Kill The Story

by John Luciew

  As she neared, I extended a hand for a shake. She reached for me and pulled me into her, instead. “It’s good to see you, Telly,” she said as we touched cheeks. The world famous New York City fake kiss, I thought.

  “You look great, Cassie,” I said, pulling back, my face feeling hot. “New York agrees with you.”

  She waved off my compliment. “Haven’t really spent much time in the city. They keep me on the go. Now I know why Jayson Blair plagiarized his stories and mailed them in from a bar around the corner. This living out of a suitcase is rough.”

  “Staying at the Marriott isn’t roughing it.” I gestured at the grand expanse of the lobby. “And that suit doesn’t look like it came out of any suitcase. It damn sure didn’t come off the rack at any department store, either.”

  “Prada,” she said, as if that single word explained everything.

  “Whatever. It sure looks like they’re treating you well.”

  “Actually, I’m in debt up to my ass. New York’s expensive and there are too many temptations that separate a girl from her money.”

  I made a mental note to keep Maggie the hell away from NYC.

  “The suit was a gift,” she went on. “From my boyfriend.”

  “Boyfriend?” I hoped I didn’t look as surprised as I sounded.

  “Yeah, but don’t let Ridley know I called him that,” Cassie said conspiratorially.

  Ridley? What the hell kind of name was Ridley?

  “Let’s just say he has commitment issues,” Cassie continued. “He’s a little older, see? And he’s rich. He’s been burned twice in divorces. He likes to say he doesn’t fear commitment, just lawyers. I say it’s a line of bullshit he uses to dodge the subject.”

  “Older?” I asked. “How much older? And how rich?”

  Cassie laughed. “You sound like my dad.”

  Oh great, I thought. Now I was a father figure.

  “He’s 54, okay? He’s in publishing. You might’ve heard of him. Ridley Walker? He owns a few magazines?”

  Cassie’s hints were doing nothing for me. I was still stuck on the guy’s age. The dirty, old bastard was a good six years older than me, yet he had won over 27-year-old Cassie. I was instantly jealous. But I must have looked more suspicious, because Cassie went on the defensive.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Telly, and it’s not true. I’m not screwing him to get a better job at one of his magazines. I know I’ve had issues with men in the past. Using them to advance my career. But I’m past all that, now. We met when I was writing a profile on him, and we just hit it off. And we didn’t start dating until after the story ran, I’ll have you know.” It was as if that one little concession to ethics made everything hunky-dory.

  “Well, you do look happy.” I spoke as neutrally as possible.

  “I am,” she nodded. “It’s casual but nice. That’s good for now.”

  I didn’t like it any better.

  Chapter 20

  Cassie and I strolled along the waterfront. The usually bustling Inner Harbor was all but deserted -- not a surprise considering it was a late Monday morning and the temperature was below 35 degrees.

  Cassie filled me in on the fire, last evening’s press conference and the precious few details that had been leaked from the arson investigation. It turned out that the starting device was, indeed, sophisticated and it did have a signature. Only the signature matched some firebug doing life out in California for a series of hotel fires in the 1980s.

  The arsonist -- his name was Ted Dantry -- enjoyed watching high-rise hotels go up in flames. It must have been quite the thrill. Engine after engine rolling up for the five-alarm blazes and guests fleeing in their pajamas. If they were lucky enough to get out, that was.

  Dantry torched three hotels before they caught him. Turned out he had a habit of staying at the hotel he was planning to burn the night before the big show. And he always checked in under the same name -- Ric Fueliam.

  Cops picked up on the pattern and put out the word to all the area hotels. The next time a Mr. Fueliam checked in, the police were summoned to check him out. Only later did someone figure out that Dantry’s alias was an anagram for “I am Lucifer.”

  Dantry was tried and convicted on three counts of arson and thirteen counts of murder -- one for each of the victims who died in his carefully orchestrated infernos. The story would have ended there, except for an ambitious LA Times reporter who covered the trial.

  Seeing his chance at the bestseller list, the reporter banged out a bad novel based on the Dantry case. The book’s villain was a carbon copy of Dantry’s ultra ego, Ric Fueliam, only the writer changed the killer’s name to Earl Hades to protect the guilty. The reporter slapped on the title Hell Fires, and the book sold for a million-dollar advance. But the only one who got burned was his publisher. Blurbs promised “a super-heated plot that will singe the pages!” But there were too many facts and not enough fiction. And everyone knew how the real story turned out.

  However, the book contained very detailed -- and highly accurate -- accounts of the methods Dantry used to start his fires. These passages apparently read like a how-to manual for arsonists, Cassie said.

  “So someone read this piece-a-shit novel and copied the technique?” I asked as we walked along the scenic harbor. Nearby, seagulls squabbled over a prized piece of trash.

  “Looks like it,” Cassie nodded.

  “Why now? It’s goin’ on twenty years. And you said the book was a flop. It didn’t sell. Why would someone dig up an obscure novel and copy the signature all these years later?”

  Cassie shrugged. “That’s what doesn’t add up. The book’s out of print. I have a librarian at the Times trying to track down a copy. She’s supposed to fax me the pertinent passages ASAP. If she’s having trouble locating a copy, this thing’s hard to find.”

  The story was becoming more and more confusing. Basing the M.O. of the arson on some out-of-print novel didn’t sound like the act of any bar owner I knew. Yet, I was convinced Sonny Prather was part of this.

  “What about you, Telly?” Cassie glanced at me as we strolled. “I spilled. It’s your turn. Dish.”

  “I really don’t know what to think now.”

  Cassie narrowed her eyes, suspicious that I was trying to dodge her. “Don’t give me that. I saw the headlines out of Harrisburg. You broke the story on the shooting investigation and derailed Holier-Than-Thou Hollister’s political crusade. You ate our guy’s lunch with the exclusive. The Times ran a Hollister-centered follow, but you showed that the shooting wasn’t even about him. Musta had a pretty good source.”

  “Well--”

  “Well nothing.” Cassie cut me off. “You said you had a tip.”

  We stopped walking as Cassie waited for my response. Over her shoulder, the victorious gull in the avian free-for-all took flight. I watched him flap away, his hard-won prize clamped securely in his beak. Then my eyes returned to Cassie.

  “What if the person who started the fire was inside the bar at the time?” I said.

  She paused to consider this, then quickly shook it off. “The device was on a timer. No need to be there. Why risk it?”

  “You said yourself these firebugs like a show,” I offered. We stood in a chilly wind blowing off the water. Gentle waves lapped against a nearby dock. “What if our guy wanted a close-up look at the faces of the people he was about to roast? Hell, I’ll go you one better. What if our guy wanted to see them panic? What if he wanted to be right there to watch the terror he created?”

  Cassie tilted her head. “Yeah, but then he’d risk becoming burnt toast with the rest of them.”

  “Not if he was sure he’d get out.”

  “How?”

  “Say he has a baseball bat or a stun gun? Items they use for security in bars?”

  Cassie’s eyes sharpened on me. “What are you trying to say, Telly?”

  “What if it was the owner, this Prather guy?”

  Cassie looked off at the water. It wa
s gray and dirty. “He is suspect No. 1,” she said, considering theories, weighting facts. “Had the place insured to the hilt.”

  “That’s right,” I encouraged her. “So he torches the place, then the bastard fights his way out. You saw the pictures, read the accounts. He was all scratched up. Whaddya think happened in there?”

  She shook her head and squinted her eyes, looking far off in the distance. “God only knows what happens in a panic like that. I imagine it did get a little rough. Would’ve been mayhem, in fact. Anything could have gone on. None of us are above fighting for our lives. That doesn’t make Prather, or anyone else in there, a killer, much less the guy who torched the place.”

  “No, Cassie. You’re wrong. People were trying to get out, and he put them down. I know it. I feel it. He might as well have executed them. A bullet between the eyes would have been kinder. Hell of a lot more humane than leaving people to burn.”

  “But the newspaper machine,” Cassie said, turning and meeting my eyes. “Someone moved a newspaper vending machine and put it in front of the club’s emergency doors. Why do that if you’re inside? Fire chief said it helped ensure the place would be a deathtrap. If the firebug was inside, there’d be no way he could be sure of getting out. Not with one of the emergency exits blocked. Not with what happened up in Rhode Island. Everyone saw how all those bodies piled up at the door. Why block the door? Forget why. How do you do it if you’re already inside?”

  I gritted my teeth. I had forgotten about the vending machine.

  “I don’t know, but we should go over there and check it out.” I jerked my head toward the other side of the harbor, where Fells Point lay.

  “We will,” she promised. “First we have a press conference with your buddy, Prather. Mr. Club Owner-turned-humanitarian is announcing a fund drive for the victims. Only now the cops and the media are looking at him hard for the arson. No motive like cold cash.”

  “Sometimes the simplest theories are best,” I pointed out. “And being inside the club at the time of the fire sure makes him look a lot less suspicious and much more sympathetic. Far better than torching the place after hours. And it fits with my theory of him fighting his way out of there.”

  Cassie arched her eyebrows skeptically, still not buying it. “Guess we should get going,” she said.

  “Lead the way. I’m only down here for the day.”

  Chapter 21

  Sonny Prather kept a horde of reporters waiting for his arrival in a cramped conference room on Baltimore Hospital’s second floor. All the major print and broadcast media from around the country were represented. My Harrisburg press pass was near the bottom rung of this journalistic food chain, but I had no problem gaining admittance. One flash of Cassie’s New York Times credentials was all it took. But not everyone in that antiseptic room carried a press pass. I was sure a couple of guys in bad suits standing impatiently against the back wall carried badges instead. Cassie was right. The cops were just as curious as the press about what Sonny Prather had to say.

  I found out later that the club owner’s delayed arrival was owed to his insistence on first visiting the hospital’s burn ward, where dozens of victims lay in unimaginable discomfort. Prather shook hands with family members, the ones who agreed to see him. And he looked through glass at the bandaged burn victims in their ultra-sterile rooms. A couple of nights ago, these people were paying customers at his trendy tavern. In the future, it was likely that Prather would be the one paying -- he and his insurance company. I was sure the civil court damage awards to the dead and injured would run into the millions. Prather’s mercy tour of the burn ward and his pre-emptive move to set up a victims fund smacked of feeble attempts to generate goodwill. Then maybe fewer people would try to sue his ass off. Good luck, I thought. What I really wanted to know was whether there was something more behind Prather’s public relations moves. Like covering up arson and hiding multiple murders.

  * * *

  The club owner finally arrived at his own press conference. Prather had managed to persuade two of the more moderately injured victims and three family members of the most critically injured to join him at the front table. It was always a good idea to have a few sob stories from victims to throw out to the press. The media would eat it up, and it would take the focus off Prather.

  Not to be outdone by the bandaged props to his left, Prather sported injuries of his own, all very minor, I was sure. He had two bandaged hands, some gauze taped to his forehead and a few scratches on his face and neck. Other than that, he looked no worse for wear.

  Sonny Prather was a short, slender man with black hair and a large, beakish nose. His dark suit looked expensive. And he struck me as the type who liked to be close to the action to elevate his own status. He was behind-the-scenes material all the way. Whatever recognition, social acceptance and sex he received were strictly owed to what he had, not who he was. He rode coattails and he counted money. But his money-counting fingers were now wrapped in bandages.

  When Prather reached for a bottle of water on the table, he did so by clamping it between his palms, then raising both hands to his face. Finished with this struggle, Prather leaned toward the mic. He tapped on it a couple of times with the back of his bandaged hand. The sound system was on.

  The club owner looked out at the gathered press as if waiting for someone to say, “action.” Bored faces, bright lights and black camera lenses stared back at him. He glanced down at the table, then began.

  “First, I would like to express my sympathy and sorrow for the victims.” Prather’s bandaged hands trembled a bit as they rested on the table and his voice sounded a little shaky. I felt this was more out of nervousness about his acting, than a manifestation of any real emotion. My suspicions were confirmed when Prather raised his head and a solitary tear rolled down his left cheek. Somebody should have checked him for Visine or sliced onions.

  “What happened early yesterday was the worst tragedy imaginable. But what is even more powerful is the determination of the survivors and the faith of the families who lost people to overcome this. It is absolutely true that it’s always darkest before the dawn. December 17th was a black, black night here in Baltimore. But we came through, and we will go on.”

  Prather’s voice broke, and he dipped his head, no doubt trying to conjure a few more tears.

  “It’s hard,” he said. “This is hard. It’s hardest for the victims and the families. But it’s so difficult for me because I feel responsible. My lawyers don’t want me to say that, but it’s true.” Prather was staring straight into the cameras now. For the first time, the guy sounded honest.

  “It was my club. I advertised that show. I sold the tickets. I poured the drinks. The people who came to the Harbor House were just looking for a good time and a little music. And that’s all I wanted to give them. And then--” His voice trailed off and he shook his head.

  “It all went wrong.” His voice was a whisper, then came back strong. “But I want the people to know something.” He gestured toward himself with a bandaged hand. “I was in that club, too. I was there and I wouldn’t have wished it on anyone. I got out, but I don’t feel good about it. I feel guilty. Guilty for surviving. Now I know why the old boat captains always went down with the ship.”

  Prather nodded and smiled ruefully. There was a long silence broken only by a few sniffles. This guy was softening the cold, hard hearts of the media pack.

  “But I lived,” he said. “I lived for a reason, and you’re looking at them.” Prather turned and gestured to the survivors and family members seated to his left.

  “You see,” he said, “I am responsible. I’m responsible to them, to the people injured and ailing in this hospital, and to the people who are no longer with us and to their families. I believe I lived so I could help them.”

  Prather scanned the line of survivors and family members, but he couldn’t hold their eyes. When the victims didn’t return the bar owner’s hopeful smile, Prather looked uncomfortable. The sh
owman in him must have wondered what good were props if they just sat there like zombies. This was the time to be warm and fuzzy. This was their cue to gaze admiringly at the benevolent club owner who was throwing them a few bucks.

  Instead, Prather turned back to the cameras. “That’s why today I am announcing the Harbor House Victims and Families Fund.” He read from a statement, making sure to get the details correct. “It’s a nonprofit charitable trust that will help pay unmet medical bills, fund rehabilitations, set up scholarship funds for children of the deceased and help affected families pay household bills. Donations are one hundred percent tax-deductible, and I urge all of you to be generous.” He raised his eyes and shot the cameras an earnest expression, right on cue.

  “Right here and now, I want to announce the first donation,” he continued, not needing the text for this. “I am making a personal pledge to the fund of $1 million. I’m not doing this to feel good or to lessen my guilt. I’m doing it because I am responsible. I’m responsible for my fellow man. People are suffering. Families are hurting. And I want to help. Please join me. Thank you.”

  Prather was good, but he would not get off that easy. A wall of sound immediately confronted him as eager reporters shouted questions.

  “One at a time,” he said, raising his bandaged hands as if to hold off the media horde. If he was looking for sympathy, he didn’t get any.

  “Are you a suspect in the arson?” a man down front asked.

  “Not that I know of,” Prather shrugged. “You tell me.”

  “There’s talk of a rather large insurance policy on the club,” said a woman.

  “Of course the club was insured,” Prather said. “I don’t know what ‘rather large’ means. It was adequately indemnified. I don’t have an exact figure for you, I’m sorry. Whatever the amount is, it’s not enough. No amount would be enough. I’d give any amount to be down at my club right now, putting in this week’s orders. Sonny Prather is a night club owner. That’s what I do. It’s all I ever wanted to do.”