THE SILENT REPORTER
BY
THOMAS FINCHAM
THE SILENT REPORTER © Thomas Fincham 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, including the right to reproduce this work or portions thereof, in any form.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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PROLOGUE
The morning news was on the television. It had become a sort of ritual at the Hansborough home. Peter was the first to get up, his alarm ringing at precisely 5:30. He quickly took a shower, shaved, and then ran down and put the coffee on to brew.
His wife, Amanda, got up around 6:00. She showered and got ready, which took about half an hour. Afterwards, she proceeded to wake up their six-year-old son David and their eight-year-old daughter Janet.
Meanwhile, Peter sat and quickly took in the highlights of the previous night’s sports games. Peter could not go to work without knowing who won and who lost, and by what margin. Peter worked as an IT analyst and he was part of his work’s betting pool. Peter had so far been wrong in his selections and he was hoping his luck would turn for the better. It hadn’t. The teams he had chosen to win had all lost. This meant he would be tormented endlessly by his co-workers. Peter couldn’t blame them. He did the same when someone else was having the luck he had been having lately. Plus, he owed money, and if things didn’t get better soon, he would owe a lot.
Amanda escorted David and Janet downstairs and led them straight to the kitchen. They were dressed and ready to go to school. Amanda had already prepared their lunches the night before, so breakfast was the only thing left. In their case, it wasn’t too time-consuming either. David preferred a box of chocolate cereal while Janet liked toast with strawberry jam.
Peter came into the kitchen with a sour look on his face.
“Your teams lost again?” Amanda asked.
He nodded. Without saying a word, he began pouring the coffee into mugs.
She came over and kissed him on the cheek.
“Don’t worry, honey,” she said. “It’s a long season.”
He managed a smile.
Amanda and Peter enjoyed their coffee—which was all they needed to start their day with, as neither of them fond of big breakfasts—while David and Janet enjoyed their cereal and toast.
The children’s school was on Peter’s way to work, so he always took them there. Amanda kissed Peter and the children goodbye and got behind the wheel of her Mini Cooper. She loved the car. It was what she had always wanted after she saw the movie The Italian Job years before.
The drive was about an hour, depending on traffic, but she didn’t mind, because it allowed her to listen to her favorite tunes.
She had set her favorite station on dial 1. It played music from Duran Duran, Bon Jovi, Blondie, Brian Adams, and many others. She pressed the button and immediately began humming along with a tune by the Commodores.
Amanda was an accountant by profession. She had received her designation not too long ago. She couldn’t say it was what she wanted to be growing up. That would be a lie; staring at balance sheets, income statements, and other financial documents was dull and at times tedious. But she found that she was good at it. Contrary to popular belief, being an accountant didn’t necessarily mean that you had to be good with numbers, it meant that you understood the principles of accounting and you knew how to apply them.
Once Amanda chose her vocation she never looked back. Plus, the money wasn’t bad. Her dad had spent his entire life working for an automobile manufacturer. His long hours on the assembly line finally took a toll on his body, leaving him ravaged by chronic pain later in life. Her mother didn’t fare any better. She worked for a large grocery chain where she was either standing behind the cash register for long hours, or she was assisting in stocking and re-stocking items whenever it was required.
Amanda and Peter were very lucky in that sense. Both had been able to get a good education and were now in jobs that at least gave them the comfort of sitting behind a desk.
Amanda had recently moved to a new company. She worked in their internal audit department. It didn’t require long hours, which meant she could spend more time with David and Janet. But lately she had been burning the midnight oil. Amanda had found some irregularities with the company’s accounting records and had brought it to the attention of her superiors.
She saw the freeway up ahead. Once on it her drive would be straight to her work.
She turned the steering wheel right and the Mini moved up the ramp.
She felt the wheel shake under her grip.
The Mini kept going up the ramp. She accelerated, and soon she was on the shoulder of the freeway.
Amanda looked left and turned the wheel. She had to merge with the oncoming traffic.
When she was on the freeway, she glanced down at the odometer and realized she was going too fast.
She pressed on the brakes, but the pedal showed no resistance.
She pumped the brakes again and again, but the Mini kept going at the same speed.
The car up ahead was only ten feet away. If Amanda didn’t slow down she would slam into it.
She pressed down on the pedal as hard as she could, but it made no difference.
Amanda broke into a cold sweat. In a matter of seconds she would crash.
Not knowing what else to do she turned the steering wheel right. The Mini abruptly spun and slammed into the concrete guardrail on the side of the freeway.
The airbags exploded and slapped Amanda across the face. The impact was so strong that it nearly knocked her unconscious.
Amanda was disoriented and she felt hot liquid pouring down the side of her face.
She was bleeding, but at least she was still alive.
She looked up; saw the front of the Mini was crushed in.
No matter, she thought. Her insurance would cover it.
She tried to find the seat belt buckle.
Her eyes widened in horror.
Coming in her direction was an 18-wheeler truck. And it was coming fast.
The driver blew the horn, but Amanda was too petrified to move or do anything.
She thought of her husband, her kids, her parents.
The truck slammed into the Mini Cooper head on
ONE
(One year later)
“Hyder Ali?” the man behind the counter said, looking at the business card.
“Yes.”
“You mean, Hay-der, right?” The man gave Hyder a wink.
“No, it’s Hy-der, as in ‘hi, how are you?’” he replied.
The man behind the counter kept staring at him. Hyder knew what the man was thinking, but he kept his mouth shut.
“Where are you from?” the man asked.
“I’m from here,” Hyder said.
“No, where were you born?”
Hyder had heard this a thousand times. No matter how much he told them that he was an American, they always wanted to know where his family
was from.
Hyder’s parents had immigrated to America from Pakistan three decades ago. His dad was born in Lahore and his mother in Karachi. Both Hyder and his older brother had been born in America. They considered themselves more American than Pakistani, but try telling that to every other immigrant they met, especially desi (people from the Indian sub-continent) immigrants.
“I was born here,” Hyder finally said.
“Okay.” The man nodded as if he understood. Hyder could tell that the man didn’t.
Most people, those who were familiar with South Asian names that is, thought Hyder’s name was misspelled. It should be Haider or Hayder, they would say, but Hyder knew it was spelled correctly.
His father had named him after Sultan Hyder Ali Khan Bahadur, a Muslim king from the 18th Century. Sultan Hyder Ali ruled the Kingdom of Mysore in southern India. He was a brilliant military leader who fought strongly against colonialism.
The present day Hyder Ali possessed none of the accomplishments or accolades of his namesake. He was a reporter whom the Daily News had given a temporary position for less than six months.
It was why he was in the convenience store, talking to the man behind the counter.
“Mr. Akram, what time did it happen?” Hyder asked. Hyder had already found out that Mansoor Akram owned and operated the store.
“It happened at two o’clock in the morning,” Mr. Akram replied.
“And what did the thief take?”
“A chocolate bar and a can of pop.”
Hyder stopped writing. He pushed his brow line glasses up his nose. He had bought the pair because his hero Malcolm X wore them. Plus, he felt it made him look older than his twenty-five years of age.
“So, the thief took a chocolate bar and a can of pop?” Hyder repeated, trying to confirm this.
“Yes.” Mr. Akram nodded gravely.
“Did you call the police?”
“I most certainly did.”
“And?”
“They made notes—like you are doing now—and left.”
“Did they say what they’ll do with the information?”
“I know what they’ll do…”
Mr. Akram paused. Hyder waited.
“They’ll do nothing,” Mr. Akram finally continued. “And you know why?”
Hyder wanted to say, “Maybe because it’s not that serious of a crime,” but held his tongue.
“Because he was a gowra.”
“So,” Hyder began. “You are saying because the thief was white the police won’t do anything?”
Mr. Akram tensed up. “I mean… you know how it is, yaar (buddy).”
“No, I don’t,” Hyder replied, sounding neutral. “Please do explain.”
Hyder, in fact, knew exactly what he meant. The criminal was white and therefore the police would be more lenient on him. On one hand, Hyder disagreed with this statement, but on the other hand, he knew where the statement was coming from.
Growing up, Hyder had spent much time dealing with racism. He was constantly called a paki and other derogatory terms. On top of that, he was also a Muslim, which opened the door for more unkind and cruel comments. Even though he had grown to ignore such remarks, they nonetheless hurt. Try telling an eight-year-old why his peers are taunting and teasing him when his only crime is the color of his skin and his ethnic-sounding name.
Hyder soon came to realize that racism was a form of bullying. He was good in his studies and was good athletically as well. He had taken his high school basketball team all the way to the state championships. This, naturally, had endeared him to many, but also given rise to those who resented him for it.
Sports, however, were not in his cards, as he was only five-ten, which meant success playing basketball at the elite levels would be more difficult to attain. Instead, he chose to pursue journalism.
Mr. Akram coughed.
Hyder kept staring at him. This was making Mr. Akram uncomfortable and Hyder wanted to see how he would react.
Hyder was fully aware that racism existed even in an open society such as the one he lived in, but it was wrong in every shape and form. Mr. Akram believed that racism was preventing the authorities from doing their duties. Hyder hoped that was not the case.
Some of Hyder’s closest friends were white, black, and even Asian. What brought them closer to each other were their common interests. They liked the same movies, the same music, and even the same sports. In some cases, what brought them together was the fact that they were different than those around them. Hyder and his friends were considered nerds, a term they were proud to own.
Mr. Akram’s face was now covered in sweat. As a fellow Muslim and a Pakistani, he had expected Hyder to agree, and sympathize with what he was going through. Hyder did. It was wrong for someone to be robbed, he believed. Everybody had a right to an honest living.
The country was built upon the American Dream. If you worked hard, no matter who you were, you could succeed.
The owner of the convenience store had every right to be remunerated for his products. What he didn’t have the right to, according to Hyder, was thinking just because the offender was white, black, or any other ethnicity, he or she would get away with it. A good society would never tolerate theft of any kind, no matter who perpetrated it.
To Mr. Akram’s relief, a customer walked up to the counter. He quickly greeted the customer and proceeded to ignore Hyder.
This was Hyder’s cue that the interview was over.
He closed his notebook and left.
TWO
He banged hard on the door and waited.
He was dressed in an immaculate suit, which was now getting ruined because of the slight drizzle.
Captain Rudyard ‘Rudy’ Ross brushed off the droplets of water, but quickly realized it was in vain.
He grunted.
He hated having to be here, but it was necessary. He should have come earlier, but he thought he would give it more time. He didn’t realize the time was now almost a year.
He glanced around the front of the house. It looked like the grass hadn’t been cut in weeks or maybe even months. Weeds had even begun to sprout.
He looked down. Next to his recently polished shoes were stacks of newspapers and unclaimed mail.
He leaned down and lifted some of the envelopes.
They had the familiar words ‘Final Notice’ stamped on them in red ink.
He shook his head and banged on the door again.
He could have sent someone from the department, but he knew that wouldn’t do the job. They always returned to the station shaking their heads.
“It was hopeless,” they would say. “He’s gone.” But Ross would not give up. No matter how much trouble Tom Nolan had been. He was one of Ross’ finest detectives.
Ross dialed a number and heard the telephone ring inside the house. As expected the call went to voicemail; an operator informed him the mail box was full.
Ross placed the phone inside his suit jacket and then moved to the side of the house.
He found a piece of rock, held it in his palms to see if it was heavy enough, and returned to the front door.
He flung the rock through the glass.
He took a few steps back and put his arms behind his back, waiting.
A couple of seconds later, the front door swung open.
A man rushed out with a bat in his hands. He was wearing a black T-shirt and white shorts. His face was covered in a thick beard. His hair was long and dishevelled.
The man cursed as he moved toward the captain. The man’s socks were instantly wet from the rain.
“Good morning, Tom,” Ross said.
“Morning, sir,” the man replied. He looked left and then right. He held the baseball bat high. “Sir, did you see where the hooligans went?”
“What hooligans?” Ross asked matter-of-factly.
“The bums who threw the rock at my window.”
“I did.”
Nolan made a face. He looked conf
used.
“Tom, I threw the rock at your window,” Ross said calmly.
“Why…? Why would you do that?” he asked.
“So you would come out and greet me.”
Nolan lowered the baseball bat and grinned. “Sir, you could have called, you know.”
Ross ignored his comment and said, “Can I come in?”
“Sure, but what are you doing here?”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“You could have saved yourself the trouble and just called me. I would have come to you.”
Right, Ross thought.
The first thing that hit Ross was the stench. It was the pungent aroma of sweat and alcohol.
The living room was a pigsty. Things were scattered every which way. Ross spotted clothes on the floor and furniture. Styrofoam boxes and pizza boxes littered the coffee table and carpet. Next to the sofa were various alcohol bottles.
“Those aren’t mine,” Nolan claimed.
“I’m sure they aren’t,” Ross said, not believing him.
Nolan flopped onto the sofa and pointed at the seat across from him, which Ross took.
“What can I do for you, sir?” Nolan’s eyes were bloodshot and his skin was turning pale from being indoors all day.
“I never thought I’d ever see Tom Nolan like this,” Ross said.
Nolan shrugged as if to say, that’s life.
“Tom, I need you out on the field,” Ross continued.
“I’m on leave,” Nolan said.
“Not anymore.”
Nolan gave him a sour look. “Sorry, sir, but as you can see, I’m in no shape to conduct my duties in a manner required by my profession.”
“You can if you stop drinking.”
“I will repeat,” Nolan raised a finger. “Those bottles aren’t mine.”
“I’m sure they’re not.” Ross shook his head. “Tom, you can’t live like this. You need to get on with your life.”
“I’m living my life, can’t you see?” Nolan waved his arms around the room.
“You’re hurting yourself more than you know,” Ross said.
The Silent Reporter (A Police Procedural Mystery Series of Crime and Suspense, Hyder Ali #1) Page 1