Death Watch

by Jack Cavanaugh

  “Officer Pollard,” Sydney called. There was a story here, and she was going to get it. She caught up with him. “Officer Pollard,” she said, placing a hand on his arm.

  Pollard swung around and looked at her hand. His gaze followed it up her arm to friendly eyes.

  Sydney hated doing this. She hated it when women used their sexuality to get what they wanted.

  Pollard didn’t seem to mind.

  “Give a girl a break, will you?” Sydney pleaded. “My assignment editor sent me out here. She sensed immediately something was odd about this accident. I know you have your job to do, but I have a job to do too. And if I go back there empty-handed, I’m going to be stuck reporting the birth of kittens for the rest of my career.”

  Her hand was still on his arm. She gave it a squeeze. Pollard didn’t seem to mind.

  “Look, Miss.”

  “Sydney. Sydney St. James.”

  “Look, Miss St. James, I’d like to help you, but.”

  He wanted to help her. His goofy grin gave him away. He just needed a little nudge.

  “This is more than just the death of a Covina man, isn’t it?”

  Pollard reacted visibly when she mentioned Covina.

  “The registration on the front seat. It was there when I arrived. Honest.” She gave him a small smile.

  Pollard stared at her. Evaluating. Thinking.

  Thinking is good, Sydney told herself. A minute ago, he was walking. Now he’s thinking.

  Pollard glanced over his shoulder. Behind him a police photographer was shooting stills of the vehicle. A sergeant looked on. Pollard turned back to Sydney. He sighed.

  A sigh is good. From walking, to thinking, now sighing. That’s good, isn’t it?

  Pollard walked her back to the sidewalk.

  “That telegram?” he said in alow voice.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s the seventh one this morning.”

  “Seven telegrams informing people they’re going to die?”

  “The form varies, but there have been seven transmissions, all with identical wording. All found at a death scene.”

  Sydney reached for her notepad.

  Pollard became agitated. “What are you doing? If my sergeant sees you…”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  Simultaneously, they checked on the sergeant. He was instructing the photographer, leaning over and pointing at the steering wheel.

  “Sorry,” Sydney said again. “You have seven notices tied to seven murders all this morning?”

  “That’s not the strangest part,” Pollard said. “As best as we can determine, the deaths occur exactly at the announced time. I mean exactly.”

  “According to the telegram in the Taurus, the victims are given forty-eight hours’ notice. Surely, they contacted you that their lives had been threatened.”

  “Five did. Mr. Conley was one of them.”

  “So he was under police protection?”

  Pollard shook his head. “We’re not a bodyguard service.”

  “The deaths. All car accidents?”

  “I’m not at liberty to elaborate, but I can tell you, from what I’ve heard, they’re all different.”

  “Have you been able to establish any link between the victims? Did they all work at the same place, belong to the same union, members of the same bowling league?”

  “As far as I know, nothing links the deaths other than the notices.”

  “Has anyone called to take credit for the deaths?”

  Pollard was feeling increasingly nervous. He kept glancing over his shoulder. “I’ve gotta go,” he said.

  “One more question, Officer Pollard.”

  But he was walking away. His sergeant met him. Sydney couldn’t hear what was being said, but by the way the sergeant was looking at her, it was obvious she was the topic of discussion.

  Sydney decided now would be a good time to leave.

  Billy Peppers pushed the dreadlocks out of his face as he leaned against the corner of Bennett’s Mattress Warehouse and watched the activity that surrounded the crumpled car in the intersection.

  He was wearing all the clothing he owned in layers: three shirts, two pair of pants. His shoes were the newest addition to his wardrobe, a pair of black Converse tennis shoes. They were tattered, the tread was worn, and the left shoe had string for a shoelace, but they were better than his old pair of Nikes that had holes in the soles. Billy had traded for the Converse with Harold, the guy who slept on the back step of Ray’s Electronics. The shoes cost him a blanket and a crumpled Cup O Noodles that still had its cellophane wrapper.

  As he watched the police photograph the accident scene, Billy rubbed a wooden cross he wore on a leather strap around his neck. The ambulance momentarily cut off his view, passing in front of him. Its emergency lights were dark, its siren silent.

  “Ordained to die,” Billy mused. “Whatcha gonna do when you’re ordained to die?”

  Billy’s attention returned to the leggy blonde who had been talking to one of the policemen. He watched her stride back to the television station, pull open the door, and disappear. She was the reason Billy was here.

  He was told she’d be here. He’d watched her since she emerged from the station. He’d watched her give instructions to the big guy toting the camera. He’d watched her poke her head into the car. He’d watched as the policeman confronted her and escorted her out of the intersection. He’d watched as she placed a hand on his arm. He’d watched her return to the building.

  “You didn’t tell me she was an angel,” Billy muttered to thin air, turning away now that there was nothing left to watch.

  “You there!”

  The side door to the mattress warehouse stood open. A skinny man in a suit with a skinny tie glared at Billy.

  Billy had been chased away by him before. He was an employee of the store, the guardian of the parking lot. He came out here half-a-dozen times a day to smoke and drive off the undesirables.

  “I thought I told you to stay away. Shoo! Shoo! Shoo!” The man flicked his hands at Billy with the same gesture he’d use to chase away a dog. “Go on, git! Git!”

  Billy put a hand to his shopping cart that was packed with cardboard, a blanket, a jug of water, a Nike shoe box, and some pastries he’d found in a dumpster. He made his way across the mattress store parking lot to the alley.

  He whistled as he walked.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sol Rosenthal waved his hands over his head. He looked like he was gathering armloads of air. Responding to the sound of his voice, station personnel migrated from offices and the news set. They congregated in front of him in a loose half circle several layers deep.

  Standing next to Rosenthal watching them gather was a man in his midthirties sporting an expensive haircut and wearing a flashy European suit.

  Sydney’s first impression of the international newscaster was how the appearance of television personalities obviously transcended culture. He looked like every other news anchor in America. After that, she didn’t give him another thought. She was looking for Helen.

  As Sol began his introduction, Sydney located Helen. She was on the far side of the room.

  “If you will recall,” Sol Rosenthal began, using his professional speaking voice, the one the station purchased for him for three thousand dollars at a two-week public speaking seminar for CEOs. Now, instead of sounding like a squeaky clarinet, Rosenthal sounded like a loud squeaky clarinet.

  Sol coughed, cleared his throat, and began again.

  “If you will recall, last year it was my privilege to travel to Europe to observe the fastest-growing news station in the international market, the EuroNet Broadcasting System. You’ll also recall I came home quite impressed.”

  “Helen!” Sydney whispered when she was within earshot of the assignment editor. “I think I’ve got something.”

  Helen Gordon cut Sydney off with an upraised hand. “I want to hear this.”

  “For those of you who don’t know,
” Rosenthal squeaked, “EuroNet dominates the European market. Within five years of their inception, EuroNet attained their stated objective of establishing themselves as the number one source of news from a European perspective. They broadcast in seven languages—English, French, Italian, German, Portuguese, Spanish, and Russian. Launched in 1996, EuroNet provides their viewers the widest perspective of any news agency in the world.”

  Sydney leaned close to Helen. “Your instincts were on target about that accident,” she whispered. “It’s a crime scene.”

  Helen shushed her.

  Sydney wouldn’t be shushed. She couldn’t hold it in. She had a real news story, one that didn’t involve animals or sex.

  “While I was in Germany,” Rosenthal continued, “it was my privilege to observe EuroNet’s top newscaster. Having begun his broadcasting career at a small radio station in Munich, he has risen to anchor the number one newscast in Europe. And wait until you hear him speak! His English is better than mine, with no trace of accent.”

  “I give full credit to video clips of American newscasters,” Vonner said with a chuckle. “I watched Walter Cronkite so much, I started sounding like him.”

  Sol laughed the loudest. Then he said, “Please give a warm welcome to EuroNet’s brightest star, Hunz Vonner.”

  The television crew’s response was cordial. Most of them were industry veterans, no longer awestruck at the sight of television personalities, especially one they’d never actually seen on the air.

  When the clapping started, Sydney politely joined in. She thought Vonner looked like a men’s store mannequin, stiff and attractive in a cardboard cutout way.

  “Hunz will be observing our operation here at KSMJ for a week,” Rosenthal said. “He will meet in turn with anchors, reporters, production personnel, and advertising. My secretary will coordinate with your schedules. Let’s do everything we can to make his stay in America a memorable one. I’m confident you will give Mr. Vonner every courtesy. Treat him as you would treat me.”

  There was a smattering of laughter. Sol looked puzzled. He thought everyone loved and admired him.

  The assembly dispersed. Everyone returned to work, but not too quickly.

  “Helen, it’s a crime scene!” Sydney said, louder now.

  Sol Rosenthal interrupted her. He horseshoed his way between her and Helen. “Hunz, I’d like you to meet our assignment editor, Helen Gordon.”

  Helen offered her hand. Vonner gave it a quick pump and turned to Rosenthal with a what’s next expression.

  “Helen will be joining us and the coanchors for lunch; you two can talk then,” Rosenthal said. He took Vonner by the arm, directing him toward Grant and Cori, who were standing nearby. “And over here we have .”

  Vonner broke away. He turned to Sydney. “And you are?” He raised an eyebrow and gave her a smooth, easy smile.

  Maybe it was because Hunz Vonner shared nationalities with the famous brothers Grimm, but Sydney got the distinct impression she knew how Little Red Riding Hood felt when greeted by the wolf.

  Helen made the introduction. “Mr. Vonner, this is Sydney St. James, one of our reporters.”

  “Miss St. James,” Vonner said, taking her hand with a slight bow.

  Sydney had seen the bedroom-eyes expression on a hundred different men. The European version was no different from the American version. His voice, however, was impressive. Rich, smooth, confident, it was an instrument uniquely suited to news broadcasting. It could deliver stories of graphic violence while assuring viewers that despite what they’d just heard, everything would be all right. And his English was impeccable, not a trace of an accent.

  “Yes, well,” Sol said. He was ready to move on. “Over here we have. ”

  “Helen, did you hear me? It’s a crime scene!” Sydney said the instant he was gone.

  “Our guest seems quite taken with you,” Helen said, looking amused.

  Sydney dismissed the comment. She wasn’t interested in Hunz Vonner of EuroNet. She wanted to tell Helen about her news story.

  “The accident outside?” she said for the third time. “Not an accident. It’s a crime scene, though the police are trying to keep it under wraps.”

  Finally, Helen was listening. Sydney told her about the unattended vehicle, the telegram, getting caught, Officer Pollard’s blunder, and the resulting disclosure.

  “Exactly what did the telegram say?” The newshound within Helen Gordon stirred. Sydney had seen it happen before, but this was the first time she was the one poking it to life. It was exciting.

  “I wrote it down.” Sydney flipped open her notepad. “It said, ‘You have been selected for death. Stop. Precisely forty-eight hours from the time of this transmission you will die. Stop. This is an official death watch notice. Stop.’”

  A voice came from behind her. “What did you say?”

  Sydney looked up to see Hunz Vonner turning his back on Cori Zinn, who was in the middle of telling him there was a vacancy in the prime-time broadcast and how she was being considered for the slot. Vonner wasn’t listening.

  “What was that you said?” he said again to Sydney.

  He looked at her notepad. Reached for it. She pulled it away, pressing it flat against her chest.

  “Did you pick that up off the wires?” Vonner’s eyes were sharp, demanding. His voice had an edge to it that a television audience would never be allowed to hear.

  Conversations around them stopped. Everyone was looking at him. At them.

  Sol Rosenthal jumped between them. “What is this all about?” He glared at Sydney as if she’d done something wrong.

  Helen said, “How about if we take this into my office?”

  Hunz and Sydney stood face-to-face. He, insisting on an answer; she, protecting her story.

  “What did you say to him?” Rosenthal demanded.

  “In my office,” Helen said again, this time with authority.

  Helen led the way. Sydney was right behind her. Hunz Vonner and Sol Rosenthal trailed, with Sol attempting to smooth over any ruffled feathers.

  Sydney didn’t hear everything the producer said, but she did hear Rosenthal say, “If she’s offended you in any way, she’ll apologize. You have my word on that.”

  Entering Helen Gordon’s office, the producer stepped past Sydney, shooting her a murderous glare.

  Sol Rosenthal began speaking the instant the door was closed. His intentions were obvious: Exert his authority, and smooth everything over with Hunz Vonner.

  He turned first to Vonner. “I apologize if our staff has done or said anything to offend you.” Then he frowned at Sydney. “I think an apology is in order.”

  Sydney and Hunz stood in front of Helen’s desk like children in the principal’s office. Helen took her seat at the desk.

  “It’s not what you think, Sol,” Helen said.

  “I’ll take care of this, Helen,” Rosenthal barked. “Hunz? What did this woman say to you?”

  “She has a death watch notice,” Hunz said.

  Sol Rosenthal didn’t know what to do with that. Perched on the edge of Helen’s desk, he raised his hand to his chin, nodded gravely. “Is this true, Sydney? Did you threaten Mr. Vonner’s life?”

  “Oh, for crying out loud, Sol,” Helen said. “You’re making a fool of yourself. Mr. Vonner, do you know about this?”

  “If it’s what I think it is, yes.”

  “Know about what?” Sol asked.

  “Sydney, let him see it,” Helen said.

  Had Sol Rosenthal asked her to show this foreigner her notepad, she would have refused. Had he threatened to fire her, she would have walked out and started looking for another job. Helen, on the other hand, had been a reporter and had, as an assignment editor, when needed, fiercely protected her reporters.

  Sydney handed her notepad to Hunz.

  The room fell silent as he read it, then read it again.

  “What? What is it?” Sol craned his neck to see what was on the pad.

  “Is it
what you think it is?” Helen said to Hunz.

  “Where did you get this?” Hunz asked Sydney.

  Sydney shot a questioning look to Helen, who nodded her consent.

  “What’s going on here?” Sol shouted.

  “Shut up and listen, Sol,” Helen said. “Sydney’s stumbled on a news story that apparently has farther-reaching implications than we thought.”

  At Helen’s request, Sydney told the story of how she came across the telegram notice of death. Hunz Vonner listened intently.

  “Officer Pollard said it was the seventh death in LA this morning linked to notices like this one.”

  Sol Rosenthal demanded to see the notepad. His eyebrows rose as he read it.

  “Mr. Vonner, do you know something about this?” Helen had let him in on their story; now she expected the favor to be returned.

  He took a moment before answering. “Just before I left Germany, a story was breaking about an alarming number of people who had received death threats. The wording in every one of the threats was identical.”

  “Identical to this notice?” Sydney asked.

  Hunz nodded. “That was two days ago. This is the first I’ve heard of a death that’s related to the notices. We thought it might be a hoax. If people are dying here as a result of these notices, there are probably reports hitting the wires all across Europe.”

  Sol Rosenthal went to the door. He shouted at a passing intern to get him the most recent printouts from the major international news services.

  Minutes later, with Hunz looking over his shoulder, producer Sol Rosenthal read aloud the names of cities that were reporting deaths associated with similar notices: “Berlin, Paris, Rome, Madrid, Brussels, Warsaw, London, Moscow, Beijing, Cairo, Jerusalem, Sydney, Tokyo.” He went to another sheet. “Here in the United States, Associated Press is reporting deaths in Phoenix, Austin, Cleveland, New York, Philadelphia, Miami, Nashville, Tulsa, Bismarck, Denver, Portland, San Francisco .

  “Good Lord,” Sol Rosenthal breathed, “we’ve stumbled upon the mother of all news stories!”