by John Luciew
He opened the driver’s door, rolled the window part-way down and placed a white towel over the glass, then wound the window back up. With any luck, the car wouldn’t be towed for two or three days, he thought.
Finally, he grabbed the portable television and returned to the plow truck.
It was going on five o’clock. It was show time.
The bombastic, self-important soundtrack for WBNY’s Evening News came on at five o’clock sharp. The man was barreling down a snowy stretch of I-190 when he heard the music on his portable TV. As if on cue, he reached for the TV, removing it from the truck’s passenger seat and placing it on the large dashboard. The small, black-and-white screen was right in front of him now. He could watch as he drove. Besides, the reception was better by the window.
On screen, an older, serious anchorman and his younger, blond female companion traded quips about the storm. It wasn’t snow; it was “the white stuff.” And it wasn’t just falling, it was “really coming down out there.” And this wasn’t merely a newscast, it was a “StormCenter 8 report.”
Then the anchor uttered the words the man had been waiting to hear. “Let’s go live to our Storm Team reporters stationed all around the metro area for the very latest on traffic and weather conditions. We begin with a cold Brandon O’Connell. He’s somewhere along the usually bustling I-290. Brandon, where are you?”
The station cut to the middle-age reporter in a blue parka. The hood of his jacket was down so he could show off his perfect hair, which was just now beginning to collect snow. Surely, O’Connell had been protecting his coif with an umbrella until mere seconds before the station switched to him.
“I’m here, Jim,” he said. “I’m standing along I-290 North, just before the interchange leading to the Boulevard Mall and downtown Buffalo. Like you said, this highway is usually packed with cars at this time of the day. But as you can see behind me, rush hour never really got started today. This big storm had other ideas, and people wisely stayed home or left work and school early. That’s good, because road crews are out in force right now trying to keep up with the storm. So far, it’s been a losing battle. But tonight, as the snow tapers off, they’ll gain the upper hand. And road conditions will be much better for tomorrow morning’s commute.”
The station cut back to the anchor for the patented question-and-answer session. “What about accidents--”
The man turned down the volume. He had heard enough. He knew exactly where O’Connell was stationed. He didn’t even need to consult a map. He took the first exit and headed east. He’d cut across the city, then head north on I-290. He could be there in twenty minutes. Twenty-five, tops. Time was not a problem. He had until 6 p.m. That was when WBNY would begin its main evening newscast. The viewing audience would be at its peak. But viewers wouldn’t be witnessing their regularly scheduled program. They’d tune in for the story he had created. It would unfold right before their eyes.
Everything would happen on live TV.
The newscast’s theme song trumpeted again at 6 p.m. It was the man’s signal. He had looped the stretch of I-290 twice, just to make sure Brandon O’Connell was still right where he was supposed to be.
He hadn’t seen O’Connell, not exactly. But he had seen the TV truck, parked along the side of the highway. No doubt O’Connell was inside, staying warm, powdering his nose and primping his hair for the big 6 p.m. live shot. So what if the coffee he sipped was spiked with a little whiskey? It was just a little anti-freeze. Better to keep out the cold.
The man was five miles away and heading north when the newscast began. He allowed three minutes for introductions and mindless banter. Then they’d cut to O’Connell for a two-minute segment. Timing was tight, but this was showbiz. And he had planned it all.
The man’s eyes alternated between the snowy roadway and the tiny, black-and-white TV screen on the dash. The sleepy, old anchor and the blond bimbo were just wrapping up their chatter. They were about to throw it to O’Connell. The man could see bright TV lights shining alongside the highway in the distance. O’Connell’s cameraman readied for the live shot.
The man was within a half-mile. Perfect.
* * *
O’Connell was on the screen now, gesturing to the highway behind him. In the distance, one could see the yellow flash of emergency lights.
Like any good showman, O’Connell made use of the prop. “As you can see behind me, road crews are out in force,” he said, gesturing but never ripping his eyes from the camera. That was the rule in TV. One must maintain eye contact with the folks at home.
The truck grew closer.
“The objective is to have the roads in shape for tomorrow morning’s commute,” O’Connell went on. “I’m afraid this afternoon and this evening were a total write off.”
The man could see the scene clearly now, even through the driving snow. O’Connell had his back to the road. His cameraman was shooting south, toward the approach of the lumbering plow truck.
The man allowed the truck to drift gently to the side of the highway. The sharp plow was lowered and it was throwing sparks.
On the TV screen, the flash of the approaching truck’s emergency lights had a strobe effect, adding a surreal quality to the scene. It seemed to cast subsequent events into a nightmarish slow motion.
The plow truck loomed behind the reporter, but O’Connell was oblivious. He was too busy making love to the camera. He was hypnotized by its black eye and those bright lights.
The man had known it would be this way. He knew from the beginning that O’Connell was too much of a showman to even think of looking away. He’d never break the Cardinal Rule of showbiz. He’d never turn his back to his audience.
At the last possible moment, the man raised the snowplow. The sharp blade, still hot from the friction with the road, was now even with the truck’s bumper. In terms of a man, it was approximately waist-high. It terms of its force, it was a diesel-powered battering ram.
On screen, the picture appeared a bit unsteady, as if the cameraman was backing away from the truck’s approach. But O’Connell kept right on talking. The station was giving him a full two minutes of airtime and he meant to fill it. But his words were all but drowned out now by the roar of the approaching truck.
The truck was directly behind the reporter now, its plow about to envelop him. O’Connell’s last words were completely washed out by the roar. At the last possible split-second, the reporter turned, just in time to meet death.
On screen, the camera jerked. There was a flash of silver as TV lights reflected off the plow blade. Then there was a red blur as an object -- a man’s torso, perhaps -- flew out of the shot.
The picture jostled as the agile cameraman leapt to avoid the truck. After a moment to recover, the cameraman swung around, catching the truck’s red taillights as they road away. Its license plate was visible, but just briefly. Then the truck disappeared behind a screen of falling snow.
Finally, the camera panned down to the snowy roadway, tracing a path back toward the original scene. At first, portions of snow looked dark, almost black, in the badly lit TV image. But as the camera panned back to an area with better lighting, the color became red. A bright, shocking red that looked all the more horrible against the virgin snow.
Just then, the station cut away to ashen-faced anchors. Both were uncharacteristically tongue-tied. There were no ready quips for this situation. There was nothing in the TV handbook about what to say when a reporter was cut in half on live TV.
Chapter 43
The grisly scene played again and again on the TV in the restaurant bar. My guess was that it would be playing all night. And it would be playing for the next hundred years on the Internet. I had never seen anything like it. The closest thing was… Well, it was a long time ago. And I didn’t like thinking about it. In fact, I had spent many nights drinking so I wouldn’t think about it.
“Let’s go, Telly,” Cassie said, not wanting to watch the horrible images again. “I don’t fe
el so well.”
CNN cut back to the studio. A news anchor was recapping events, emphasizing “what we know at this hour.”
I looked at Cassie. She was on a barstool, sipping black coffee and trying to sober up. “I just want to hear this,” I said.
The CNN anchor continued: “You have been watching shocking video out of Buffalo, New York, where a TV news reporter was killed tonight while filing a winter storm report on live TV. There’s no official word yet on what happened. But it appears from that disturbing video that a state plow truck veered off the highway and struck the reporter, killing him instantly. As I’ve said, there is no report on how or why this tragedy occurred. But the TV news station has identified the reporter. He is Brandon O’Connell, a veteran television reporter in the Buffalo area who’s credited with working at various network affiliates across the country during a twenty-nine-year career. Again, the victim is Buffalo TV reporter Brandon O’Connell, killed during a live news broadcast along a snowy highway in Buffalo, New York, tonight.”
CNN flashed a headshot of O’Connell. It was a publicity shot from the TV station. A vanity photo. Despite this, O’Connell looked older, much older. The booze and the partying had taken its toll on his once-perfect looks. I still remembered when he started in the business. He had began working in radio at age 18. But he didn’t have a face for radio. His destiny was television. He quickly graduated to a local station. Only, he wasn’t in front of the camera back then. The station had him doing grunt work. He was young and strong and steady. The cameras were much heavier and a lot bulkier back then, but O’Connell never had a problem humping equipment all day long. He shot footage and learned every aspect of the business. Like his camera, he saw everything. He observed how the reporters talked, how they asked questions, how they commanded the screen. Like so many others, he learned the business in Harrisburg, then moved on to bigger and better things.
O’Connell had worked many times at the Capitol, mostly covering news conferences. I had run into him on all the big stories. In fact, he was the only cameraman who kept rolling on one of the biggest stories back in 1980.
After seeing O’Connell’s picture and reliving those memories, I staggered to a barstool next to Cassie. I exhaled as I slumped on the chair. “Oh, Christ. O’Connell.”
Cassie looked up. “You knew that guy. The reporter?”
I stared ahead at the fancy booze bottles behind the bar. “Not really knew him. Worked with him a long time ago.”
Cassie straightened in her chair. I noticed then that she was looking much more sober.
“Just like you worked with Irv Bressenhan,” she said, her stare sharpening on me.
I kept my expression blank. “I told you, Cassie. I don’t know what’s going on.”
“But something’s definitely going on,” she said, taking a long swallow of the coffee. I could see the gears of her mind begin to turn behind her brightening eyes. “You worked with Wayne Dykstra, too,” she went on. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. Two, now three, dead journalists. And they’re all linked to Harrisburg. You gotta tell me, Telly. What is it? What’s happening?”
“I can’t,” I said, taking small solace in the fact that she hadn’t yet linked Debbie Moore to the series of murders. “Whatever I tell you will end up in the New York Times. I can’t let that happen. I told you, if you wanted in, you had to agree to embargo the story. Hold it until the cops have a suspect. It’s too risky otherwise.”
“You know I can’t do that,” she said.
“And you know I can’t tell you anything.”
She shook her head. “Don’t you see? You already did. You said it with your reaction to this O’Connell guy’s death. And you said it with your eyes when I mentioned the others. Someone’s killing journalists with ties to Harrisburg. I just have to find out why.”
“No one knows way,” I snapped.
“Never stopped me before.” Cassie polished off the coffee, then stood. She was rock steady, as if just a whiff of this story was stronger than any smelling salts. She proceeded to gather up her purse and route around for her keys.
I grabbed her arm. “Don’t do this, Cassie. Don’t get involved. It’s too dangerous.”
She swung her head toward me. “Then help me.”
“I can’t. Not like this. Not for a story. Not when people are dying and lives are at stake.”
She turned back to her purse, but I took her by the shoulders and shook her. I tried desperately to make her see.
“It’s my life, Cassie. Don’t you get it? My life’s in danger.”
She looked at me and bit her lip. Her eyes seemed to water. The moment stretched out for a long time. Then she spoke. Her words broke my heart.
“Can I drop you somewhere?” she said, then popped a breath mint into her mouth. “I have to get back to work.”
Chapter 44
The thick blanket of snow made everything quiet, unnaturally quiet, as Cassie drove me to the newspaper. She had drunk quite a bit, but we had also eaten well. That, the coffee and the juicer details of the story had perked her right up. Besides, there was no one else around to endanger. The weather kept people off the streets. Everything looked and sounded deserted. The snow had a way of muffling all sound, killing any noise. It was as if we were the last two people on earth, or at least in Harrisburg. But I knew better.
Inside Cassie’s rented SUV, all that silence was maddening as she navigated the empty streets. As tense as it was, neither of us had the strength to end the stalemate. I knew Cassie was single-minded in her determination to break the story. Nothing I could have said would have made any difference. Me? I had a little reporting of my own to do. But it would not be for any story. Not yet, at least. There were more immediate concerns, like stopping a killer.
Cassie pulled into the Herald’s snowy lot. She turned to me, but neither of us spoke. I reached for the door handle and pulled. The dome light came on, and I got a last look at Cassie’s face. It was the picture of resolve. She had buried any hint of regret. Regrets were for later, after her story had been written and published. She was a reporter. And that’s exactly what she intended to do -- report the story of the media murders, regardless of who it might harm. Even if it was me.
I turned from her without a word and stepped out into the wind and cold. Instantly, my wingtips were buried in ten inches of show. I should have slipped on my rubbers before leaving the house. But I’d been as careless about my winter gear as I had about so many things. It was a cold, wet slog to the newspaper’s lobby.
The newsroom was quiet. It was going on 9 p.m. The hour and the brutal weather had winnowed the staff. A skeleton crew was putting together a front page littered with weather stories. It was the usual laundry list of traffic accidents, power outages, school closings and road reports. Of course, there would be a follow on the Bressenhan case, but I doubted Brett Macy would have much new. Cassie Jordan was the only reporter to fear. She was the only journalist in a position to reveal that the deaths of four reporters were linked to Harrisburg.
But there was one last connection that needed to be made. In all of the previous killings, the journalists had been murdered in a manner that mirrored their most famous stories. I needed to know what story from Brandon O’Connell’s past had caused him to be cut in two by a plow along a snowy highway in Buffalo. For this, I went on the Internet. When I was fairly certain I had found the link, I turned on CNN and dialed Dave Langhorne.
He answered his cell phone on the second ring. “Langhorne.”
“Are you near a TV?”
“Tellis?”
“Yeah, it’s me. The TV, Dave. Turn it on.”
“What’s this about?” The detective’s voice was cautious. Part of him wanted to know, part of him didn’t.
“Just do it. Switch to CNN.”
“Okay, okay,” he said. I heard shuffling noises as he reached for a remote, then other sounds and voices as he flipped through the channels. “Okay, got it. So what’s u
p? What do you want me to see? Looks like a weather report. I already know it’s snowing, Telly.”
“Just watch.” The cable news station was replaying the videotape of Brandon O’Connell’s murder, which began as a weather report.
Langhorne blew out an impatient breath on the other end of the line. It was as if this wasn’t worth his time. But he watched anyway.
On screen, the lumbering plow truck loomed ever larger behind the chattering reporter until events played out to their tragic, bloody conclusion.
“Holy fuckin’ shit,” Langhorne shouted. “It just took him out.” His voice was a mix of shock and awe. “Gotta be some kinda freak accident, right?”
I didn’t answer.
“I’m right, ain’t I?” Langhorne repeated. “It was an accident, wasn’t it?”
“No. It’s him. Our guy.”
“In a snowplow truck? In Buffalo? In the middle of a storm? Can’t be.”
“It is. The reporter’s name was Brandon O’Connell. He used to work in Harrisburg. Started his career here. First in radio, then TV. This was back in the 80s.”
“Shit,” Langhorne said.
“It gets worse. When O’Connell was out in L.A., he covered the O.J. Simpson case.”
“Who didn’t?”
“Only, O’Connell didn’t just cover the trial. He covered the chase. Remember O.J. in that white Bronco, the parade of black and whites behind him? The chase that seemed to go on forever as the whole nation watched?”
“Yeah, sure. What about it?” Langhorne asked.
“O’Connell was one of the first reporters on the story. This was back when he worked for one of the network affiliates out there. He was their traffic reporter. Happened to be up in one of those news choppers at the time. Had a bird’s eye view of the whole chase. Won some kinda award for his commentary. ”