by J. Wachowski
“Why?” I whispered.
The quick glance he shot my way held all sorts of implications, but I needed words for the tape.
“This going to be on TV, Miss O’Hara?”
“Yes, we hope so.”
“The Amish don’t care to be photographed, you know.”
It was a warning. Stay away from Old Mr. Jost.
“Yes. I’ve heard that.”
Lowe turned and pointed a finger at the oak. “That tree is over a hundred years old, you know. The town moved the road for that tree.”
The morning sun was fully awake and the leaves on the sunny side were glowing.
“Seen a lot, that tree. It was worth moving the road around it.”
I nodded. “It’s a beautiful tree.”
“I suppose that boy would have found himself another tree someplace else,” he said and it was almost a question. The rest wasn’t. “There are things worth trying to preserve, Miss O’Hara. Even when you can’t.”
I wasn’t sure how to answer. He was speaking a local dialect of neighborhood history, a language I’d never understand without translation. I hesitated, searching for what to ask next and I lost him.
Lowe made his decision. He stuck out his rough, tanned hand and shook my own-goodbye. Interview over.
Damn. “Well, thanks for agreeing to meet with us, Mr. Lowe.”
“That’s no problem.”
“Can I ask you one more thing?”
“No.”
I’m not so young I can’t remember back to the days when shame was still serious business. As a kid, I remember people averting their eyes at something awful, instead of reaching for their camcorders.
How many times did I hear the words, hurry, don’t let anyone see. What will the neighbors think? Bad enough. But now the pendulum’s swung so far the other way nobody can turn on the TV or open a newspaper without somebody flashing their streaky underpants in your face. How is that an improvement?
The problem isn’t that it’s so painfully tacky, it’s that we have only so much time, so much compassion, for our fellow human beings. I want to focus on trouble that matters. Ending wars, and hunger, and the sickness we know how to cure if we’d only pay attention. If the freaks would stop distracting us.
Which is a long way of explaining that even though people like farmer Al Lowe made my job harder, I can’t say I always mind.
I followed him over to his standard issue, rusty pickup. “Mr. Lowe?”
He climbed in the cab and slammed the door shut before he answered. “Yeah?”
That one meant, don’t push your luck, lady.
“No camera. I’m just wondering, do you have any idea who alerted the authorities about the body? Could it have been your neighbor?”
“No. Had to be someone before that,” Lowe said. “Sorry.”
I said, thanks, but it bothered me. Usually, it was easy to find the person who’d tipped the authorities on something like this. Even if it was a random bystander, they generally had an emotional stake in telling the story again. The thirty-second hero was an easy interview to bag.
“One last thing-have the police identified the body as Tom Jost?” I didn’t want either of us getting into trouble for not passing along important information.
“Oh yeah.” Lowe hooked a hand over the steering wheel and his mouth registered a nasty-tasting frown. “They know.”
Questions started popping in my head, but Lowe slipped the truck into gear and revved the engine.
I nodded and he returned the gesture. With the big bill on his cap, it looked like he was tipping his hat to me; a move that registered as perfectly midwestern, formal and yet familiar. I bit my tongue and stepped back to watch the truck drag a line of dust into the air as he cut back onto the road.
“Keep it rolling,” I told Ainsley. “I want the truck.”
Jenny popped her head out of the door. “How much longer?”
I started to say we were done, when I noticed action up at the Jost farmhouse. Somebody had come out to gather the laundry. A pair of little girls and a boy were dodging between sheets draped in rows, playing at hide-and-seek as the wind flicked the bed tails. If I strained to listen, I could hear the squeals as they popped in and out.
“Shoot it,” I ordered Ainsley.
He looked around, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Those kids playing?”
“Yeah.” And this one meant, trust me. “Quick, College. Before it’s gone.”
He zipped the camera off the tripod and propped it on his shoulder for the shot. I had a sinking feeling that we’d lose the image because he wasn’t used to shooting hand-held, or worse, he couldn’t see the picture I wanted. Sometimes that happens. They just can’t see.
“How much longer, Aunt Maddy?” Jenny whispered.
I was startled to find her right there, at my side all of a sudden. “I don’t know. Not long.”
“Oh man!” Ainsley finished all his maneuvers and turned to face us, the camera still resting on his shoulder. He sounded pumped. “This was great. What next?”
I wanted to walk up to the farm and knock on the door, but Jenny was quietly pulling my sleeve to check my watch. I took the hint. “We better head back to the station. Check in with Gatt. And we’ve got to drop Jenny on the way. At school.”
“Sure,” Ainsley assured her with a smile. His sandy hair seemed to change color to suit his environment. In the morning sun, he was blond as a prom date.
“I’ll help strike.”
“No. I’ve got it.”
I admit I was itching to help wrap the equipment. You learn to pack fast when the aftershocks are bringing the building down around your ass. Unfortunately, Ainsley’s progress was about as urgent as the seasons changing.
By the time we delivered Jenny to school, then found a gas station with a quick mart, the best part of the morning was gone.
This is another thing I wasn’t used to in my new life-the dead weight of other people’s needs. On my own, I’d have a story half in the can already. It took my college boy twenty minutes just to fill the gas tank and buy us a newspaper.
“What the hell took you so long?” I crabbed when he finally returned.
“Not much of a morning person, are you?”
“I’m a busy person, College. Busy, busy, busy.”
Ainsley shrugged the obvious. “Had to take a leak.”
“Pee on your own time. When I’m waiting in the car, tie it in a knot.”
“Easy there, Boss. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” College tossed the newspaper onto my lap. “Take a look at page three.”
Don’t get your knickers in a twist? Bold talk. That was promising.
Above the fold on page three of the Clarion was a quarter-page reprint of the photo I’d left Melton: tree, ladder, rope and a crowd of men in uniforms. Most of the body was blocked by the ring of men. The caption read, “Unidentified man in Amish clothing was found dead yesterday in a field just south of Route 59. Police and fire department services were brought to the scene by an anonymous phone caller.”
“Wonder if anyone else picked it up,” I said.
“We could call the station. Ask them to check the wire and keep an eye on the noon news until we get there.”
“Good thinking, College.” My congratulations should have included letting him make the phone call. Reception put me straight through to Gatt.
“Where the hell are you?” my new boss blared.
“In the van, with Ainsley ‘Life Is A Journey, Not A Destination’ Prescott. You remember, my partner?”
“Cut the crap and get your fanny in here now.”
“My what?” I cracked a grin. I hadn’t had a fanny since I was ten.
“You heard me, O’Hara. I got some township sheriff sitting in my lobby threatening to get a subpoena and trash my office.”
“Sounds like Curzon read the paper this morning,” I reported aloud for Ainsley’s benefit. “What’s he want?”
“Photos of a crim
e scene. I thought Ainsley told me you didn’t get any video on that suicide.”
“We didn’t get any video.”
Gatt wasn’t an idiot. The silence hung between us like a bad smell. “Just get in here and deal with him.”
“On the way. Hey, Gatt? Remind me again, how’d you get tipped on the story yesterday?”
“Phone call,” he spouted. “Civilian asked for me, so I assumed he’d called the network hotline and they’d put him on to me as the local contact.”
“Weird.” It made sense network would call the crew that was closest to look into the story. But no network hotline on the planet turfed a call that fast-Ainsley and I had arrived within twenty minutes of the cops. Which meant Gatt had gotten his call within minutes of the authorities. This reminded me of Ainsley’s homework assignment. “Later, Gatt.”
“Sooner, O’Hara.”
“Right, right.” I pressed the button that made him go away. “What’d you find out about Sheriff Curzon, College?”
“Not much,” Ainsley said. “I asked around but nobody knows why he might be shy about reporters.”
“Shy? I’d call it hostile. Who’d you ask?”
“Guy I know on the city council.” He shrugged his bony shoulder. “And my mom.”
“Your mom? You called your mother to ask about Curzon?”
The tops of his ears turned red. “Yeah. I had to talk to her anyway, you know, about Mr. Lowe.”
“No. I don’t know.”
“Come on. It’s not like that guy agreed to be interviewed because he wanted to be on television.” Ainsley snarfed. “I asked Mom if she’d, you know, vouch for you. She knows a lot of people. She’s been involved in town politics for a while.” He paused and seemed to think better of what he was going to say next. Which is why I was surprised to hear, “Oh, and she and Curzon’s ex-wife go to the same hairdresser.”
“Same hairdresser. Right. Stop there. You’re scaring me.”
Ainsley gave another friendly shrug to say, whatever. He concentrated on singing along with the radio for the rest of the drive while his ears cooled back to their normal color.
Small town politics-where political science meets the theater of the absurd.
Curtain up. Sheriff Curzon was awaiting my entrance.
10:19:44 a.m.
We pulled into the rear dock at the station within ten minutes. Despite the lobby’s visual clues to the contrary, WWST was on the cutting edge of the television business in a few significant ways. I’d been pleasantly surprised to discover the remote operations equipment was state of the art.
According to the trades I read, the entire office had been established as an experimental sister station to a downtown Chicago minor network affiliate. It began as a way to divide the grunt work it takes to run a station, while boosting the signal coverage. All the boring, space-consuming aspects of the business-like the video library and the accounting department-were routed to the hinterlands where real estate doesn’t do such a ream-job on the bottom line. Over time, everything but the main news studio and the general manager’s office had been shifted westward.
As far as I was concerned, if they could find a way to lose sales and promotion, it’d be an ideal work environment.
“Barb-A-Ra!”
Ainsley and I could hear the shout all the way at the back of the building. This time it wasn’t Gatt calling her. It wasn’t a voice I recognized.
“Barbara, I need you! Now!”
We came around the corner just as Barbara marched by, fists clenched and sensible shoes clomping across the linoleum like combat boots.
Ainsley blew out a breath and shook his head. “She hates when he does that.”
“Who?”
“Jim, the sales manager. Barb works for Uncle Rich, you know. But Jim’s such an-” Ainsley dropped his voice to a whisper, “-asshole-his secretaries keep quitting. Barb gets stuck helping him out.”
A door slammed, muffling the roar of battle. Ainsley grimaced.
Up and down the hall, a flurry of action ensued. Somebody called, “I’m on the phone, people.” Another door-slam echoed. Another shout of “Keep it down.” Then, from behind us, the deepest voice yet called, “Quit slamming the fucking doors!”
One big, happy family, as they say, just living the dream.
“That last guy you heard was Mick, one of the engineers.” Ainsley threw a thumb over his shoulder pointing down the hall that led to the edit bays. “I’ll introduce you later. You’ll like him. Maybe we should go in the back way, to be safe?”
“Sounds good.”
We entered Gatt’s office through a back hall door. Gatt was seated in the same position I’d first found him in yesterday-phone against his ear, slouching deep in the chair behind his desk. “Tell him to kiss my hairy butt and call my lawyer. No way am I giving him two runs in prime.” He looked up and saw us in the doorway. “Gotta go. Call me if you hear any more.”
“We’re here. Where’s Curzon?” I asked.
“In my lobby.” Gatt’s phone rang again almost the instant he hung up. “Go talk to him. Be diplomatic.” He snatched up the receiver and growled, “Hold on-I’m in the middle of something here,” then he called to Ainsley, “Go with. Watch her. She screws up, come get me.”
Diplomacy at its finest.
Sheriff Curzon almost seemed at home in WWST’s retro-tacky lobby. Except for the fact that his suit was too fine-a dark summer-weight wool, lightly breaking cuffs, crisp white shirt, dark narrow tie-he looked like a cover model for an old Detective Magazine. Standing in the center of the room, with his cell phone pressed tight to his ear, his body language said he didn’t want to get too close to any of the solid surfaces. Not that I blamed him.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t worn anything particularly outrageous today, just my usual jeans and a nice, black T-shirt. I’d thrown a blazer on over the shirt because it was cold and I knew I’d be interviewing Farmer Lowe outdoors. With a touch of evil glee, I slipped off the jacket and tossed it over the back of the receptionist’s empty chair.
Did I mention I don’t usually wear a bra?
As my daddy used to say, when dealing with a hard-ass, the best defense is hard offense. I think my nipples qualified.
“Sheriff, what a surprise.” I stepped out around the counter. “I’d have been happy to come get that press release, you know.”
He snapped his phone shut. His eyes flicked down, no more than a quarter second, but I counted a double blink and two-Mississippis of silence.
“I want the rest of the pictures,” Curzon announced.
“What pictures?” See how diplomatic I can be?
“You were not authorized to take photos at my crime scene.”
“From a public road?” I grabbed the plastic badge that hung around my neck and flipped it so the sheriff could read the large black type: PRESS. I smiled some more.
He took two steps toward me and bent at the waist so his face was level with mine. In a quiet voice he asked, “Where’s that badge going to get you if the police department shuts you out, Ms. O’Hara? Zero cooperation from now on.”
“And your cooperation’s been such a big help to me so far, Sheriff Curzon.”
“It can get a lot worse.”
I spread my hands wide, palms up, innocence incarnate. “I do maybe two, three, stories a month for the next year, Sheriff, then-poof-I’m gone. I think I can stay out of trouble that long.”
“Nothing but business to you, isn’t it?” he asked, the words crisp with bitterness. “You don’t care who gets hurt in the process.”
All of a sudden, it clicked. “But you do.” I lowered my voice. “Who? Who are you protecting?”
He jerked back before he could stop himself, and then popped out in those little jaw-knuckles men get when they clench their teeth.
“We got off on the wrong foot here.” I was suddenly sorry I’d baited him. Sincere-yet-pert is a tough look to pull off. He was worried about somebody and I’d never figure out wh
om while I had him at DEFCON 1. “Look, I’m not out to get anyone here. I only want to know what happened.” I’ve heard the public ranks journalists right up there with plumbers and lawyers these days, but some of us do try. I crossed my arms in front of my chest, dropped my voice to something soft and private. “Can you help me?”
For a long moment, Curzon hesitated. Cynicism eventually bubbled to the surface of his expression, spoiling my view of his pretty eyes. “Anymore of those pictures turn up in the paper, I know where to come looking, Ms. O’Hara.”
“Happy thought, Sheriff. Any idea when you’ll have that press release ready?”
He tried the death-ray look on me again.
That’s when I noticed Ainsley creeping up behind me; I could feel him twitching.
I walked to the door and held it open. “Have yourself a great day, Sheriff,” I said as Curzon stomped past me. “Come back anytime.”
Good manners are the bedrock of diplomacy.
10:51:30 a.m.
“Yeah, I heard you. Auto sex-something-sounds good. Sounds great,” Gatt mumbled between calls. “Call the county hospital. They must have some of those head shrinkers. See if you can get someone to expert witness on this. Somebody credible. And make ’em say it a couple times, so we get a decent promo. What is it, again?”
“Autoerotic asphyxiation,” Ainsley offered helpfully.
Gatt looked pained. “Don’t tell your mother I taught you that.”
Ainsley rolled his eyes, one shoulder slouched against the wall. I couldn’t figure out whether he was doing the brooding, James Dean thing for his uncle’s benefit or just avoiding sitting down ’cause it might wrinkle his pants.
“We’re going to try and interview Mr. Jost, the adoptive father, later today,” I told Gatt. “Maybe swing by the victim’s place after we get an address. I still don’t know what we’re gonna use as visual on this. Ainsley says these people don’t go to public school. No yearbook photos, none of the usual sources for a head-shot.”
“Keep looking,” Gatt muttered. “Something’ll turn up. And stay away from Curzon for a while.”
“Yes, Mother,” I droned.
“I’m serious. Let him cool down.”
If I was right and Curzon was running interference, I’d have to go after him again. “Let me do my job, Gatt. That’s why you’re paying me the big bucks, right?”