by John Luciew
I had seen the electrical devices before. At the business end, there are two silver electrodes, spaced about two inches apart. When a button is pressed, a blue electrical charge arcs across the electrodes. And when the electrodes are pressed against a human flesh, the results are debilitating. An electric jolt races through the body. Muscles contract, then spasm. The person collapses into a twitching, convulsing heap. I figured a popular spot like the Harbor House might have such an item. In fact, it would be easy enough to check. But my suspicions ran far deeper and they would be much harder to confirm.
How could I convince anyone that Sonny Prather might have condemned other people to death just to save his own ass? That he had unilaterally determined that his life was more important? That he had decided he would escape his burning bar, even if it was over his customers’ dead bodies, dozens of them, in fact?
I didn’t know how I’d go about proving such outrageous accusations, or even if I could. Maybe, my suspicions were merely misplaced frustrations that Sonny Prather had lived and Debbie Moore had died. But I knew I had to investigate. The pain and terror of Debbie’s final moments were now mine. So was her anger. Anger that she didn’t get out, despite everything she knew.
Luckily I had my own secret weapon -- one of the best reporters around. Cassie Jordan was down in Baltimore that very second.
I reached for the phone.
Chapter 17
“Jordan.” Cassie’s voice was a discrete whisper.
“Cassie, it’s Telly. I’ve got something here. There’s something more to your story than a fire.”
“No kidding, Telly.” Cassie’s whisper was now tinged with annoyance, as if she knew what I was about to say.
I was confused. “Whaddya mean?”
“Mass murder, Telly. Baltimore’s murder rate is about to go through the roof. One of the biggest crimes in city history. And Baltimore has a pretty long history when it comes to crime.”
“He killed them to get out, right?” I said, thinking she was onto Prather, too. “He killed them just so he could save his own ass, the selfish bastard.”
“What? Look, Telly, I gotta go. The press conference is about to start. They’re going to declare it an arson. That makes all the deaths felony murder. Forty-eight bodies and counting. That’s mass murder. Oh, here’s the chief. Gotta go.” The phone clicked off.
“Arson?” I said into the dead receiver. Did this guy, Prather, set the fire, then use his weapons to be sure of getting out? Was it all just an insurance scam? Did Debbie and 47 other people lose their lives over money?
I was at a frustrating dead-end in Harrisburg. All the answers were down in Baltimore. Then I remembered what Cassie had said just before hanging up. The press conference. I dashed over to the city desk, flicked on the TV and tuned to CNN. A large black man in a blue uniform was overwhelming a podium emblazoned with the city’s seal. Baltimore’s fire chief.
“Not only was the fire deliberately set, we have reason to believe that this act of arson was fully intended to kill people.” The burly chief raised his eyes to the room full of reporters. “Lots of people.”
The room exploded with the sound of fifty reporters shouting questions all at once. The chief brought a cloth handkerchief to his face and wiped his brow, which had become moist under the heat of the TV lights. He gestured at one of the clamoring reporters, the handkerchief still in his hand.
“How do you know, chief?” a female reporter asked. “What specific evidence led you to rule it an arson, and what brought you to the conclusion that the fire was intended to kill so many people?”
A shorter man in an expensive suit leaned into the frame and whispered something to the chief. The mayor, I thought. The chief nodded, then leaned to the mic.
“I’m not going to get into the specifics of the ongoing investigation, and I’ll tell you why,” he said. “Very often, arsons are signature crimes. How a specific arsonist sets a fire is unique. In this case, the ignition device was very unique. As we speak, we are checking the signatures of this case against other arson fires across the nation. So you’ll understand why we need to keep details to a minimum.”
The room erupted again. But instead of acknowledging another reporter, the chief raised his large hands for quiet.
“I’m not going to entertain any more questions at this time,” he said. “My time is better spent on the case. But I do want to say a few words as to why we feel so strongly that this was a deliberate act of mass murder.” The chief’s massive shoulders rose and fell as he took in a deep breath and blew it out through circled lips. The room was silent.
“The device was … very sophisticated,” he began, then paused again, debating how much to say and how to say it. “It had a timer. There’s no question it was meant to go off when it did -- on a Saturday, after midnight, when a band was playing, the place was noisy and hundreds of people would have been drinking for several hours.” The chief bit his bottom lip.
“That, ladies and gentlemen, is a recipe for a death trap. And just to be sure as many people as possible would be trapped, we believe our suspect impeded the crowd’s escape.”
I leaned closer to the small set. Did they know? Did they know that some guy, the owner, Sonny Prather -- maybe the same guy who started the fire -- had incapacitated people and left them to burn?
“How?” a reporter shouted. “Impeded how?”
“A newspaper vending box had been placed in front of one of the club’s emergency exits,” the chief answered. “Its usual position is on the corner, about twenty feet away. The box’s anchor chain had been cut, and it had been moved in front of a side emergency door that opened onto an alley. From the looks of it, this was done shortly before the fire broke out. There may be other things. It’s early. The investigation is continuing. We’ll keep you posted. In the meantime, we pray for the victims and their families. Our hearts are heavy today.”
Reporters again shouted questions. But the chief gathered up his notes and turned his back to the room. The mayor reached up and gave the chief’s broad shoulders a supportive squeeze as the two of them exited the room.
I leaned back in a swivel chair at the city desk. CNN switched to one of its anchors, and I turned off the TV.
As I pondered the crime in the relative quite of a Sunday afternoon, I came to one conclusion. I didn’t know what to make of the rapidly changing story down in Baltimore. And I didn’t know how the arson fit with what might or might not have happened during those last chaotic moments inside the bar that claimed Debbie Moore’s life. But I knew what I had to do.
I had to go to Baltimore.
Chapter 18
Back at my desk, I picked up the phone and dialed Cassie’s cell phone. I wanted to let her know I was on my way. I got dumped into voicemail instead. I left a message that I’d be departing for Baltimore first thing tomorrow and asked where we could meet. And just to be sure I’d have her full attention, I baited her by saying I had a tip about the fire.
Then came the hard part. I needed to clear my Fells Point fact-finding mission with the paper. Finally, I’d have to tell Mother.
I figured a vague-as-possible e-mail to Sharps would cover my ass with the paper. By the time my editor read it on Monday, I’d be halfway down Interstate 83 on my way to Charm City. If he didn’t like it, he could dock me for the time. I had worked the entire weekend. I was more than entitled to a personal day. Running it by Maggie would be trickier. No matter what I told her, she’d read it as a half-baked excuse to spend the day in a Baltimore bar.
I was midway through my e-mail to Sharps when I felt a presence behind me. Activity in the newsroom was beginning to pick up as the Sunday crew shuffled in. I figured it was a junior editor with some nit-picking, job-justifying question about one of my stories. Instead, I turned to see my city editor. I would not get off with an e-mail.
“Just read your story,” Sharps said.
“The obit?”
“No, the Hollister follow.” His tone impl
ied that my story of Debbie Moore’s death was second-class news. Tragic yes, but not nearly as intriguing as the sudden shift in the Hollister investigation, the potential political fallout, and the mysterious reasons why Wayne Dykstra had been the real target.
“It’s good, ” he said. “Even more than that, I like the way you stayed with the story without even being asked. The fact that you got Hollister to return your calls on a Sunday means they respect you.” Sharps nodded approval. “You know, putting you back on the beat may turn out to be one of my best decisions as editor.”
“I filed an obit, too,” I pointed out. “A local girl was one of the victims in that Baltimore fire last night.”
“Yeah. Helluva thing.” Sharps winced at the tragedy. “The girl’s father, wasn’t he a reporter here back in the day?”
“Eddie Moore,” I said. “One of the best. He was the lead writer on the paper’s Three Mile Island coverage in ’79. Good reporter, even better guy. He and the wife are really broken up over it.”
Sharps shook his head. “I appreciate the work, Telly, but you didn’t have to write that one. You coulda passed it on.”
“No, I couldn’t. Eddie asked me to write it. I would have written it even if he hadn’t.”
“I understand. It’s just that--” Sharps stopped and studied me. “You’ve been putting in a lot of hours and you look tired. I really need you on this shooting. I need you fresh.”
Sharps had already made up his mind about which story was more important, but I made my pitch for Baltimore anyhow.
“The fire was arson, Bill. It was murder. A local girl whose dad worked for this paper was murdered.” I stared right at him. “I want to go down there. I want to look into this thing. One day, just give me one day.”
Sharps sighed. It was as if my request were impossible. “I can’t spare you, Telly. Not now. Not with a major investigation going on in our backyard. Baltimore’s not our backyard. There are plenty of good reporters down there working the story. When something breaks, we’ll run it. We’re running the girl’s obit Page One. It’s not like we’re burying the thing. It’s a big story. But it’s not our story. I need you on our story.”
“What about the girl?” A new angle of attack dawned on me. “What about a story on Debbie Moore? She was a TV reporter down there. Practically a celebrity. We could talk to her colleagues, her friends. Do a piece on her life and career. People like to read stories about local girls making good. Remember the Christy Denza story? How people ate it up? Well, this one’s even more tragic.”
Sharps’ expression went from exasperation to frustration. He was losing patience. He shook his head and I could see the little bald spot at the crown of his head turning red.
“What about Wayne Dykstra? He was a reporter, too,” Sharps shot back. “He had ties to Harrisburg, worked at the Capitol for a while. You’re so hot on Debbie Moore, what about Dykstra? He’s dead, too. Only, he was shot dead by a highly professional assassin right in downtown Harrisburg. Pardon me, but I think our readers want to know a little more about him. And I think they want to know why he was killed in their fucking town. That’s the story. Last I checked, I’m the editor around here, and I say that’s the story. Now it can either be your story, or I can give it to Macy.”
The little man propped his hands on his hips, waiting for my answer.
Sharps was right about one thing. The Dykstra story was a helluva mystery. And I wasn’t turning my back on it. Not at all. But the harder Sharps pushed, the more I bucked. I knew I couldn’t win. But just maybe, I could come away with a draw and keep my hand in both stories.
“You’re right, Bill,” I said, as Sharps relaxed his pose. “You’re absolutely right. I am tired. I’ve been working all weekend and I need a break. Can I have tomorrow off?”
Sharps grimaced. “So that’s it? You’re gonna walk away in the middle of a murder investigation? Take the day off and play around in Baltimore? I’m really disappointed, Telly.”
“I’m not walking away from anything,” I corrected him. “I’m tired and I need the day off. I’ll keep checking with my sources. If anything breaks in the investigation, I’ll have it. I had it today, didn’t I? A Sunday? Without even being asked? I believe those were your words.”
Sharps gave a grudging nod. “You can have the day.” His voice was low and resigned. “But only if you use it to rest. You’re my best reporter now. I need you rested and ready to go on the shooting investigation, wherever it leads.”
“Bill, I always was your best reporter.” I smiled. “You just never realized it.”
“Promise me, Telly.”
I shrugged and raised my hands, a gesture of innocent intentions. “I promise, Bill. I’ll rest. I’ll relax. Hell, I’ll spend the whole day in a bar. Just ask my mother.”
“That doesn’t make me feel any better.” Sharps raised an index finger at me. “That’s exactly the kinda shit that got you bounced from your beat the last time, remember? I figure what you do on your own time is your business. long as you do what I say when you’re on my time.”
“Relax, Bill. I get the message. Maybe you’re the one oughta spend a day in a bar.” I plucked a few pens from an old coffee cup that doubled as a pencil holder on my desk, then reached for a fresh notebook. “Nothing like drinking in a quiet little pub when the rest of the world’s at work, lemme tell ya.”
I got up from my desk and clapped my sullen editor on the shoulder, then made my way past him. “It’s total freedom, complete liberation. And it’s the best R ‘n R I know.”
Chapter 19
I made it out of the house the next morning, but not before receiving a healthy dose of Maggie’s mantra along with my breakfast. Upon learning of my day off, Mother promptly proposed a day of shopping. She said it would be a great chance for mother and son to spend some quality time. Even better, an opportunity for me to pick out extra-special gifts for Jessi and Lexi -- as long as Maggie approved my selections, of course.
Me? I would rather have gone to work.
I told Maggie of my plan to use the day to look deeper into the arson that killed Eddie Moore’s daughter. I pointed to my story on the front page and handed her the paper. There was a thick silence at the kitchen table as she read Debbie Moore’s obituary while sipping coffee. I had hopes that the tragic story would soften her up. Not my mother.
Maggie frowned disapprovingly through every line. Upon finishing, her only comment was another dig at my lack of success compared to Eddie.
“You’re still his lackey, aren’t you?” She folded the paper and shot me a disappointed look.
I rose from the table, ostensibly to put away the milk. Really, I was plotting my escape.
“You’ve been carrying his water since ‘79,” Maggie raged. “He elbowed you out of the TMI story. Had you stationed way out at the plant where you coulda been exposed to God only knows what. Meanwhile, he’s back at the paper makin’ himself look good in front of all the editors, takin’ credit for the whole shebang. You never saw how he screwed you, did ya?” She shook her head at my naiveté.
“Now he has you lower yourself to write his daughter’s obituary. Hell, he’s not even at the paper anymore. Yet you still let him order you around. I ask you, would any other veteran reporter with all your years of experience have bothered with an obit? It cheapens you, Francis. It’s beneath you. It’s a step back. Your editors will never take you seriously like this.”
I tried to keep my tone as even as possible. I wanted to get out of there without fighting World War III over morning toast and jam.
“I didn’t lower myself, Mother. And nobody ordered me. The guy’s daughter just died. He lost more than you or I could ever know. The obit was a favor.”
“Yeah? Then whaddya need to go off prancin’ around Baltimore for? Case you don’t remember, you got a daughter, too. One that’s still livin’ and breathin’. We oughta make her first trip to Harrisburg in a dozen years a little special, dontcha think?”
“
It will be special.” I tried to warm her up with a smile. “You’ll make it special.”
Or you’ll drive me crazy trying, I thought.
“I’ll be back tonight.” I dutifully leaned down and planted a dry kiss on her forehead. I eased back cautiously, not wanting to do anything to break the fragile truce. Maggie eyed me as I stepped backward until reaching the archway to the hall. “Have a good day,” I said, backing around the corner.
I plucked my coat from the rack and swiped my gloves and keys from the shelf. I was out of there in thirty seconds flat.
The ride to Baltimore was just over an hour of merciful peace, straight down I-83. I managed to hit all the major choke points well after the car-clogged crush of rush hour. I’d be right on time for my meeting with Cassie. She had gotten back to me with her whereabouts and was predictably curious about my little news tip, especially if it could benefit her. Meanwhile, Cassie’s first story on the fire had received a Page One ride in that morning’s Times. Her editors were already demanding more.
I met her in the lobby of the Baltimore Marriott, a hotel situated right on the water of the city’s Inner Harbor. At first, I didn’t recognize the woman walking toward me across the large, thickly carpeted lobby. Her hair was cut short and very straight. Her black pants suit exuded expense. She walked with the hurried efficiency of a real New Yorker. But that mischievous smile, that was all Cassie.
“Telly,” she said, still about ten feet away.
My mouth hung open, as my eyes took in just how different she’d become. I had groomed for the occasion, myself. While I hadn’t had the chance to get to the barber, a little extra gel kept my sometimes-unruly graying hair in line. My shoes were shined, my pants were creased and my long overcoat looked good on my six-foot frame. I managed to ruin it all by standing there gawking like a perfect fool.