Kill The Story

by John Luciew

  I ducked into a convenience store and purchased two large coffees for the drive home. The brew had sat too long on the burner and had the consistency of sludge. I forced it down anyway. I needed to replace the alcohol in my system with caffeine. And I needed to stay awake for the ride home. The trip back always seemed twice as long.

  Arriving home, I tried my best to play cat burglar. I moved around my darkened house with a minimum of bumps and bangs. I didn’t even flush the commode after returning some of the beer I’d drunk. I slipped into my bedroom and under the covers, thinking I had pulled it off.

  Then came the squeak of my bedroom door as it slowly opened. “Saw you on the TV today,” Maggie said from the doorway.

  “Great,” I said, realizing that if Mother had caught my cameo, so had Bill Sharps.

  “Who was the girl sitting next to you?”

  “I’m away all day. I help break an arson case, and that’s what you ask?”

  “Who was she?” Maggie asked again.

  “Cassie Jordan. You know her. She used to work at the Herald.”

  “No, I was never properly introduced. I didn’t realize she was so pretty.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s in New York now. Got a fancy haircut and new clothes. Probably gets facials and stuff, too. She looks okay, I guess.”

  “Whatever, Francis. So you two went for drinks?” Mother had no equal when it came to third degree.

  “One or two. She had to file her story, and I had to get back.”

  “Yeah, I noticed how you rushed right back.”

  “I’ll pay for it tomorrow,” I said, already dreading the morning. “Please make sure I’m up by eight. I can’t be late. I gotta patch things up with Sharps. And I gotta get back on the shooting story.”

  “I’ll make sure, all right.” Maggie would relish rousting me from sleep, the bigger the hangover, the better.

  “Night,” I said.

  “Goodnight. And Francis?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You really should have flushed the toilet.”

  I felt like shit the next morning. My head was okay as long as I was lying down and my eyes were closed. But as soon as I tried anything else, it was sheer torture.

  I made it to the bathroom, emptied my about-to-burst bladder, then stood under a hot shower for a full fifteen minutes. I downed some Alka-Seltzer, and was tempted to try a little hair of the dog. I sipped coffee, instead. I was already in enough trouble at work. I’d rather show up hung over, than with booze on my breath. At least I’d be on time.

  I took the long way around the newsroom, but Bill Sharps spotted me anyway. I kept stealing glances as I walked, hoping he’d stay preoccupied with whatever was on his computer screen. But when I glanced over again, he was staring right back at me. Sharps gave me a cold, hard look that told me he knew everything -- the trip to Baltimore, the drinks with Cassie, even my pounding hangover.

  At least he didn’t charge right over and confront me. I don’t think I could have handled it. Sharps allowed me to slink off to my desk. There’d be time for my punishment later. Sharps would know right where to find me. I intended to stay barricaded behind my cubicle walls until they sent out a search party. I’d lick my wounds for a while, then start making calls on the Wayne Dykstra story. Just as soon as I could tolerate the sound of my own voice.

  Relief washed over me as I neared my tiny newsroom sanctuary, complete with my cluttered desk and my semi-comfortable swivel chair. I was about to sit down when I noticed a package on the left corner of my desk. It was a brightly colored FedEx box.

  I lowered myself to my chair and pulled the box closer. It felt pretty heavy. I tipped it toward me and noticed the return address printed on top. The Washington Post.

  I cocked my head in confusion. What would the Post be sending me?

  I could think only of the Hollister case. I had broken a story that had embarrassed a senator who was a staunch enemy of gay rights and the so-called liberal elite. I knew there were a lot of liberals at the Post. Quite a few gays, as well, I was sure. Perhaps, one of them felt they had found a new ally and wanted to send me more dirt on the senator. It sounded very generous. Much too generous for the Post, or anyone else in the news business, for that matter.

  I didn’t feel like combing through a thick stack of documents, anyway. Not at that moment, and not anytime soon. But I was intrigued. I wanted to at least see what was inside.

  I got a letter-opener from my desk drawer and ran it under the edges of the box, cutting the packing tape. I folded open the flaps, and rose from my chair, so I could better see inside.

  The box was stuffed with crumpled, yellowed newspaper used as packing to protect whatever was inside. I pulled out some of the balled-up pieces of newsprint. Underneath was a sealed plastic bag.

  I pulled open the plastic and cool mist wafted out. It felt like the condensation from dry ice. It was how they packed steaks. The good stuff. Filet mignon. If someone from the Post had sent me a box of tenderloins to celebrate my story on Hollister, I’d rub it in Sharps’ face for a month. My own paper wouldn’t even give me a raise, and here was the competition sending me steaks. Now that was how to treat an ace reporter. Hell, Maggie could cook them up for Christmas dinner. To hell with turkey.

  My hands spread the plastic, and I could make out the shape of something. It was pale and circular, almost like a volleyball. Who the hell would send me a volleyball?

  Then I noticed there was something attached to the ball. Some kind of fuzz.

  Or hair.

  I swallowed hard. My hands began shaking. My knees felt week. But I had to see. I giggled the box.

  The contents shifted and the ball rolled backwards. That’s when I saw it.

  Suddenly, dead, milky eyes were staring up at me. The bridge of a prominent nose pointed north.

  I felt acid rise in the back of my throat. My stomach went into spasms. My mouth filled with bile. I brought a hand to my mouth and doubled over. I lunged for the closest garbage can and shoved my head inside. I let loose a loud retch.

  Then I raised my head, keeping the trash can close, and screamed out. “Christ Jesus,” I shouted. “It’s somebody’s head.”

  The outburst brought a crowd in seconds. People stood in a half moon around my cubicle. The head’s dead eyes were just visible through the opened lid. Its flesh appeared greenish under the harsh fluorescent lights.

  Bill Sharps pushed through the wall of people. He glanced at the box, the focus of everyone’s attention. “Good God,” he said. His face went instantly white, along with the bald spot at the crown of his head that was his emotional weather vane.

  But Sharps seemed even more shocked when he looked at me. My color had drained. My eyes were watery from having thrown up, and a dribble of regurgitation ran down the side of my mouth.

  “It’s a head,” I said, as if that explained everything. As if it were an everyday occurrence, receiving a decapitated human head in a FedEx cooler box.

  “Somebody call the cops,” Sharps shouted.

  “Ask for Langhorne,” I added. “Detective Dave Langhorne of the Harrisburg PD. Tell them I’ll only talk to him.”

  “What the hell’s going on, Telly?” Sharps stared at me.

  “I think I know whose head is in that box.”

  Chapter 25

  The newsroom was now a crime scene. My desk was off limits behind police tape. My belongings were under the watchful eyes of a team of detectives and lab techs. They still hadn’t moved the head.

  I watched from behind the glass of Bill Sharps’ office as Langhorne, the tallest detective there, surveyed the situation. He wore latex gloves and used the eraser end of a pencil to gently move items on my desk. He used the same pencil to probe the contents of the box, as well. Upon finishing, he tossed the pencil in a trashcan and ripped off his gloves. He stood there with his arms crossed, just looking for a long time. Then he came for me.

  Meanwhile, Sharps had been pressing me for more information. But I tol
d him I only wanted to go through it once and that we should wait for Langhorne. I asked for just one thing, aside from a strong cup of coffee. I wanted to use Sharps’ computer. I needed to get on the Internet.

  Langhorne rapped on the door while I was still at the computer. “I hear you’ll only talk to me?” The detective sounded pleased as he entered the office. He knew my demand would guarantee him full access to the investigation -- a privilege he otherwise would not have enjoyed as a charter member of the mayor’s shit list.

  “You ready for my statement?” I said, having confirmed my suspicions on the computer.

  “You say it, I’ll play it,” the detective said.

  Just then, the phone rang. Sharps lifted the receiver to his ear. A few “yes sirs” later, he softly hung up and looked at us. “The publisher wants to do this in his office. Since the paper’s exposed, he wants to be kept fully apprised of the investigation.”

  Langhorne shrugged. “Got no problem with that. Seats are probably more comfortable there, anyway.”

  Langhorne was right. The seats were better.

  Publisher Angus Merrin’s office was a wood-paneled, leather-trimmed oasis from the fluorescent-flooded blah of the rest of the building. A secretary announced our arrival, then politely permitted our passage to the publisher’s inner sanctum on the second floor.

  Merrin, in his sixties, leaned forward in his well-worn leather desk chair, a move meant to approximate a full stand but which didn’t come close. Dim light from a nearby desk lamp deepened every one of the many lines on his face.

  “Come in, gentlemen. Sit. Make yourselves comfortable.” He gestured to overstuffed leather chairs arranged in front of the mahogany fortress he called a desk.

  Sharps took the lead. He’d had the most opportunity to become familiar with the luxuries of Merrin’s office. Langhorne followed, and I brought up the rear.

  I sat down and was enveloped in the chair. It was the most comfortable thing I had ever sat on. If I hadn’t just found a decapitated head on my desk, there might have been a danger of my dozing off.

  “Quite the unfortunate incident upstairs.” Merrin talked as if the paper had gotten a headline wrong, instead of just having received a human body part. “It’s always so difficult when the paper becomes part of the story. I guess there’s no avoiding it in this case. That’s why I asked you all to discuss the matter down here. So I may be privy to the full ramifications for the newspaper and its jealously-guarded reputation.”

  “I think that’s wise,” Sharps put in, eager to score points.

  Merrin nodded toward Langhorne. “Detective?”

  The cop was fully reclined in his chair. “I have no problems,” he shrugged. “I just want to get to the bottom of this shh--” Langhorne stopped himself. “This, ah, incident, like you said.”

  “For that, I think we should turn to our veteran political reporter.” Merrin gestured with a liver-spotted hand in my direction. “Francis, what can you tell us about this shocking matter.”

  Blank, expectant faces turned to me. I was piecing things together in my mind but was still rattled like hell. I was half-hung over. My stomach was jumping, and I couldn’t stop my goddamn hands from trembling.

  I looked at the publisher from my comfortable chair, not knowing where to begin. Hell, I didn’t even know how to begin.

  As if sensing my distress, Merrin swiveled around in his chair and opened a cabinet to his left. He withdrew a crystal container of amber liquid and several monogrammed crystal tumblers. “A little something to settle the nerves,” he said, holding up the container.

  He arrayed glasses in front of us, then held the fancy liquor vessel over each glass, waiting for a reply.

  Langhorne shook his head. Sharps didn’t seem to know how to respond. Would imbibing in the mid-morning be unprofessional? Or would refusing be the bigger mistake?

  Reading Sharps’ indecision as a no, the publisher’s pour hand was finally over my glass. I eagerly accepted with a series of anxious nods.

  “Say when,” Merrin advised.

  “When the glass is full,” I responded, even though I could feel Sharps’ harsh eyes on me. But there was no way I could get suspended for drinking on the job when the publisher himself was doing the pouring.

  Merrin filled my glass, then took two-fingers’ worth for himself. I waited, then we sipped together. Except, my swallow was a damn sight more than a sip. The booze seemed to ease my stomach, even as it burned all the way down. It damn sure helped settle my nerves and lessened the throbbing in my temples.

  “Better?” Merrin grinned.

  I nodded, then took another hit from the glass.

  “I know this is difficult, Telly,” he went on. “It must have been a terrible shock finding something like that. But can you tell us anything that may help with this?”

  I took one more swallow of scotch, just to clear my throat and prepare myself to hear the words out loud. “I think that’s Irv Bressenhan up there,” I said.

  Merrin’s throat came up in a dry swallow. “My God,” he whispered, mouthing the words more than speaking them out loud. “My dear God.”

  Langhorne leaned forward from his chair’s comfortable embrace. “Wait a minute,” he said looking back and forth between me and Merrin. “You sayin’ you recognize the head in the box?”

  I allowed my eyes to fall shut and permitted myself to see the horrific image that would be forever seared into the retina of my mind’s eye. Then just as quickly, I blinked it away.

  “He’s balder,” I began. “His color is...” I realized I didn’t know how to describe his color because I had never seen such pallor. “It’s not good. But I’d recognize that nose anywhere. It’s Irv. I’m sure of it.”

  “It’s been years,” Merrin said. “Decades. Why now? Why this paper?” The publisher’s eyes were far away, searching for answers.

  “Wait,” said Langhorne. “Back up a minute. Who is this guy? How do you two know him? And how is he tied in to this newspaper?”

  Merrin eased back in his chair, admiring the scotch glass in his right hand, but really staring into the past. “Detective, Irv Bressenhan used to work for this paper. Matter of fact, I’d say he was one of the five or six best reporters to ever work for this paper. I think I knew that when I hired him, back in ‘78. I also knew we wouldn’t be able to keep him very long. He had bigger things in store. Bigger stories at bigger papers.”

  “Like where?” Langhorne asked. “We’ll need to check if he’s missing. And we’re gonna need to get the ID confirmed. No offense, Telly, but we’re gonna need a second opinion on this.”

  “I understand,” I said. “I believe he was at the Washington Post. Isn’t that right, Angus?”

  Merrin cut short his swallow of scotch to issue a nod. “One of their best reporters,” he elaborated. “He arrived too late to get in on Watergate, of course. But he’s been a fixture down there for going on twenty years. To have something happen like this...” His voice faded.

  Langhorne flipped open a cell phone and dialed numbers. He didn’t bother saying hello to whoever was on the other end of the line. “We’re gonna need to check with D.C. police,” he barked. “The tentative ID of the deceased is a Irv Bressenhan. Apparently he worked at the Post.” There was a pause. “The Washington Post,” Langhorne elaborated, annoyed. “Ever hear of it? It’s a little newspaper they got down there. Yeah, that’s right. Check the last time anyone’s seen him. Get a home address, and have the D.C. cops check out the guy’s house. If there’s family around, fax down a picture of the, ah, head for ID.” Another pause. “I know it won’t be pretty, just do it. Get back to me as soon as you have something.” Langhorne clicked off the cell phone and muttered under his breath. It had to be frustrating being the smartest person on the force.

  The detective alternated his gaze between me and Merrin. “So the guy was a big shot reporter in D.C.? There’s gotta be more to it than that. I mean, the guy’s head just showed up on your doorstep for cri
ssakes. There’s gotta be a reason.”

  Merrin shook his head in absence. I was deep in thought. Langhorne turned to Sharps. “What about you?” the detective asked.

  “I’ve heard of Bressenhan,” Sharps said. “He was a well-respected journalist. I’d see his byline on the news wires from time to time. Reported from all over, all the political hot spots. The guy helped sway elections. I knew he worked here years ago and that Mr. Merrin was very fond of him. That’s why we continued to run so many of his stories. Angus liked seeing his byline in our paper.”

  Langhorne swung his head to the publisher, who had been drinking deeper of the scotch and settling into his chair. “So the guy was a prodigy,” the detective said. “You took him under your wing. Helped his career. How close were you two, exactly?”

  Merrin flipped up a hand. “We corresponded occasionally. Every once in a while, I’d run into him at a function in D.C., or at one gathering of journalists or the other. We’d talk and catch up. It was always very cordial. I think he appreciated what I had done for him. But at the same time, he had moved on. Besides, we were both so busy. Our friendship didn’t extend much beyond that.”

  “So why send his head here?” Langhorne pressed. “There’s got to be a reason. It’s a signal. Some kind of message.”

  “I don’t know.” Merrin said. “I just don’t know.” The publisher shook his head, groping for a reason, a meaning.

  I didn’t understand the reason, either. But pieces were starting to fall into place. I had confirmed my latest suspicion during my brief Internet search on Sharps’s computer. I just didn’t know where it all led.

  “I don’t know about a signal or a message,” I said, looking past the people in the room to the jumble of facts in my mind. “But there is a pattern.”

  “Pattern?” Langhorne objected. “There’s one victim. There’s no pattern here.”

  “What about Wayne Dykstra?” I said.