help and asked Sara to join in.

  When the places were clear, Sara went to the living room to watch television, and we were left alone at the table. “So, anything exciting happen while I was gone?” I asked without any preliminaries.

  “I burned the toast twice this week trying to make breakfast,” Sandy laughed.

  “That’s nice.” I turned my attention to Bill, “So what gives?”

  Bill looked at the women, “Sara told her dad about not carrying on while her mom locked her in the car and used a telephone.”

  “Damn,” Sandy said under her breath. “I would have liked to have controlled the flow on that one.”

  I checked my center and my pulse. “What?” I finally asked as quietly as I could.

  She put her hand on mine. “I ran to town Monday, and I took Sara to give Mom a little break. We just needed a couple of things at the store ... When I came out, after I put Sara into her seat, I closed the door and noticed that the rear tire was flat on that side.”

  She cocked her head, a mixture of bother and embarrassment on her face, “You and I had talked about a number of scenarios that could prove to be dangerous, and somebody messing with the car was one, so I just quietly told Sara that I had forgotten something, locked the doors, and went back into the store. I asked to use their phone, and the lady at the counter said there was a pay phone on the corner, but I told her I was afraid, and I needed to use her phone.”

  “She took me to their office and I called Dad...”

  “And I immediately called the Sheriff’s office,” Bill picked up the story. “They radioed a cruiser and the deputy was there in minutes.” He looked back at Sandy.

  “I was at the door. I could see Sara in the car, and when the deputy arrived, I ran out to him, and identified myself. He called a wrecker and sat with us until the guy from the garage came and changed the tire.

  “Then the deputy followed me home, and we haven’t been out of the house since...”

  I could sense the tears that were welling up, and I reached out to touch her arm as I said, “So it was no big deal, but you did everything just as we’d discussed. And it seems Sara is no worse for wear. She told me she knew you were upset so she made sure she was a brave girl and didn’t cry.”

  Sandy held off the tears and nodded, “I have lots to be proud of and thankful for.”

  I squeezed her hand. “Anything else?”

  Bill cleared his throat, “There is one thing. It may or may not mean anything...”

  “Out with it, please?” I again used my quietest voice.

  “Somebody stabbed that tire with a sharp knife...”

  I let that sink in and they all seemed to be poised, waiting for my reaction. I smiled sadly and said, “I’m the proud and thankful one.” I put my arm around Sandy’s shoulders and hugged her to me.

  41

  The bulletin hit our mail on Tuesday, November fifth, the “off” election day that made big news for local politicians who ran in these non-presidential elections.

  For the staff at the Sentinel-Standard, it was just another election; a chance to polish the process of giving our readers the latest possible election results with their breakfast – we always published a morning edition for single-copy sales, and updated it for the afternoon readers.

  It was a long and exhilarating day in the newspaper year.

  When the Inland bulletin hit my desk, I immediately looked to see if Maggie had included the brief, but to my surprise, my “brief” had been turned into a cover story, complete with quotes from Doug and Mark Boles’ publisher. As I was reading it, Randy came in and sat down, “At least he didn’t call us ‘a necessary evil this time.’”

  I chuckled and kept reading. He continued, “You know you might b
e eligible for some kind of prize for house-breaking publishers.”

  “You’re not being reasonable. You got trained in this business over years and you expected the rich guy to get it in a matter of weeks. Not fair or rational. Now he has a newspaper he’s proud of; not his father’s paper, but his, and we gave it to him. Of course he’s on our side now.”

  “God, you’re generous to a fault...”

  My phone buzzed. “Mr. Stanton, line six.”

  I thanked her and punched the six. “Jim Stanton, may I help you?”

  “Mr. Stanton, this is Rita Howard, managing editor of the Inyo Register in Bishop, California.”

  I sat up straight in my chair and reached for a notebook. “Yes, how are you?”

  “Perfectly fine, actually, but I saw your story in the Inlander this morning. Well, we had one of those stories, ours was about Sue Nichols. She disappeared in nineteen seventy-seven. Was walking up to the college for a meeting and disappeared.

  “This place went crazy. It was as bad as the hunt for the Manson Family after the Tate murders in the sixties. But this time police found nothing.”

  “And when was this again?” I heard a rustling of papers and realized she was working from a clip file. “Ms. Howard? Were you with the paper then?”

  “Hardly; I graduated high school with Sue. She was one of my best friends. The Register reported that she went missing on August twenty-seventh, nineteen seventy-seven...”

  “That’s incredible!” I actually shouted loud enough that heads turned in the newsroom. When you’re as large as I am, you try very hard not to be loud – you don’t want to scare anyone accidentally – but my surprise at having Sue Nichols disappear on the same date, six years earlier as Suzanne stole my composure. I looked out at the newsroom and then ducked a bit in embarrassment.