“Gallery opening. Downtown Eastside. The artist is dead. I found him. In his car. In the alley.”
“Christ,” Mike said again, but I could hear him thinking. “So you’re on Skid Row with a dead guy. Who else knows?”
“That’s why I called. No one knows, Mike. Not yet. I just found him. Like I said, in his car.”
“Natural causes?”
I looked at the tool sticking out of Marsh’s neck. “I don’t think so.”
“Okay, let me think. I’ll send someone down, but I don’t know who’s available… maybe Cross, or Hartigan might be around…” I imagined Webb with a chart or computer file, looking for a reporter he could send over.
“That’s just it, Mike. I want to cover it.”
“I don’t know, Nicole…”
“I can do this,” I said. “And I’m already here. But I think you should send a photographer. The kind of pictures I take are… well, they’re not the same as this.”
He kind of laughed, but it wasn’t a funny sound. “I get your point. Okay. I’ll see what I can do, but you better take what you can, Nicole. Case like this, your next call had better be the cops. I don’t imagine they’d want us to camp on a body.”
“That’s really the reason I called. I wasn’t sure if there were rules…”
“Rules? When a reporter finds a stiff ? That’s not in the book, Nic. We’re never there before the news happens. Just take the pictures and make the call. Then get back here and we’ll get you going on the story.”
I knew it wasn’t right to smile over a dead man’s body, but I couldn’t help it. And me not getting the story wouldn’t make Steve Marsh any less dead.
So I did what I thought needed to be done. I didn’t touch anything, just used my little digital camera to photograph Marsh from a couple of different angles. I did it from outside the car, through the front and side windows. I even zoomed in on the tool sticking out of his neck. Reasoning that no one wants to run a corpse shot on page one, I backed up a few feet and took a picture of the car, Marsh’s head just a shadow on the driver’s side. And then I called 9-1-1.
“I’ve found a dead man in a car in an alley off Carrall Street.”
“Are you sure the man is dead, miss?”
“Quite sure. There is a tool sticking out of his neck.”
At the question, I had a sudden doubt and looked back at Marsh. And the doubt was gone.
“Quite sure,” I repeated.
There was more. I don’t remember the details. I know I gave the address and said I’d stand by, and it seemed as though moments later, the scream of sirens filled the air. Multiple sirens, which surprised me. But then, maybe they didn’t get dead bodies called in every day.
The cop behind the wheel of the cruiser had her dark hair pulled back under her hat. Her smile was reassuring and genuine. I figured her to be someone’s mom. Her partner was a couple of years younger than me and looked pretty green.
An ambulance and a fire truck arrived at pretty much the same time, but it was clear this was going to be the cops’ show.
The woman said she was Sergeant Itani. Her partner was Constable Vickers.
“You found the body? Called it in?”
I just nodded. For once, at a loss for words.
She checked the scene calmly. Marsh was dead. That was easy to see. But I didn’t say anything. Itani looked like she knew her job.
“Yup,” she said quickly. “Dead.” And then to Vickers, “Tell the ambulance. Let them do their stuff.”
By now, the alley was more crowded. The meth zombies had moved on, but people from the gallery were beginning to come out to see why the cops were there. Some of them still held drinks. A few lit cigarettes as soon as their lungs hit the night air.
I ignored them all. I was focusing hard on keeping emotional distance from the whole thing. I knew I’d need that if I wanted to cover the artist’s death. Reporters aren’t meant to be part of the story. And I was aware of that, even while I gave Itani a brief statement. After all, I didn’t really know anything.
It wasn’t much of a statement. I’d left the gallery at about 9:30, looking for Marsh in order to take his photo for the paper. No, I’d never met him. Yes, I knew what he looked like and I’d been told what he drove. I’d spotted his car up the alley, had gone to it, seen him inside looking none too healthy and called 9-1-1.
It didn’t take five minutes. And it was the truth. But somehow it didn’t cover it.
The silence I’d felt in the alley, the sense of waiting and—yes—of beauty.
The look of the hair on the back of Marsh’s neck.
The smell that had come out of the car with him. Blood. And dying.
The fear I’d had of letting him slide to the ground. It had been as though I needed to keep him in his car at any cost.
And, finally, realizing that someone I had once shared air with did no longer.
I knew that this night had held things I’d always remember. None of that made it into the police report. And I knew none would be in the paper.
It didn’t have a place.
FOUR
While I gave my statement, the ambulance guys tried to resuscitate Marsh. I could have told them he was beyond resuscitation, but they didn’t ask me.
Once Marsh had been officially pronounced dead, Itani seemed to gather her troops. Constable Vickers trailed behind like a puppy.
I stood in the alley, alone and forgotten for the moment.
I took a deep breath. I knew a page-one story might never drop into my lap again. There were steps I needed to take to ensure I got what I needed to write a kickass piece on Steve Marsh’s death. I knew that I knew what those things were. I am a trained journalist, after all. But now, faced with doing it, it was like I knew nothing at all. I thought about the things I’d learned in school and just drew a scary blank.
I put my hand on the cooling hood of a car that was parked in the alley and stood there, trying to clear my mind. Just as I felt myself begin to relax, I heard my name.
“Nicole.” A man’s voice. I felt my heart sink when I recognized it.
“Hey, Brent. What are you doing here?” I already knew the answer. Brent Hartigan didn’t go anywhere if he wasn’t on a story. But if he was here, it meant he was working on my story. And that meant it wasn’t really my story. At least, not all of it. Not anymore.
Another thing about Brent Hartigan: he is beautiful. He looks like an actor playing a hotshot young reporter on a television show where everyone is attractive.
Everything about Brent Hartigan’s appearance is classical. His nose is aquiline, his cheekbones are high, his pale blue eyes are exotic. If that weren’t enough, he is also tall and broad-shouldered, with the careless look of someone who doesn’t have to work very hard to stay in shape.
Right now, Brent’s beautiful face looked gently amused at my question. “Webb sent me to help,” he said.
Alone, the words were fine. But Brent Hartigan was no boy scout. I knew he’d be no help to me.
I didn’t know Brent well. But newsroom stories about him were legendary. The only person Brent ever helped was himself. If I’d doubted those stories before, I didn’t now. He really was a hell of a reporter, that much was true. I’d read his stuff. He was good. But he was looking at me the way a cat looks at a piece of lettuce. I wasn’t even interesting. And I could see that whatever dreams I had of being a reporter, they weren’t shared by Brent.
Did Brent’s being there mean that Mike Webb had no faith in me? Or that the story was too big for someone as green as me? Whatever it was, when I saw Brent, I knew exactly what I had to do.
“Great,” I said. “Sergeant Itani is in charge.” I pointed to where the police officer appeared to be gathering her troops. “You’ll want to get the lowdown, I guess.”
Brent looked at me closely, the pale blue of his eyes visible in the dim light. If he suspected my motives, I couldn’t tell. But why would he? He wouldn’t think party girl Nicole was a thr
eat.
“Right,” he said. “Good. I’ll go talk to her. You stay here—I’ll be right back.”
I nodded, but he didn’t see. He was already charging off toward the sergeant. I headed back inside the gallery.
I didn’t have much time. It wouldn’t take Brent long to get the little information that was available. My only hope was that Itani would stay too busy to talk to him for a while. That might buy me a little more time.
Inside the gallery, the crowd had thinned, and the people left stood in little clusters. Their voices were low and brittle and frightened. Word of Marsh’s death had beat me inside.
Erica spotted me as I came in. Even she looked frightened. “Nicole,” she demanded as she came to meet me, “tell me what you saw.”
“Not now, Erica. I’m working on the story.” She looked as though she might reprimand me. Then thought better of it. “What can I do?” she said, surprising me.
“You’ve been in here the whole time, talking with people?”
She nodded.
“Did anyone seem odd to you?”
“No.” She seemed to think, then said again, “No. The girlfriend…” Her voice trailed off.
“What?”
“Well, I guess I did think it strange that the girlfriend arrived late.”
“Which one is she?” I asked.
“Over there.” She pointed out a woman in her early thirties, standing apart. The young woman wasn’t crying, but she had the air of someone who didn’t know what to do with herself.
She should have been beautiful. She had perfect features and figure. She wore good clothes, and she wore them well. But though she was visibly upset, the expression that came most easily to her face was one of dissatisfaction.
“That’s Caitlen,” Erica told me. “Caitlen Benton-Harris.” She looked at me expectantly. When I didn’t bite, she prodded. “Her father isn’t anyone, but the mother was of the department-store Bentons.”
I nodded. That clan I knew. Earlier generations had worked hard to build a little local shop into a big chain. Later generations hadn’t done much besides spend the fortune their ancestors had made. The chain was gone now. All that was left was the name.
I approached the woman gently. “Caitlen,” I said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
She looked me over. Her face asked how important I was. Not at all, it replied a single beat later.
“Thank you,” she said nicely enough, though she didn’t offer me her hand.
“I’m Nicole Charles,” I told her. “With the Vancouver Post.”
“I know who you are,” she said coldly.
“Someone said you arrived late tonight.” As I said the words, I could feel what they might imply. Her face confirmed my fear.
“Excuse me?” she said sharply. The people nearest us turned at the sound. I fought the urge to melt into the concrete floor. This was what it meant to be a reporter, I told myself firmly. This was what I needed to do if I was going to get even a toehold in the story. I must ask the hard questions, even if it would be easier not to.
“The police are bound to ask,” I said quietly, stating the obvious. “I thought I’d head them off.”
“You people make me sick,” she said with venom. “You’re like vultures. You’re already here. Circling.”
“I found him,” I pointed out. “I was here. At the opening. You were not,” I pressed. “Where were you?”
“I can’t believe this,” she cried. “I told you…”
I just looked at her. She hadn’t told me anything.
“I told you…I don’t have anything to say.” It didn’t surprise me when she turned away. But when she kept going and left the gallery, I was surprised. Not only that she’d left, but that she’d been allowed to leave. I looked around quickly. The cops weren’t inside yet. Someone would want to speak with Caitlen. But would they know to look for her?
I watched her go. There was nothing in her leaving I could write about. Not yet. But I’d remember her actions. If I played my cards right and kept one step ahead of Brent Hartigan, and if I showed Mike Webb I had what it took to do a story this big, I’d be writing about Steve Marsh’s death for a long time. Maybe months.
I didn’t have experience covering a murder, but I had a feeling. This was a story that would be retold many ways.
FIVE
As I’ve said, my office is on the fifth floor of the Vancouver Post building at the edge of the sea in downtown Vancouver. Even so, when I got back to the building around eleven that night, I had the elevator stop at the fourth floor.
The parking level had been deserted, as had the big marble-floored foyer when I’d swapped elevators to get up to the office level. I knew that had I gone to the fifth level, things would have been quiet there too. Some cleaning crew shuffling through their late-night labors. Maybe not even that.
On the fourth floor, things were different. The doors opened right onto the newsroom, and though it wasn’t as hectic as it would have been during the day, the news doesn’t stop at quitting time.
The noise level was less low. Still, it was an assault to my senses. When he looked up from his computer at the center of the bullpen, Mike Webb seemed surprised to see me.
“Nicole Charles,” I reminded him tentatively.
He grinned. “Stop telling me,” he said. “We did that already.”
“I know, but that was on the phone…I thought maybe in person…”
“I’m a newsman, Nic,” he said with a scowl. “It’s my job to know who everyone is.”
“Okay,” I said, regarding him seriously.
His wide face broke into a grin, and he shook his head. “I’m kidding, Nicole. I’m sorry. It’s late. We get a little punchy around here on deadline. I know a lot of people, but I don’t know everyone. But I do know you. What I don’t know is what you’re doing here. I sent Hartigan down.”
“Yes, sir. I know. I saw Brent there. It’s just that…well, I’d hoped that since I was the one that found the body, it could be my story.”
Mike looked at me thoughtfully. “You said something like that on the phone.”
I knew I wasn’t likely to get much of an opening, so I took the teeny one I saw. “I realize you don’t think of me as a reporter, Mr. Webb.”
“Mike,” he corrected. “And please don’t call me ‘sir’ again. It makes me feel like your dad.”
“Mike. Okay. But I am a reporter. That’s what I trained to do.”
“How’d you get stuck there then?” he asked pleasantly. I realized it wasn’t an insult, just what he saw as the natural order of things. There are news people. Then there are feature writers. Then there’s me.
“I did my practicum under Philby Donner,” I said.
Mike nodded. “Homes section, right?” And, to his credit, he didn’t say it with a sneer. There were others who wouldn’t have been as generous. And we both knew why. A lot of real-estate reporting isn’t much more than advertorial, covering this new condo development and that new home-care product. There might be the hint of hard news here and there, but you really have to dig to find it.
“Right,” I agreed. “Then Howard Enders died during my last week, and…”
“There you were.”
I shrugged. That was pretty much how it had gone. What I didn’t need to say was that we both knew a green reporter fresh off her practicum after attending a community college would come cheaper than either a seasoned reporter or someone from a better school with hotter prospects. And in the newspaper business, the bottom line is never far from sight. They hadn’t looked far to fill Howard’s post because they hadn’t needed to. I’d been sitting right there, not looking like I’d cause any trouble. And not expecting a hefty paycheck. At least, not right away.
Webb kicked back in his seat and looked up at me thoughtfully. He didn’t speak right off. He considered his words. “What you’re really saying is that you have no reporting experience. That you did the program at… where did you say you went to s
chool?”
I hadn’t said. “Delta College.”
He’d know the program—it was right outside the city. He’d probably even speak to a grad class every year or so. I couldn’t imagine he’d hire anyone for his newsroom straight out of the program though. Not with his pick of graduates from four-year programs across the country each and every year.
“Nicole…sit down, will you?”
I perched nervously on the chair near his desk. I wasn’t sure I liked the way this was going.
“Look,” he said, “from what you told me, this may well end up being one of our top stories of the year. Of the year. Now, I respect why you feel it’s your story. You found the guy. On your watch—you were covering his event, right? But there’s no way I can turn you loose on this one by yourself. You’re just too green. Hell, you’re not even green. You’ve never actually worked on a real murder case, am I right?”
I managed a sort of nod/shrug. I would have liked to deny it, but what he said was true.
“Now, Hartigan has contacts in all the right places. You know yourself, Nicole. You need those on any story. You wouldn’t even know where to start on this one—”
“Oh, but I would,” I broke in before he could finish his thought. “I have, even. That’s why I came straight in. I have some very strong stuff, Mike. I spoke with…with sources before I left the scene. I’m here to start right on it.” I told myself it was not a lie. And I didn’t think I’d get a second chance. “I thought you’d want something for the morning edition.”
He grinned at me again. I liked the way that grin warmed his face. “You’re keen, I can see that. Hungry. That’s a good thing. You’re not planning on staying in the party room forever?”
“I want to be a reporter, Mike. A real one. The job came up and I’ve been doing it. I’m even good at it, I think. But I want to be a reporter. That’s all I ever really wanted.”
He sighed and slumped back in his seat. “You’re a smart kid. I can see that. A nice one too. You know I can’t give you this story.” I started to protest, but he stopped me. “Not all of it. If it was something smaller, maybe, but…well, it’s not. Like I said, considering who this guy was and how he died, this might be one of our top stories of the year. I’ve already got Brent on it, but I think it might be enough story for both of you.”
If It Bleeds Page 2