Kill The Story

by John Luciew

  “What?”

  “This, the assignment. It wasn’t a week ago that we were covering another of this windbag’s speeches. Now, here we go again. Just seems weird, after all that’s happened.”

  “That’s all it’s been? A week?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “The first one was last Saturday. Today’s Friday.”

  “Christ, I can’t believe it. Seems longer. A lot longer.”

  “That’s because we’ve been so busy,” Wally said. “Heck, there’s been so much going on, I never even got to tell you the good news.”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what Wally Greenfield considered good news, but he continued anyway.

  “I sold the photo,” he proudly announced. “Newsweek bought it. They’re doing a big spread on the media murders and they needed pictures of all the crimes. Turns out, they loved the image. They’re paying well, too, but that’s beside the point. Main thing is, my best image is getting into print. A national publication, no less. Guess I’m part of the media conglomerate now. They own my soul.”

  I turned in my seat. “What picture?”

  “The one of you, of course.” He glanced at me for a second then returned his eyes to the road. “The one the paper wouldn’t run. The one of you helping Dykstra. I told you, it was my best image.”

  “In Newsweek?” I repeated. “I’m gonna be in Newsweek?”

  I paused. “I don’t know if I like this. You should’ve talked to me about this. You should’ve told me.”

  Wally’s look of pride disintegrated into a frown. “I thought you’d be happy for me. Besides, I did tell you. The night I showed you my images. The night I took them to Langhorne.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t think it would happen.”

  “Thanks for your unwavering confidence and support,” Wally shot back. “I’m glad you’re not the photo editor at Newsweek.”

  The photographer stole another glance as I sat glumly in the hair-covered passenger seat.

  “C’mon, Telly. It’s a great image, and it’s a national story. Besides, you should be used to the media attention by now. I mean, you’ve been quoted at length in the New York Times, and your name’s been in every news report in the country. You’re a media darling.”

  “I’m nobody’s darling,” I corrected.

  “That’s true.”

  “And I’m not used to all this. Not at all.”

  “Give it time,” Wally said. “We wouldn’t be in this business if we didn’t want the attention. Most of us take to it real well. Take me, for example. I sold out to Newsweek. Hell, look at Cassandra. Isn’t it just wonderful how well she’s doing at the Times? Remember when she left our paper, how certain jealous journalists snickered that she’d be in over her head? Then there were those nasty rumors about how she got the job? Some whispered that Cassie had earned her New York Times kneepads, so to speak. I just think it’s great that she can come back here and rub it in everyone’s face.”

  “Yeah, it’s wonderful.” My voice was a monotone.

  “I didn’t mean everyone’s face,” Wally corrected himself. “Not yours. I’m sure you would have broken the story if they hadn’t taken you off it.”

  “You were right the first time,” I said. “Cassie’s rubbing it in everyone’s face. Mine included. Especially mine.”

  Just then, we pulled along Third Street in front of the Capitol. The state building was perched high on a hill to our right. Its green dome, with the golden lady of Pennsylvania at its peak, was the highest point in Harrisburg. From the street, an ocean of steps separated the building’s ornate entrances and marbled halls from the rest of the city. But what really set it apart was power, privilege and, yes, money. It was the same with the Wednesday Club.

  Wally took the left onto Vance Street and rolled slowly past the exclusive club, strategically located a mere stone’s throw from the Capitol. From the outside, the building was relatively unassuming. But gaining admittance was another matter entirely. There were costly membership fees and arcane admittance rules. The net effect was the most uppity clientele of any establishment in Harrisburg.

  The Wednesday Club was the lunchtime and cocktail-hour haven for only the top politicians, the richest businessmen, the most influential lobbyists and other elite movers and shakers in the city. Deals were forged amid the luxurious smoke of Cuban cigars and over leisurely $200 dinners. And when business was done, everything was washed down with 18-year-old Scotch -- bitter, smoky and warm all the way down.

  Today, however, they were throwing open those exclusive doors for the scraggily, uncouth people of the press -- the media pack. We would be admitted, but we sure wouldn’t be welcomed.

  In the parking lot, Wally was leaning underneath his car’s hatchback grabbing photo equipment when another vehicle pulled up. Several short bursts of its loud horn got my attention. I swung around to see an obnoxiously large SUV trying to squeeze into a too-tight space next to us. I wanted to flash the one-finger salute but thought it safer to move out of the way, instead.

  Wally slammed shut his hatchback and swung the straps of his cameras over his shoulder. We began walking toward the club’s entrance when a familiar voice halted us.

  “Hey, wait up.”

  We both turned to see Cassie Jordan stepping out of the SUV.

  “Cassandra,” Wally exclaimed and dashed toward her. I watched as they embraced, then pushed apart.

  “Look at you, Ms. Designer Label,” Wally said. “And that monster truck’s enough to keep the Saudi’s in business for the next decade. You better watch it. There are environmental vandals who’ll fuck it up for you. They hate anything with gas mileage under 30 miles per gallon.”

  “Relax, Wally. It’s a rental,” Cassie said, cocking an eyebrow. “But it sounds like you know a little too much about environmental terrorism. Is there something you’re not telling us, Greenfield?”

  “Hey, what can I say? I read Mother Jones. Anyway, enough about me. How’s the Big Apple treating you?”

  “It’d be better if I could smoke in a bar, but it’s okay.”

  “Just couldn’t stay away from Harrisburg,” Wally added.

  “Yeah, well, seems that’s where the news is these days.” Cassie glanced at me. Wally followed her eyes.

  “Look who’s here, Frank,” Wally said brightly. The smile on his face wilted as he caught my reaction, or more precisely, my lack of reaction. I returned a flat stare from fifteen feet away.

  “I see,” I said. “What brings you here, Cassie?”

  “It’s a press conference. I didn’t know I needed a written invitation.”

  “It’s a little small-time for you, dontcha think? Press conferences don’t seem to be your style these days. Everything’s so open and above-board. You seem to prefer more of a challenge. You like to dig for your stories and pry loose your information. Pry it right out of people, without them even knowing what you’re up to. Isn’t that right, Cassie?”

  She looked down. Wally, who had been watching our exchange in shocked silence, spoke instead. “Hey, what’s with you two? We’re on the same team.”

  “Are we?” I asked. “Coulda fooled me. By the way, Wally, I’d watch what I said. Everything’s on the record with Ms. Jordan there. I’d be careful.”

  “I don’t have to listen to this,” Cassie announced, then barged forward toward the door. I pivoted to stand in front of her, blocking her path.

  “What’s the matter, Cassie? Nothing you can quote out here?”

  She eyed me. “Move.”

  “I’m ready to go on the record, Cassie. Go ahead, ask me something. Now that I know the rules, I’m ready for you.”

  She looked me up and down. “Frankly, Telly, you’re old news. Now let me pass so I can do my job.”

  “What’s so important about Hollister?” I asked. “Talk about old news. I thought you were working the murder stories. The fresh news is up in Buffalo.”

  “Maybe,” she allowed. “Maybe not. I got a call that I should
be here. A tip. You remember what a tip is, don’t you?”

  Cassie cut to her right, swung open the door and marched into the club. I didn’t turn to watch her go. I just hung my head, feeling like shit. I hated fighting with her. And I hated myself more because I couldn’t stay mad at her, even when she was wrong.

  Wally walked up to me and rested a hand on my shoulder. “C’mon, Telly. We should get inside.”

  “You go,” I said. “Go get set up. I’ll be in in a minute.”

  “It’s all right, Frank,” he said. “You’ve been under a lot of stress. Cassie’ll understand. You two will work it out. And if you want, I’ll call Newsweek and tell them to pull the photo. If it’s really going to bother you, I’ll have them tear up the contract.”

  I raised my eyes and saw that he meant it.

  I shook my head. “No, Wally. It’s a damn good photo. It belongs in Newsweek. I’ve just been an asshole.”

  “No, you haven’t. Just yourself.” The photographer adjusted the camera straps with a shrug of his shoulders. “I’ll see you inside.”

  “Okay.”

  But as I stood alone outside the Wednesday Club, looking at all those television trucks and media vehicles surrounding the place, I didn’t know if I wanted to go in. I didn’t know if I could stomach rejoining the pack.

  Then I felt the bitter cold seeping bit by bit into my bones. I shoved my hands deep into the pockets of my overcoat. It was then I felt my reporter’s notebook in my right pocket. That buck-fifty notebook and the accompanying ninety-nine-cent pen told me who I was. The tools of my trade defined me. They made me what I was -- a reporter.

  I turned and opened the door of the Wednesday Club, my press pass at the ready.

  Chapter 55

  The club’s upstairs banquet room was thick with media. Television types with bulky cameras on tripods ringed the outer perimeter of the room, all aiming their one-eyed monsters at the empty podium in front. The rest of the press filled in the carefully arranged seats in the center of the room. This was the gallery from which the media pack would grade the sincerity of Hammond Hollister’s opening statement, then prepare to tear it apart with their questions. Pricey oil paintings lining the walls of the room added a touch of class to the tawdry affair. A small, shaded light hung over each important piece of art, providing individual illumination. There were wires tethering each high-priced canvas to some fancy security system. An alarm would sound the second one of those precious portraits was pilfered. No doubt a wise precaution with this crowd.

  I spotted Cassie in the front row, so I took a seat in back. I slipped off my coat and folded it over my knee, then removed my pad and pen from its pocket. I was ready, but there was little to do but wait. It was 11 o’clock, but there was no sign of Hollister. I should have known. It was a matter of pride among politicians to keep the press waiting. The more unflattering the news, the longer the wait. But I didn’t seem to mind just then. I was tired and felt what little energy I had left draining away. I lifted a hand to my forehead and permitted my eyes to fall shut.

  I don’t know how long I meditated. I may have even dozed. I certainly seemed to drift and float. When I finally opened my eyes, I seemed to be in another place and another time.

  * * *

  Camera lights were on, washing the podium in a harsh white glare. Someone was speaking from behind the lectern, but I couldn’t make out who it was. The lighting was bad, and my seat was too far back, behind the raised heads of the media pack. I knew just one thing. The voice speaking was not Sen. Hollister’s. It didn’t sound like his press secretary, Jerry Kerr, either. A stir went through the crowd.

  “Unfortunately, the senator’s office has been beset by another threat,” the speaker was saying. “He’s been advised by the FBI not to attend this morning’s briefing, nor the business luncheon that was to follow. He has, however, released a statement, which I will read, then distribute.”

  I saw the speaker reach to his right. He lifted the lid of a briefcase resting on a table next to the podium. The leather lid of the case was badly battered. The speaker returned to the podium with a sheaf of papers but did not close the lid of his briefcase.

  “The senator wishes to express the fullest sense of relief and the deepest gratitude for the welcome news that he was not a target of the sensational shooting, which took place less than a week ago, here in Harrisburg. Senator Hollister fully supports the conclusion reached by federal, state and local investigators that Philadelphia columnist Wayne Dykstra was the actual target. Indeed, the senator now believes that Dykstra’s death was the first statement in what’s being called the media murders. Since then, the authorities have determined that there have been three more meticulously-planned statements in this baffling case. The senator supports these conclusions, as well. And he remains curious, as we all do, about the masterful creator of these events.”

  A murmur swept the room. I saw reporters looking at one another with confused faces and questioning eyes. Some stopped writing. Cameramen drew back from their viewfinders. A hand went up and a voice shouted out, “Who are you? What are you trying to say?”

  “This is a final statement,” the man at the podium said. “You’ll want to write it down. You’ll want to record it. This particular statement will echo in history.”

  The man reached into his open briefcase again. As he did, I caught a good look at his profile. I recognized the familiar terrain of his nose and the chiseled edges of his chin.

  It was like 1980 all over again.

  I shot up to shout a warning, but I was too late. The instant I got to my feet, Clayton Shaw Stanhope II withdrew a huge handgun from his father’s battered briefcase. The blue steel of the gun’s long barrel gleamed in the TV lights and an audible gasp rolled through the room.

  Stanhope raised the gun until it was even with his right ear. The long barrel pointed skyward. He wanted everyone to see the intimidating weapon.

  “Nobody move,” he said, silencing the media’s shocked chatter. “No one will get hurt, I assure you. I’m here to make a statement. And all of you are here to record my statement and share it with the world. You are my messengers. I assure you that this particular story will be the biggest of your careers.”

  Stanhope stepped from behind the podium and lowered the gun. Reporters recoiled from the black hole at the end of the barrel. Everyone was cowering, expect the blonde sitting in the first row, right along the center aisle. It was Cassie Jordan. She was still taking notes, even as Stanhope sighted his gun on her.

  “I’ll need your assistance,” he said.

  Cassie looked up. The stare of the gun barrel seemed to shock her. She stopped writing, her wayward pen trailing a shaky line of ink down the rest of the page.

  “Would you join me?” Stanhope repeated, this time gesturing with his free hand but never taking the gun off of Cassie.

  She didn’t move. Or maybe she couldn’t move. She could not tear her eyes from the barrel of Stanhope’s gun.

  My mouth was cotton, but I managed to speak anyway. “Leave her alone.”

  I didn’t sound very convincing, and a reporter sitting next to me tugged at my arm. “Sit down,” he whispered. “The guy says he won’t hurt anybody. You’re gonna make him angry.”

  I pulled my arm away and spoke again, this time louder. “You want your statement recorded? Well, she’s with the New York Times. You’ll want to leave her alone so she can do her job. You’ll want her to put your message in the Times.”

  Stanhope raised his left hand to his brow, shielding his eyes from the glare of the television lights. “Don’t tell me what I want,” he said. His tone was deadly serious, and his pronunciation was precise, even halting. “Besides, I know who she is. More to the point, I know what she is to you.”

  Stanhope swooped down with his free hand and grabbed Cassie by the wrist. She flew out of her seat. Her notebook fluttered to the ground, its pages ruffling like the broken wings of an injured bird.

  Ever the repo
rter, Cassie tried to lunge for the notebook. But Stanhope twisted her arm and brought it up against her back. He simultaneously pulled her into him and moved the gun barrel until it was even with her right temple.

  A hush went over the crowd as Stanhope leveled the gun at Cassie’s head. But the TV cameramen didn’t stop rolling, and the print photographers didn’t stop snapping pictures. Even Wally Greenfield had a long-lensed camera to his face. Seen through that lens, Cassie was no longer a friend or a colleague. She was a subject now. A story. It was the same for all of them, every last journalists in that room.

  Everyone except me.

  Stanhope pulled Cassie toward the podium and away from the seated media, lest any of the journalists entertained notions of playing hero. There was little chance of that. It had been drilled into every last reporter that they were nothing more than detached observers. Interfering with an unfolding story would be more than a breach of ethics. It would be altering history, changing events that were meant to be. These journalists were there to watch, not act. But not me. Not anymore.

  “Take me,” I shouted, gesturing with a hand. “I’m the one who killed your father. Take me.”

  I sidled through the row of reporters until I reached the center isle. I took a couple of slow, tentative steps toward the podium. Cassie’s jittery eyes found me. But there was no recognition on her face. No sense of relief. Her countenance was ghostly white, washed out by her fear, as well as the harsh television lights.

  “You don’t give me enough credit,” Stanhope said, pressing the end of the barrel firmly against Cassie’s temple. “If I wanted you, I could have had you at any time. Today is something different. Something magnificent. I’m creating a story and re-writing history.” Stanhope’s eyes swept the room full of reporters. “It’s what you’re all here for, isn’t it? A story? It’s what you live for.”

  “Don’t hurt her,” I shouted, stepping forward again.

  “What happens to her is entirely up to you,” Stanhope said.