Kill The Story

by John Luciew

  “I’m not sure he likes me,” he said. “And I still don’t know how I feel about working with a cop.”

  “Dave? He doesn’t like anyone. Forget about it.” I began pressing numbers on the phone. “Tell you what. Take that mutt of yours along.”

  “Marx?”

  “Yeah, Marx. Dave likes him. I think he has a soft spot for dogs.” I smiled, knowing Langhorne would hate the canine accompaniment.

  Wally cocked his head. “Marx does need to get out. I’ve been busy all day.”

  “There you go,” I said waving the receiver at him. It was ringing. And my long day was nearly over.

  Chapter 9

  Maggie beat me to the morning paper, as usual. By the time I rolled out of bed and made it downstairs Sunday morning, Maggie was sprawled in her easy chair, a steaming cup of coffee on the side table and the entire paper spread on her ample lap.

  She thumbed through the A section of the Herald, clicking her tongue in disgust at regular intervals as she read the stories chronicling yesterday’s tragedy.

  The front-page banner headline was so big, I could read it from across the room. It said, “DEADLY SHOOTING WILL NOT SILENCE SENATOR.” That was followed by a smaller subhead, “Hollister Escapes Would-be Assassin Uninjured; Vows to Continue ‘Fight for Family’ with ‘God’s Protection.’” My name was right underneath.

  I yawned and walked deeper into the living room, which was decorated to the hilt for Christmas. “How’d it turn out?” I asked.

  Mother folded down the paper and smiled. “I wondered when you’d decide to get up,” she said good-naturedly. Dare I think she was proud of her son?

  “There’s fresh-squeezed OJ in the fridge and fresh coffee in the pot.” She nodded toward the kitchen. “I’ll have brunch on in an hour.”

  I took Maggie’s suggestion, opting for the orange juice. I would have preferred it with a shot of vodka -- make mine a double -- but that wasn’t Maggie’s style. She could sneak an eye-opener now and then, but disapproved of such habits in her son. It didn’t matter to her that I’d gone the entire day yesterday without so much as a nip. In her opinion, I drank far too much. I always would, no matter how much I cut back.

  “This is all so terrible.” Maggie went on clicking her tongue. I took a seat on the couch, sipping my juice.

  “You really could have been killed, Francis. Then where would we be?”

  I wasn’t going to touch that one. “What time is it?” I muttered blearily.

  “Goin’ on ten, Mister. Notice I said brunch, not breakfast. Ten’s too late for breakfast in my book.”

  Food wasn’t on my mind just then. Hollister was. The senator had a date with David Gregory and Meet the Press aired at 10 a.m. in the Harrisburg market. I hadn’t slept through it.

  “Hand me the remote,” I said. It was next to Maggie, as usual.

  She tossed it to me without so much as glancing away from the paper. I zapped on the tube expecting a local news re-cap of the Hollister story. Instead, the TV flickered with a jerky aerial shot of a row of older-looking brick buildings, surrounded by cobblestone streets lined with fire trucks, cops cars and ambulances. The building in the center of the frame was smoldering. All of its windows were busted out and wafting smoke. The red brick facade was charred, and there were gaping holes in the roof, also venting smoke. The front doors had been busted out, too, and there were piles of debris heaped in the street, all of it surrounded by yellow police tape.

  The helicopter camera zoomed in and I realized it wasn’t debris. It was body bags.

  A news graphic popped up at the bottom of the screen. It read, “Scores dead in Fells Point club fire.”

  Fells Point was the popular gas light district of Baltimore, located less than ninety minutes south of Harrisburg. Some of the younger reporters liked to cruise down there for a weekend of drinking and partying. Now, it was the scene of the latest good time-turned deadly. It was breaking news, according to the excitable TV reporter, occurring well after midnight. So fresh, it hadn’t made the morning papers.

  I wondered when these young people were going to stop stuffing themselves into dark, cramped bars filled with lumbering drunks, chain smokers, shoddy electrical wiring, bands playing way too loud -- with no easy way to get out.

  I shook my head and reached for a piece of the newspaper. “Can I see?” I asked Maggie.

  “You already know what happened,” Maggie said, pulling the newspaper to her chest, as if protecting it. “After all, you wrote it.”

  “I still like to see it in print.”

  Maggie sighed, wrinkling the paper closed and holding it out to me. “Oh, all right. But I just don’t understand how a person of your talents hasn’t advanced further in your profession. I mean, your byline’s all over the front page.”

  I hummed something inaudible and scanned the front page. After all these years, there was still a sense of pride and a special thrill at seeing my name in print under bold headlines. I took a long, slow drink of that front page.

  My eyes finally focused on Wayne Dykstra’s obituary. Posthumous plaudits were one of the few perks of being a reporter. I was a bit disappointed to discover that young Brett Macy had, in fact, done a decent job with Dykstra’s send off. There were lots of good quotes from Dykstra’s reporter colleagues, his editors and the politicians he covered. All waxed poetic about Wayne’s gift with words, his eye for detail and his keen nose for corruption. Macy did a good job encapsulating Dykstra’s career, too. He traced Wayne’s quick rise from the early days in Harrisburg to his big break in 1981, when Dykstra happened to be among the few reporters outside the Washington Hilton when Ronald Reagan and three others took bullets.

  I looked up from the paper as the irony struck me. Wayne Dykstra made his bones in journalism covering a political assassination attempt outside a Hilton hotel. Twenty-five-plus years later, he would lose his life during another assassination attempt outside the Harrisburg Hilton. It was an eerie coincidence to say the least. I wondered if anyone else had noticed it -- or cared.

  Those thoughts evaporated as self-important music announced the start of Meet the Press. Hammond Hollister was about to turn tragedy into political gold.

  Maggie noticed I had lost interest in the paper. “Are you gonna read or watch TV?”

  “A little of both, I guess.” I lowered my eyes to the paper.

  “You’re not good at doing one thing at a time, let alone two,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “About the only thing you are good at is finding things out and writing them down. That’s your one gift. Yet your own newspaper doesn’t see it. You should be Editor Tellis by now. Maybe even Publisher Tellis. I just don’t see why they don’t treat you better, Francis, considering all you’ve done.”

  All I’ve done, I thought. I’d been suspended twice in the last four years for drinking on the job. My many indiscretions made me an easy target for local politicians when they didn’t like what I had written. They needn’t bother refuting the facts; they merely attacked the messenger. Then there was the minor detail that the entire news industry was dying. Yeah, mom, I should be shooting right to the top. But that was the thing about Maggie. It was okay for Mother to criticize me, but just let anyone else try it. To her, I was a wonderful son and a talented writer who should be working in Boston, D.C. or New York, not little old Harrisburg.

  “The Herald ought to be damn glad they’ve had you all these years,” she’d say. “And they sure as hell ought to show some more respect.”

  In reality, I was damn lucky to still have a job.

  Maggie eyed me suspiciously under her lowered brow. “Shouldn’t you be about due for a raise?” she said, revisiting one of her favorite subjects. “I mean, they put you back on the political beat because they need your experience up there at the Capitol. It’s more prestige. It’s certainly more work. And yet, where’s the raise? The money?” Maggie rubbed her thumb and fingers together. “Huh? Where is it?”

  “Maybe they’re
waitin’ to see how I do.” I kept my tone even and my face buried in the paper. In the background, Sen. Hollister was skillfully deflecting another of Gregory’s zingers.

  “How you’ll do?” Maggie bellowed. “You almost got yourself killed yesterday for that damn paper. Surely that’s worth another fifty bucks a week? You just gotta go in there and ask for it. They won’t give you shit, less you ask. You sure as hell tell me what’s what when it comes to money. You need to save a little of that attitude for your editors. Are you hearin’ me, Francis?”

  Maggie tilted her head like a doctor examining a mental patient. But she’d never understand. She didn’t realize that deep down, beneath all my grumbling, grousing and complaining, I loved being a reporter. The pay was gravy. Mother was right; it was thin gravy, but gravy nonetheless. Some days, I think I’d work for free. Especially on days like yesterday, when the story was big and the writing was an adrenaline rush.

  I kept my head under the cover of newsprint as I tried to formulate a neutral response -- one that wouldn’t promise any specific action on my part, yet wouldn’t reject Maggie’s concerns out of hand. Then the phone rang.

  Eager for any diversion, even a soulless telemarketer, I rustled the paper away and lunged in the direction of the phone. It was on the side table next to Maggie and she was staring straight at me.

  “Well?” she said.

  I nodded and shrugged. “We’ll see, okay?”

  She scowled as the phone rang again. “That’s what you always say. And the only thing we’ve seen is your bank account getting smaller and smaller.”

  The phone rang again. Maggie rested her meaty hand over the receiver but didn’t pick it up. Another ring. It could be Wally Greenfield, Dave Langhorne or even Cassie Jordan. I had to answer it.

  “Mother, please. I’m in the middle of covering a murder investigation here. An attempted assassination. I do this right and the money will take care of itself, believe me. I’ll go right to the publisher, if I have to.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes.” I nearly shouted. Maggie smiled, then picked up the receiver on the sixth ring.

  “Hello,” she answered, then furrowed her brow. She glanced at me wearing a confused expression and shaking her head. “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. You’re going to have to speak up.”

  I thought of Cassie Jordan calling from Arkansas on a bad cellular connection. I reached for the receiver but Maggie shooed me away.

  “Oh, Edmund,” she said, her confusion replaced with the beginnings of a smile. “So good to hear from you. For a second there, you didn’t sound like yourself.”

  Eddie Moore was my ex-colleague at the Herald. He’d been a helluva reporter in his day, but Eddie turned in his pen, pad and press pass for the bigger dollars and fancier suits of public relations. These days, he controlled communications for one of the city’s biggest banks. He presided over high-powered meetings, socialized in private clubs and was a guest speaker at chamber of commerce dinners. Mother envied his money and she never let me forget it. But I knew Eddie sometimes hungered to be on a big story again. Once the news bug bit, the poison stayed in the blood forever. These days, the closest Eddie got to a big story was through me. Occasionally, he’d help me with information. When I was hot on the trail of former Gov. Lowell Winters, Eddie supplied the bank records that bolstered my story of campaign corruption. It led directly to Winters’ downfall and my renaissance as a reporter. Today, I figured he just wanted to chat about yesterday’s assassination attempt as only two old newspapermen could.

  “Did you see Francis’s stories today? Two on the front page!” Maggie gushed as I cringed. The last thing I needed was Mother talking me up to Eddie Moore.

  “Oh, he’s doing wonderfully at the paper,” Maggie went on. “They think very highly of him. He’s their senior reporter. Experience means something. It’s just a matter of time until they enhance his pay package to reflect the wealth of his institutional knowledge.”

  What the hell was she talking about? I don’t think even she knew. It sounded like something she’d picked up on Oprah or Dr. Phil. She’d try anything to fan the flames of rivalry between Eddie and me.

  “He’s right here,” she said. “I just think it’s wonderful how you two boys get on after all these years. Here’s Telly. Bye, Eddie.”

  Thank Christ, I thought. Maggie smiled as she passed me the receiver. My expression was less pleasant.

  “Sorry about that, Eddie,” I said as Maggie swiped back the newspaper.

  I expected Eddie to give me some ribbing about my wealth of experience and my pay package. Instead, there was a long silence. Then I thought I heard him sob.

  “She’s gone,” Eddie exhaled. “Debbie’s gone.”

  “What are you talking about, Ed?” I spoke gently. “You all right?”

  There was a wet inhale, then a long sigh as he blew it out. “No, Telly. I’m not. My daughter’s dead.”

  My scalp prickled. I thought of the pain he must be in. I felt even worse for his having been subjected to Maggie’s needling.

  “Oh Christ, Eddie. What happened?”

  “She burned.” He squeezed out the words in between quick gasps. “She burned alive. My baby.” His voice broke and he moaned.

  “Jesus, Eddie. What can I do? Let me know how I can help?”

  Around this time, Maggie had given up on the newspaper and taken an interest in my hushed conversation. Her face begged the question. I just shook my head. She knew I was serious and didn’t press.

  At the other end of the line, Eddie stifled another sob. “Debbie was in that fire. The one down in Baltimore.”

  I remembered the TV images and how quick I was to dismiss the victims as stupid kids who willingly packed themselves into a firetrap. But they were people’s sons and daughters, just blowing off a little steam. They shouldn’t have ended up dead.

  “Jesus.” It was all I could manage.

  “I got a call about an hour ago.” Eddie sounded a littler steadier, as if pulling himself together and dealing with the facts. It was the reporter in him. “They told me they think it’s her, whatever that means. Who am I kidding? I know what it means. It means she’s so badly burned, they can’t be sure. Oh Christ, man.” He broke down again.

  “We can go down there right now, if you want,” I said. “I’ll drive. We can leave right now.”

  I was ready to walk away from the Hollister story right then. There wasn’t much I wouldn’t do for Eddie Moore. Meanwhile, Maggie’s interest was piqued, but I waved her off again.

  “I don’t think it’d do much good,” he said. “They asked for the name of her dentist. It’s the only way to be sure. Besides, Monica’s a mess. I managed to get her to lie down, but she’s not good.” Eddie said the words discretely, though by now his wife was probably in a cocooned haze of tranquilizers and sleeping pills.

  “Besides, I know it’s her,” he flatly said. “I tracked down three of Debbie’s friends. Two weren’t home. One was. She sounded like she had a cold or something when she answered the phone. She said the girls went out last night. Some band they wanted to see at the Harbor House. That was the place. That puts Debbie there, Telly. She was inside the place. You’re a reporter, what would you think?”

  “I think we should take a deep breath.” But I knew Eddie’s conclusion was correct. The cops and the medical examiner wouldn’t have called for dental records unless they were already very sure.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe a drink, too.”

  “There’s that.”

  “It’s the little things that get you, Telly,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The other girl, Debbie’s friend. She didn’t go with them because she was sick. Nothing serious. A little cold, a stuffy head. It saved her life. Imagine that? I never realized the life-saving properties of the twenty-four-hour flu.” He tried to laugh but sobbed instead.

  “You’re gonna get through this.” I tried to sound convincing.
<
br />   Eddie coughed, and his voice came back louder, yet resigned. “Look, I can’t tie up the line. Never know when they’re gonna call back. I gotta put the funeral home on notice, too.”

  “I understand. Let me know as soon as you hear something. We should get together.”

  “That’s the reason I called,” Eddie said. “If it’s… If it is Debbie. If it turns out to be my daughter, I want you to write the story. I know obituaries aren’t something you’d usually bother with. You’re a big shot at the Capitol and you’re working the assassination story and all. But I want it to be you, Telly. Tell my daughter’s story. She was a good kid. When she was little, I’d take her to the paper. She wanted to be a reporter, like her old man. Even interned there in college, remember? But she had the looks for TV, so that’s where she ended up. Had a job at the NBC affiliate down there. Doing really well, too. She was on the fast track. On her way to one of the networks or cable news. I always said she had the looks for TV, but the brains for newspapers. She always laughed at that.” Eddie chuckled too, despite himself. “So will you do it, Telly? For me.”

  Hearing about his girl like that made me realize everything I had missed in losing touch with my own daughter. Eddie had lost his girl but he still had all those memories. Me? I never really had much of a chance with Jessi. And the chances I did have, I blew. I felt myself tearing up for the both of us, me and Eddie. I inhaled, trying to hold it back.

  “Eddie, you didn’t have to ask. I would have insisted.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Meet me at the paper whenever you can,” I said. “I’m heading in soon, anyway. Bring some pictures of Debbie and we’ll talk. I want to know all about her. I want to write something special.”

  “I’d like that,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

  Eddie hung up, but I sat frozen, the dead phone still pressed to my ear. Maggie got up and gently took the humming receiver away, replacing it on the cradle. Then she put her hand on my back and spoke softly. “Something bad?”