by John Luciew
I rifled through a stack of loose business cards on my desk for Jerry’s number. It wasn’t the most efficient filing system, but the newspaper had yet to supply me with a new Rolodex befitting my stature as political reporter. I plucked Jerry’s card from the pile. It had numbers for both his cell and pager. I dialed his cell first. It rang four times, then dumped me into voice mail. Just as I feared. I left a message, tagged it as urgent, then tried the pager. I punched in my phone number, hung up and waited.
Five minutes later, Jerry rang my direct line. The guy was good. He knew what the press needed and when they needed it. In that way, Jerry Kerr was what every reporter hoped for in a political press secretary but so seldom found.
“Jerry, thanks so much for getting back to me.”
“I can’t say it hasn’t been busy, Frank,” he sighed. “Media from across the country’s been calling. But we try to take care of our home state boys first.” It was a subtle reminder that I was already in his debt. Did I say Jerry was good?
“I know, and I appreciate it. The entire paper appreciates it. By the way, the senator was great this morning.” I figured I’d make my own attempt at warm relations. “You did a fantastic job pulling that together in less than twenty-four hours. I’m sure the ratings are going to be huge.”
“Thanks. But I gotta say, you helped prep him for it. That little interview you had with the senator snapped him out of it. Got him back in the game.”
“Another case of one hand washing the other,” I said. “You need us; we need you, and all of that.” I recognized the perfect opening. “In view of our relationship, I wanted to let you know about a development that I’m sure the senator will want to comment on. We’re treating it as an exclusive.”
“Okay,” Jerry said, drawing out the word and sounding hesitant. “Let’s hear it.”
“Uh-uh, Jerry. No deal.” I firmly said. “I only talk to the senator. Make it a conference call, whatever you want to do. I have no problem with you on the line, but I address this matter directly to the senator. No filters. Just the senator responding to a major development related to the shooting.”
“We told you before, he’s not commenting on the investigation.”
Jerry’s excuse was the party-line deflection but I could tell he was intrigued. He wanted to know what I had.
“This is much more fundamental, Jer. The senator won’t be asked to comment on any details of the investigation, I can assure you of that. This is a much larger issue. One he’s addressed before.”
We were like two boxers, trying to feel each other out. Jerry came back with a jab. “Well, if the senator has already commented on the matter, he stands by those statements. I can’t see why there’d be any change in a previously stated position. The senator’s a man of deep beliefs and convictions. He doesn’t waffle.”
But even Jerry didn’t sound all that convinced. I tried to lay it out for him as clearly as possible, while still withholding my information.
“Problem is, when the senator made his prior comments on this particular matter, he was doing so based on an incorrect set of assumptions. When my story runs tomorrow, everything about this story will change. It will change in a big way. The senator’s previous statements will have been proven wrong, even potentially damaging. He’ll want to get out in front of this, Jerry, believe me.”
I was appealing to his professional pride. Jerry was a message man. Surely, he’d read between the lines and see the problem. His boss was about to look foolish.
There was a long silence. Jerry took a deep breath and blew it out. He didn’t like it. My so-called information was a wild card. Jerry sensed the danger of exposing the senator to a situation he couldn’t control. But he also recognized the risks of not taking my deal. The story would break without the benefit of their spin.
“All I can promise is I’ll take it to him,” Jerry finally said. “I’ll tell the senator everything you told me, and I’ll put out some feelers about this so-called development you’re being so mysterious about it. If it smells kosher, I’ll recommend a conference call. But the ultimate decision will be the senator’s. Either way, I’ll get back to you in two hours.”
“Sounds fair.” I figured it was the best I could have hoped for. “One thing, Jerry. I came to you in confidence. This is an exclusive. When you put out your feelers, keep that in mind. I don’t want to see my story on the six o’clock news. I think we have the beginnings of a very productive working relationship. I wouldn’t want to see it damaged.”
My threat was as subtle as I could make it, but I meant every word. My objective was to break this story. All other considerations were secondary. If I had to burn relations with the senator’s office, so be it.
“I understand, Telly. We both have interests to protect. I’ll be in touch.”
Chapter 13
I spent the next half-hour reading Wayne Dykstra’s columns and news clips on the Internet. Hollister’s potential political fall was only half the story. If Dykstra really was the target of the shooting, there had to be a reason why. I was hoping to find it in his journalism.
His writings were a chronicle of corruption in the city of Brotherly Love. In Philly, scandals were as easy to find as cockroaches. It was a reporter’s playground, a columnist’s wet dream. And Wayne Dykstra had been having the time of his life riding the asses of the mayor’s henchmen, the police department brass and a half-dozen shady businessmen who had bought their way into multi-million-dollar contracts with the city through large campaign contributions. It was a laundry list of sleaze: Sweetheart deals for the mayor’s brother. FBI bugs in the mayor’s office. Cover-ups in the police department. And more bribes and kickbacks than you could count.
But was there a motive for murder? I remained unconvinced. You had to know Philly. It was a cesspool. A certain amount of corruption was expected. Its politicians were an oily breed. Bribes and kickbacks were the cost of doing business. Garden-variety scandal barely made it onto the front pages anymore.
Sure, Dykstra had been busy digging up dirt, but none of it struck me as particularly shocking, at least not by Philly standards. Surely not enough to get him killed. And even if there was a motive there somewhere, why carry the grudge to Harrisburg? Why make the hit on unfamiliar turf during a major political event when security was sure to be tight? From what I knew of homegrown crime, it preferred the turf where it was born and bred. Philly problems were taken care of the Philly way -- in the city where the local hoods knew every nook and cranny in which to hide bodies, dump cars and ditch guns. They didn’t gun down their targets in broad daylight in full view of the national media.
I was missing something. There was a reason it was Dykstra, I just wasn’t seeing it. And there was a reason why it happened in Harrisburg the way it had. I just didn’t know what it was.
My thoughts were cut short by the ringing phone.
“Tellis,” I said.
“Oh, so you are there,” the male voice replied. “I didn’t think you’d be in on a Sunday. Guess the guy was right.”
“What guy? Who is this?”
“Security at the front desk. Gotta guy down here asking for you.” Then, in a confidential whisper, the guard added, “I think he’s been drinking. You want I should get rid of him?”
I had almost forgotten. A good story was like that. It could monopolize your mind and make you forget your family, your friends. Even an old newspaper buddy who had just lost his daughter.
“No.” I nearly shouted. “That’s Eddie Moore down there. He worked for this newspaper long before the best part of you ran down your momma’s leg. Please apologize for the delay and send him up to the third floor.”
“But the guy’s shitfaced--”
“Do it,” I snapped. “And you address him as Mr. Moore.”
I slammed down the receiver, thinking this was the last thing I needed. I was right in the middle of a big story, a Page One exclusive. I didn’t want to let go of it, not even for a second. Perhaps that�
�s why I snapped at the guard. I was really mad at myself for being tempted to dismiss Eddie and his dead daughter as not worth my time. I was regaining the ego and attitude of a political reporter with far better things to do than dirty his hands with the trivial matters of obituaries. My years on the editor’s shitlist should have taught me better.
I walked to the elevator, thinking Eddie might need a guide getting around the newsroom, where he once was the star but where he hadn’t set foot in more than a decade. The elevator doors opened, yet Eddie didn’t move. Just stood there in a long black overcoat, looking up at the illuminated floor numbers. He was clutching what looked like a photo album and swaying slightly, as if at sea. He looked old in his expensive clothes. Old and broken.
“Eddie.” He lowered his head slowly, then raised an eyebrow. All of his movements were delayed, as if his brain’s electrical impulses were slow in reaching his muscles.
“This way, Eddie,” I said, extending a hand and bracing my hip against the elevator door. “Let’s go sit down so we can talk.”
He dipped his chin in an exaggerated nod.
I led him to a small glass-enclosed office known as the fishbowl. It’s what passed for privacy in the newsroom, the place where reporters received their annual performance reviews, along with the editor’s customary apology that the accompanying raises weren’t bigger. It’s where many a journalist had been dressed down and reamed out by a boss for fucking up a story, the animated exchanges playing like silent movies for the rest of the newsroom to enjoy.
Eddie settled into a chair. I pulled my reporter’s notebook from my back pocket and laid it on the table. Eddie’s hands rested palms-down on the photo album, which was also on the table. He gently stroked its worn-leather cover.
“How you doin’, Eddie?” He had yet to meet my eyes. He was looking up, gazing far over my head.
“It’s quiet here,” he said. His voice was soft and distant.
“Yes. This gives us some privacy.”
“No. I mean in the newsroom.”
“Well, it’s a Sunday, Eddie.”
“I miss the typewriters. Do you remember, Telly?” The faintest of smiles played across Eddie’s lips. “On deadline, when all of those typewriters were going. The sound. The music, the beautiful music. You could feel it in the floor. The rumble. And you could smell it, too. You could smell the machines. Their warmth mixing with the ink and the ribbons and the paper. You felt like you were really doing something back then -- actually making a difference. I loved it. So did Debbie. I’d bring her here sometimes. She loved playing on my typewriter. She’d get up on my chair, kneeling on the seat so she could reach the keys. Then she’d bang away with one finger. It was the sound, Telly. She loved the sound.”
Eddie reached up a hand, as if the memory was so close he could touch it. Yet his gesture was half-hearted, as if knowing all the while that the past was forever out of reach.
I looked away. It was too hard watching him, with his glassy eyes circled by raw, tired lids. Gray stubble peppered his once-proud chin.
“It was a nice time, Eddie,” I whispered. “Real nice.”
“It’s bloodless now,” he said. “Antiseptic. Anything but real.”
I found myself nodding. Then more to myself than to Eddie, I said, “But it still has its moments.”
Eddie’s eyes found mine for the first time. “That’s what Debbie would have said.” In that moment, the past released him. He came back. He reached a hand inside his coat, retrieving a pocket-sized whiskey bottle. It was half full, and he placed it on the table.
“We haven’t become so modern that we can’t enjoy a little nip in the newsroom, have we?” Eddie unscrewed the cap. He leaned back and took a slug, his eyes closed tight. Afterward, he exhaled and shook off the burn. He held out the bottle and nodded. “Go on, Telly. I won’t tell.”
“I really shouldn’t,” I said. “I get caught, I’m out the door. This time, for good. Besides, I don’t want to be tanked when I write Debbie’s obit.”
“Never stopped you before. Now take a drink to my daughter.”
“To Debbie,” I said, swiping the bottle from the table, then raising it in toast. “To her blessed rest.” I swung it back and opened my throat to the burn.
“Thanks, Telly.”
I wiped the back of my hand across my lips and felt my eyes watering from the sting of the whiskey. “Okay, Eddie. Now it’s your turn. Tell me about Debbie.”
He opened the photo album, and I took up my pen. For the next twenty minutes, he talked about his little girl, everything from grade school to grad school.
We managed to talk about everything but Debbie Moore’s death. I felt the pressure of time slipping away. It was a sixth sense for a reporter on deadline. I never would have told this to Eddie, but I needed to get back to my desk. I needed to get back to my other story. Jerry Kerr would be calling any moment, and the Hollister story beckoned.
“How long had Debbie been in Baltimore?” I asked, hoping to steer the conversation to the tragic circumstances of her death.
“Going on three years. Doing real well, too. They had her reporting live on the six and eleven newscasts, and she was just starting to do some anchoring on the weekends. She had the looks, the delivery. But it was her writing that really stood out. The one gift from her old man.” Eddie smiled, despite himself. “I’m telling you, Telly. The writing she did up in Providence. It was just beautiful.”
“Providence?” I asked.
He nodded, then looked down at one of the many pictures of his daughter. “It was her first TV job. Her big break in the business.” He stopped and brought both hands to his face, burrowing his fingers deep into the lined flesh of his forehead. “It’s just too much to think about,” he said, shaking his head. “I can’t think about my baby burning up like that. It was just like she wrote. Like a goddamn preview.”
I dropped my pen and reached a hand to his forearm, pulling his hands away from his face. “What happened, Eddie? What happened up in Rhode Island?”
He looked at me, fresh tears streaking his face. “She covered that fire up there. The one that killed all those people. All those kids in the bar.”
A chill went through me. My insides clenched. No wonder Eddie was having so much trouble wrapping his mind around the facts. This was beyond eerie coincidence. It was like predetermination, the most fatalistic of fates.
“She covered the fire?” I repeated, not so much as a question, just to get my mind around it.
“Not only covered it,” Eddie said. “Followed the victims for a year. Interviewed all the survivors, wove together all their stories. What happened inside that bar was unimaginable. Terror beyond all comprehension. But the real horror was reserved for the burn victims who lived. Debbie came to know them.”
I remembered Cassie Jordan’s comment about burn wards.
“She did some of the best work I’d ever seen in local television on that story,” Eddie continued. “But she could never enjoy it, not even when the awards, then the job offers, started coming in. She always felt guilty. Like she was building her career on other people’s suffering. She hadn’t become hard enough yet. She didn’t have the separation. It haunted her, what happened up there. What she learned from those victims. The horror of it all.”
Eddie’s voice trailed off and he sat pondering his daughter’s final seconds -- an end made all the more horrible because she had researched it so fully.
“You know,” he began again. “She could never go into a public place without thinking about what happened up there. She told me she always checked for the exits, soon as she entered a bar, a restaurant, even a movie. She’d make sure to sit as near to an exit as she could. She told me she never wanted to die like that. She had glimpsed that kind of terror, sensed the agony through the eyes of those victims. And it became her worst nightmare. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like for her, what must have been going through her mind in those last moments. It’s as if she’d wr
itten the story of her own death. I don’t even want to think about it.”
Eddie lowered his head, descending into tears and trying to deal with his loss by shutting out all knowledge of it. I could do nothing but think. Everyone fears death. Many people even try to imagine their own ends. But few people chronicle with precision the exact circumstances of their fate, right down to the final deadly details.
Yet two journalists had previewed their demise in the stories they had written. Wayne Dykstra had covered Hinckley’s attempt on President Reagan, only to be shot down decades later at a political event. And Debbie Moore spent a year of her life reliving the horrors of the Rhode Island fire, only to be burned alive in Baltimore.
The deaths were different, of course, totally unrelated. In Dykstra’s case, he appeared to be the target of a very careful, practiced killer. Debbie Moore looked to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, perishing along with nearly 50 others in a senseless tragedy. Yet I couldn’t help thinking that something was agonizingly similar, terrifyingly the same. The first time, they were merely witnesses. Detached observers. Then death scheduled a replay, claiming them just as they had written.
Chapter 14
Back at my desk, I was ready to plunge into the writing of Debbie Moore’s obituary. The blinking message light on my phone had other ideas. I dialed into voicemail and retrieved the message from Jerry Kerr. Sen. Hollister was ready to talk, and I was more than ready to take him down.
I called the number Jerry had left.
“You’re just in time, Tellis,” he said. “The senator was getting ready to leave.”
There was a delay while Kerr got Hollister into the room and put me on speaker.
“Okay. Do we still have you, Frank?”
“I’m here.” I cradled the receiver between by neck and shoulder. My pad and pen were at the ready.
“You’re on speaker. I’m here with Sen. Hollister at your request, in order to respond to what you’ve billed as a major development in the events of yesterday.”