by John Luciew
I wondered where Grodin was, Hollister’s usually protective chief of staff. Perhaps Kerr felt he could handle things on his own. After all, the press secretary had successfully navigated the senator past the rocky shoals of Meet the Press, a media graveyard for many political careers. I was just a fourth-rate reporter from a third-class city.
“I must remind you,” Kerr went on. “The senator cannot respond to any questions about the ongoing investigation. I will tell you that I’ve checked with the FBI, and they are unwilling to make any official statements updating their findings at this point. The status of the investigation remains unchanged. It is active and ongoing. With that, I’ll turn it over to you, Telly.”
“Thank you, Jerry. And thank you Senator for making yourself available. As you might expect, yesterday’s incident remains big news up here. Our newspaper appreciates you being able to fit us in between David Gregory and the New York Times.”
“Sure, Mr. Tellis.” It was Hollister’s robust, confident voice. “Gregory’s not so bad, but I’d rather talk to you and your paper than the Times any day. All that Northeastern elite liberal bias, don’t you know.”
“Actually, I don’t,” I said. “I have a friend who works there. They haven’t brainwashed her yet.”
Hollister emitted an uneasy chuckle. “Let’s just say I prefer a newspaper that communicates more directly with my base of support. I appreciate the Herald for serving all the fine, decent people of central Pennsylvania. And doing so with such honor and distinction, I might add.”
“Thank you.” But I had enough of the self-congratulatory sucking up. “Speaking of your base, Senator, the events of the past twenty-four hours must be playing particularly well with them.”
“Well, I don’t think they like seeing their senator getting shot at, if that’s what you mean.” Hollister guffawed, and Kerr chimed in with supportive laughter. It all sounded very forced. I hated these conference call/speaker phone arrangements. Not only did people have a habit of stepping on each other’s sentences, I always suspected that the team on the other end of ganging up and plotting strategy. I envisioned Kerr passing notes to the senator and communicating with hand gestures as he orchestrated every reply.
“Seriously though, I do believe the incident has awakened people,” Hollister continued, earnest now. “It has illustrated in the boldest, bloodiest terms that we are in a fight for the future of this country. And I’m not talking about a rhetorical fight. I’m talking about a real battle for the heart and soul of this country. And that, my friend, is the American family. I’ve been on the front lines for a long time. Certainly, my supporters recognize this. Now, it appears my enemies do as well. But what that evil assassin doesn’t realize is, by putting me in his crosshairs like he did, he anointed me the leader of this great movement. What doesn’t kill us, makes us stronger. And we are stronger today. I can assure you of that.”
“You mean you are stronger, Senator,” I chimed in. “Stronger politically because of this shooting.”
“I didn’t choose to make myself a target,” Hollister said. “The despicable coward who pulled the trigger did. Well, his misguided plan backfired. He missed, and we got stronger. Yes, I am stronger. But I have always been strong in my beliefs that we must protect the family and preserve marriage, the strongest, most enduring social institution we have. Marriage between a man and a woman hasn’t survived for a millennia to get torn asunder on my watch. No, sir. It will take more than one deranged shooter gunning for me to end this fight, I’ll tell you that. I don’t back away from my beliefs for anyone. I think that’s what people see in me now. If it took this terrible incident for the people to rally to me, so be it. If it takes something ugly to preserve something truly beautiful, like marriage and the family, so be it. Thy will be done.”
Hollister had worked himself into quite a lather. I could just see Kerr leaning back in his leather chair in that oak-paneled office, a satisfied smile on his face. He was already looking ahead to the political victories to come, all because Hollister dodged a bullet that never had his name on it in the first place. It was time for a dose of the truth.
“He didn’t miss, Senator,” I said.
“What? I’m not sure I follow.” This time, the senator’s response wasn’t so practiced. It was genuine confusion.
“The deranged shooter. The evil marksman. Whatever you’re calling him these days. He didn’t miss.”
“That’s absurd,” Hollister protested. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. He most assuredly did miss. I stand before you totally unscathed, ready to fight another day. I don’t like your tone, sir. It’s as if you’re trying to egg on this madman. As if you’d like to see him try again. As if you’d like to see him strike me down. I’d say that’s very reckless and beneath the standards of your fine paper. I must tell you that I know your publisher quite well. Angus is a dear friend. I don’t think he’d tolerate the dangerous nature of your comments. Not with this madman still out there, still wanting me dead.”
Kerr cut in. “Tellis, I’m sorry, but we’re done here. The nature of this interview is totally unacceptable. We agreed to respond to information you claimed to have. You certainly haven’t revealed any new developments. In fact, you’ve been very reckless.”
Both of them were rattled. The story was turning upside down, and they didn’t know how to react.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Please accept my apology. I never meant to offend. And I certainly didn’t mean to threaten. Let me be more clear. The shooter didn’t miss, because he killed his target. That was Wayne Dykstra. I don’t believe the senator was ever in any real danger. He wasn’t the target.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Hollister bellowed. “I was mere feet away when that poor man had his head blown off. One of the bullets struck my podium, for God’s sake. I was very much in danger. And I’m still in danger as long as this crazy person is out there and I continue to make my stand for marriage and the family. This is all hypothesis, supposition and conjecture, and it’s patently absurd. I won’t hear of it.”
“I’m sorry, Senator,” I said. “I would have thought you’d have been relieved.”
“What?”
“Relieved. Unburdened. Resting a bit easier.” I elaborated. “By the knowledge that the shooter wasn’t out to kill you. Surely such news is a comfort?”
“Uh, I- I- it would,” he stuttered. “It would be. If it were true. But it’s not. I don’t believe it.”
Kerr interrupted. “I think we’re getting into the purview of the ongoing investigation, here. The Senator cannot comment on such matters.”
“My sources are solid,” I pressed. “We’re going with a story that will identify Wayne Dykstra as the actual target of the shooting. But you were right about one thing, Senator. This guy, whoever he was, he was a marksman. A real good shot. All the bullets were clustered around Dykstra. Guys like that don’t miss. He got him with a head shot, just to be sure. Dykstra was the target, all right. You were just the senator who tried to turn a tragedy into political gain.”
“That’s out of line,” Kerr shot back.
“It’s wrong. It’s false.” Hollister resumed his protest. The senator was taking the news that his life wasn’t in danger much harder than when everyone assumed he was the target. “It’s all wrong. That bullet was meant for me. The FBI, they assigned agents to me. They’re outside my door as we speak.”
“I believe you’ll find that those agents were requested by your chief of staff, Senator. Makes you look more presidential that way. I’m sure the Bureau will announce the shift in the investigation in its own good time. Probably right after my story breaks tomorrow.”
“No. They can’t do--” Hollister began, but Kerr cut him off. “No comment,” the press secretary shouted. “We have no comment. We await the results of the FBI investigation. And of course we would welcome any news -- any confirmed information -- that increases the senator’s security. That’s all we have for now. Goodbye.”
I heard a loud bang over the phone. Kerr must have punched the disconnect button. The press secretary scrambled nicely at the end, but it was too little, too late. I had Hollister cold. He had clung too long and far too desperately to the politically beneficial myth that he’d been an assassin’s target.
Chapter 15
For the next hour, I wrote myself out on the Hollister story. It was good, but not complete. It would roast Hollister for his ham-handed attempts to grasp political gain in a time of tragedy. But it would not solve the mystery of why the killer targeted Wayne Dykstra. I was no closer to answering that question. I filed the story without knowing whether that mystery would ever be solved.
By this time, I was tired. Spent. The past two days had drained me. But I had one last thing to do, a favor for an old friend. I had saved Debbie Moore’s obit till last. Only then was I ready to give Eddie’s daughter her death’s due.
I read over my notes from my conversation with Eddie. I combed through all the early reports on the fire that were moving like lightning on the news wires. I had all the facts, yet I somehow knew facts weren’t what was important. Something was missing. The story of Debbie’s final moments had yet to be told.
My fingers settled over the familiar terrain of the keyboard. I gave myself over to her story. I would speak for the dead. I would write her obituary.
NOTED BALTIMORE REPORTER, FORMERLY OF HARRISBURG, DIES IN FELLS POINT BAR BLAZE
By Frank Tellis
Debra Melissa Moore, a former city resident turned TV reporter in Baltimore, was among 48 people who perished in a swift-moving fire that engulfed a night club early Sunday in the Fells Point section of Baltimore. She was 28.
The fire started shortly before 1 a.m. at a popular nightspot known as the Harbor House. It quickly turned the three-story brick row structure into a smoke-clogged inferno, trapping scores of victims. The cause of the fire is unknown.
As many as 175 people were in the club at the time, according to officials. Of those, 48 are confirmed dead, and scores more are injured, some of them badly burned.
An honors graduate from Harrisburg Academy and Syracuse University, Moore had been a rising star in the competitive Baltimore media market for the past 18 months. She was a top reporter for NBC affiliate station, WBAL, and she had recently been assigned weekend anchor duties.
Her career began at a Providence, R.I., radio station. But Moore quickly made the jump to television in the New England market. She was best known for her award-winning coverage of the February, 2002, fire that ripped through a Rhode Island night club, killing 100.
Moore spent nearly a year chronicling the lives of survivors and the painful recoveries of victims burned in the blaze, which was ignited by a rock band’s pyrotechnic display. The fire swept through the club, known as the Station, in minutes.
It proved to be the deadliest nightclub fire in the United States in 25 years and the fourth-worst in the country’s history. In an ironic twist, the Baltimore blaze has eerie similarities to the Rhode Island tragedy that Moore had covered so extensively.
Enjoying a rare weekend off, Moore went to Fells Point with friends. They dined out, then went to the Harbor House for drinks and live entertainment.
Authorities say the fire broke out on the first floor of the multi-level club, which was situated in an older, red-brick row building -- a familiar structure in the city’s old waterfront neighborhood.
Early reports from survivors describe a massive panic inside the bar, along with human pile-ups at the stairs and exits.
“People were burning,” one survivor told the Associated Press. “Their hair was on fire. Their bodies, too.”
Baltimore Mayor Gavin Knoll said city, state and federal authorities were investigating both the cause of the fire, as well as the building’s inspection records and any past code violations. He vowed that authorities would determine if anyone was responsible and hold them accountable.
“I promise the victims, their families and the people of Baltimore,” Knoll said. “If there was a crime committed here, any crime, we will find it and the people responsible will be punished.”
Club owner Sonny Prather, who was inside his establishment when the flames erupted and only narrowly escaped, declared his building safe and said it had passed recent inspections. He said he had no idea how the fire started, but promised full cooperation with authorities.
“That was my life in there,” Prather told reporters at the scene. The bar owner’s face was still blackened from soot, his clothes tattered, and he appeared to have cuts and abrasions on his face, neck and arms.
“But my loss is nothing compared to the people who lost their lives tonight,” he continued. “I can rebuild, and I will. But my first priority will be helping the victims.”
Prather indicated that he was making arrangements to start a victims’ fund and planned to make a sizable first donation. He has scheduled a press conference for Monday at Baltimore Hospital to announce the details of the donation drive.
Back in Harrisburg, Moore is survived by her parents, Edmund and Monica Moore, of the city’s Bellvue Park section. Edmund Moore, a former Herald reporter in the 1970s and ‘80s, helped inspire his daughter’s interest in journalism by bringing her to the newspaper as a young girl.
“She loved playing with my typewriter,” Moore said. “She’d get up on my chair, kneeling on the seat so she could reach the keys. Then she’d bang away on it with one finger.”
Funeral arrangements were incomplete at press time. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to a memorial scholarship fund being established in Debbie Moore’s name at Capital City Savings, the bank where Edmund Moore is an executive.
Chapter 16
I couldn’t get over how much pain accompanied Debbie Moore’s final story. Pain and unbearable terror. I couldn’t stop thinking about her last moments. I allowed myself to imagine her final moments.
Debbie would have been fully aware of the horrors she faced in that burning bar. Having written about the Rhode Island fire, she knew well the pitfalls of panic. How the human instinct to survive can so quickly turn desperate and unthinking. How the will to live can erase everything and reduce us to animals. It was the same force that turned orderly exits into human stampedes.
Debbie knew all of this, and she would have tried to use that knowledge to keep herself alive. As smoke filled the club with the blackness of night, it’s very likely that she would have lost touch with her friends. I imagined her calling out to them until her throat became raw from the thickening smoke. She would have realized her efforts were in vain. She would have recognized there was no time to search and no way to do it in the thick, black smoke. So Debbie would have gotten down low, where the air would be a little better. And she would have kept moving.
The exits would have been jammed, but Debbie would have kept pressing forward, perhaps searching for side doors or broken windows. Her father had told me Debbie never entered a public place without mapping a way out. She would have kept looking, I was sure of it. From her crouch, perhaps she could follow the smoke as it moved along the ceiling, leading the way out.
In the depth of my sympathy for Debbie, I convinced myself that it could have happened just like that. And I couldn’t help feeling that she should have gotten out. In fact, the more I thought about it -- dwelled on it, really -- the more I became sure of this. Of all people, Debbie Moore should have lived.
Unless something else happened inside that bar, I thought. Something besides the fire. Something Debbie didn’t expect, even with all that she knew.
I had an uneasy feeling as my eyes pored over her obituary once again. It was nothing specific, just a gut feeling. All reporters had them from time to time. Mine were usually right.
I stopped on the passages about the club owner, Sonny Prather. He, too, had been inside the bar when the fire broke out. Yet, he had survived.
A story filed by the Associated Press had quoted Prather extensively. I extracted some
of these passages for my own story. At the time, I didn’t think much about them. The story of every tragedy needed the words of a survivor describing just how terrible it really was. But reading over these passages again begged the question: Why did he survive and Debbie didn’t? What made him different?
I started with the obvious. Sonny Prather would have had certain advantages over his paying customers. It was his place. He would have known the location of every exit, every window. But even that might not have been enough. Not with the crush of humanity trying to save itself.
I scanned more lines of the story. “He appeared to have various cuts and abrasions on his face, neck and arms.”
Initially, I had glossed over these facts. I guess I’d figured he’d survived a fatal fire; what were a few cuts? Now I was thinking something else, something very different.
What if Sonny Prather had received his cuts and abrasions trying to escape his burning bar? Cuts not from broken glass or splintered wood, but rather from the fingernails of panicked patrons? People he had to fight off and subdue in order to get out alive.
It was a wild thought, straight out of the blue. But maybe it wasn’t so far-fetched after all.
What was a packed and burning bar if not the ultimate Darwinian test? All that pushing and shoving, scratching and clawing would have been the purest form of survival of the fittest.
I took my theoretical argument one step further. What if Sonny Prather had other advantages? Tools to ensure his triumph? Some sort of weapon, perhaps?
My mind was making connections fast and furiously now. Maybe I was leaping to conclusions, but I didn’t care. All reporters relied upon their instincts to one degree or another. Besides, I had been in enough bars to know that owners and bouncers often kept a few items on hand to help control unruly patrons and belligerent drunks. Some favored a baseball bat tucked behind the bar. Others might prefer something a little fancier, a little more high tech. A stun gun, perhaps.