by Rick Mofina
“That’s it?”
“Sorry.”
Gannon hung up, drew a line through Tatum’s name on his pad.
Over the last few days, since learning that Jolene Peller’s phone was used to call Styebeck’s home, he’d pitched the story to the New York Post, USA Today, Reuters, and the Associated Press.
No one wanted anything to do with him. He was a pariah, ignored by people he respected, editors like Kirk Tatum.
After Gannon’s Pulitzer nomination, Tatum had called him at the Sentinel. “Congratulations on the nomination. I’m impressed with what you did on the plane-crash story. Win or lose, you’re Pulitzer caliber. Anytime you want to talk about coming to the News, call me.”
Now Tatum wouldn’t even take his calls.
And Gannon couldn’t believe the response he’d received from Melody Lyon, a senior editor with the World Press Alliance, the international wire service. She was legendary for finding talent and guiding reporters to produce award-winning work.
The WPA operated a bureau in every major U.S. city, and two hundred bureaus in seventy-five countries around the globe, providing a nonstop flow of fast, accurate information to thousands of newspapers, radio, TV, corporate and online subscribers everywhere.
After his nomination, she’d flown him to New York and over lunch at the Plaza offered him a position as a national correspondent based at the WPA’s world headquarters in Manhattan.
“I’ll call you to confirm things in a few days, Jack,” Lyon told him.
One week later, a New York state trooper stood at Gannon’s apartment, hat in hand, explaining how a pickup driven by a drunk driver had smashed head-on into his parents’ Ford Taurus killing them both.
Gannon went numb and had to steady himself against the door.
His parents had heard through friends that Cora might be living in Canada and were driving to the friend’s house in Orchard Park to learn more.
Later, when he was able, he called Melody Lyon, explained his situation and declined the job, for the time being.
Lyon had understood.
Weeks after the funeral, after he’d settled most of his parents’ affairs, he’d followed up on the job offer at WPA. Melody Lyon was in Europe. Gannon spoke to an editor who worked with her.
“Unfortunately, Jack, our staffing needs have changed,” the editor said.
Gannon couldn’t understand what had happened and confided to Stan Baker, a grizzled night copy editor at the Sentinel, who’d known his dad. No one knew that Gannon was going to leave the paper for a job in New York. Baker was the only person Gannon trusted. After Baker “quietly poked around some,” he pointed to Fowler.
“Word is Nate may have caught wind of your desire to leave when WPA was doing reference checks in town,” Baker said. “You know he can’t afford to lose his best reporter.”
Gannon couldn’t believe Fowler would somehow stand in his way.
And now, Gannon refused to believe that Melody Lyon would not respond to his calls. He’d checked with WPA. She was not sick. She was not on vacation, nor was she out of town.
Finally, after a few days, he got an e-mail from her.
Sorry about your situation with the retraction and everything. And I’m sorry I don’t have any suitable openings at the moment. Stay in touch. M.L.”
What the hell was this?
He shook his head.
Why couldn’t any of these editors see through the bullshit he’d faced at the Sentinel and trust that he had the inside track on a major story? This tip on the calls took it to a whole new level. Styebeck was not only linked to Bernice Hogan’s murder, but he was tied to Jolene Peller’s disappearance.
This story was going to explode.
But no Buffalo news organization had broken this new angle.
Yet.
It was all his. But if he didn’t break it soon, someone else would.
He monitored newscasts and Web sites, anxious to hear from Adell.
She’d learned nothing more on the case from her sources. There was a tight lid on the investigation. All she knew was that Brent and Esko had traveled out of state on the phone break.
She was trying to find out where.
So was Gannon.
He took a moment to review his financial situation. He had his severance and vacation pay, and some money from his parents’ estate, but not much. He was good for three, maybe four months.
Then he would need income.
Deal with that later, he told himself, resuming his examination of his growing stack of hard-copy files on Karl Styebeck. Who was he? Where did he come from? Styebeck had blamed his father for his dark side.
What’s the story there?
Gannon had started digging into Styebeck’s family history. So far, he’d learned that Karl Styebeck had been raised in Texas. That his father, Deke Styebeck, had been a cop, or something like that, before he died.
Gannon didn’t have much more on Karl Styebeck’s background, like how he came to be a cop in suburban Buffalo.
Or how his old man died. Was it in the line of duty?
Gannon had a number of searches going. He concentrated on Texas because Styebeck had grown up somewhere between Houston and Dallas.
As Gannon worked alone in his apartment, scrutinizing his files for any angle or lead, his phone rang.
“It’s me,” Adell said. “The calls to Styebeck on Jolene Peller’s cell were made in Illinois from a Chicago truck stop. Got a pen?”
“Fire away.”
“The Thousand Mile Truck Stop, not far from O’Hare.”
“Anything else?”
“All I know is they’re going to dig into the truck stop.”
As Gannon assessed the lead, his pulse quickened. The guys at the Chicago Tribune and Sun-Times would take this story from him if they found out what was happening in their yard.
This was his story.
Gannon tapped his pen, thinking that Chicago was, what? An eight-, ten-hour drive?
He slid his laptop and files into a bag and packed.
30
“Eighty for two nights. Best I can do.”
The motel clerk resumed working on his crossword puzzle and the cigar in the corner of his mouth.
“Eighty. Take it or leave it.”
Welcome to suburban Chicago.
Gannon had driven all day and into the early evening, making only food and washroom stops. After almost nodding off at the wheel on the Eisenhower Expressway, he started searching for a motel.
He’d made it as far as Hillside where the better chains were charging a hundred bucks a night. The Hillside Sea of Tranquillity Motel, offered “dirt-cheap rates”—and free wireless Internet.
Gannon was an out-of-work freelancer traveling on his own dime now.
“I’ll take it for two nights.” Gannon put his credit card down. “Can I get a room on the upper level?”
The clerk grunted.
Gannon’s room smelled of a war among cigarettes, pine air freshener and—what was that—vomit? The toilet was hissing.
He was too tired to care.
He showered then turned on his laptop. Waiting for it to warm up, he recalled reading that Al Capone was buried in a Hillside cemetery. He considered a travel feature to sell to magazines, but set the idea aside as his laptop beeped to life.
Surprise. His Internet connection worked.
He had a number of responses from the libraries and genealogical societies he’d reached in Texas for help on Styebeck. Not much was useful.
He read until he fell asleep.
The next morning he bought a four-dollar breakfast at the convenience store across the street from his motel: an egg burrito heated in the store’s microwave oven and a jumbo coffee.
While eating in his room, he read a new e-mail that had arrived from Rob Hatcher, who ran the Great Lakes Truck Palace in Buffalo.
Hey Jack, just heard new details on the writing on that blue rig you’re looking for. Something relating to a s
word. A “quick sword.” Thought you’d like to know. Stay safe, pal. Rob
Gannon thanked him, closed his laptop, grabbed his car keys.
The Thousand Mile Truck Stop was a few miles away, a 24–7 operation with twenty-two fuel lanes and parking for more than four hundred trucks. Massive American, state, county and corporate flags waved from chrome-tipped poles that reached high above the main building.
Inside, he went to the office of the manager, Kevin Mawby. He was on the phone but waved him in, halted his call, clamped his hand over the mouthpiece.
“Can I help you?”
“Jack Gannon, I phoned you yesterday. Freelance reporter.”
“The guy from Buffalo?”
“Right.”
“Kevin Mawby. Have a seat, be done in a minute.” Mawby went back to the call. “So that shit-for-brains thinks he’s going to sue us because his piece-of-shit rig catches fire at my fueling station?”
Mawby wore a checkered shirt and jeans and rocked in a chair behind a large computer screen. His credenza had two more. Above them was a bank of security monitors, changing pictures every few seconds.
On one wall, there was a large map of the U.S.
Gannon glimpsed business cards on Mawby’s desk but pretended he didn’t notice that two of them bore the FBI’s seal.
He had to be careful here.
“Okay.” Mawby ended the call and smiled at Gannon. “You’re doing a story about trucks? You were vague, as I remember.”
“Well, there’s a bit more to it.”
As Gannon explained about Bernice Hogan’s murder, Jolene Peller’s disappearance and a tip that calls from Jolene’s cell phone were made at Thousand Mile, Mawby’s smile dimmed.
He started shaking his head when his phone rang.
“I have to take this.”
In one smooth, subtle motion, while reaching for a pen, Mawby made the FBI cards disappear in his hand as he swiveled away from Gannon, who was looking at the wall map, letting on like he didn’t notice.
Mawby made some notes and the new call ended abruptly.
“I’m sorry, Jack. I can’t help you. Sounds like a sad case.”
Gannon nodded but didn’t push it. Mawby was battling other matters. The timing for this was all wrong.
“I see. Well, mind if I walk around, talk to a few people?”
“To what end? We don’t know anything about your story.”
“I’m also researching a color travel feature about the area, Al Capone’s grave, truck stops, truckers who see things most travelers miss.”
Mawby shrugged.
“It’s a free country.”
They shook hands.
Gannon found a private spot, flipped through his notes, then put in a call to the clerk at the county court to see if any search warrants had been executed recently for the Thousand Mile Truck Stop.
“I’ll have to get back to you, I’m due in court,” the clerk said.
Gannon began approaching truckers, showing them Jolene’s picture, asking if they knew a rig with reference to “quick sword,” or anything related to Bernice Hogan’s homicide in Buffalo.
He talked to drivers in the lounge, the billiards room, the stores, the CB-repair shop, the Laundromat, the business office, the freight brokers, the hair salon, the chapel and the arcade.
No luck.
He went out to the lot and fuel lanes, roaming in an ocean of big rigs, with their growling diesels and hissing brakes. He went from rig to rig, driver to driver, showing pictures, asking questions. All he got were headshakes and head scratching.
And a whole lot of nothing as the day blurred by.
Back inside, he made another round of inquiries, going table to table through the restaurant. Nothing. He sat on a stool at the counter and ordered a club sandwich.
While waiting, the court clerk called back, informing him that no warrants had been executed on Thousand Mile. Another strike. Mawby could have volunteered any potential physical evidence to the FBI, like video security tapes, Gannon thought, feeling a sense of defeat settling upon him as the waitress set his order before him.
“You’re that reporter asking about a missing girl and a sword truck?”
“That’s me.”
“Tell me a little more about it? I might be able to help.”
As Gannon told her the story she nodded.
“Yup,”” she said. “Two FBI agents were here the other day asking the same sorts of questions, asking us to keep quiet about their inquiries. But you seem to know as much as them.”
Gannon started eating as she continued.
“This morning, I got thinking I should’ve told them to talk to my brother, Toby. He works at the Central Cargo Depot.”
“The Central Cargo Depot?”
“It’s a big cargo-warehouse place. I’d say half the trucks that come here usually pick up or drop loads at Central. You should go there.”
She pulled out her order pad and drew a map.
“It’s off the Ike. You can’t miss it, it’s huge. Ask for Toby Overmeyer. Show him this.” She wrote: Toby, help this reporter. Big Sis.
Gannon thanked her then followed her map.
In a few miles, the complex of warehouse buildings stretched out before him. He went to the main office, to the service counter, and asked for Toby Overmeyer.
It was busy with drivers coming and going. Gannon estimated some twenty people were processing data at computer monitors. A Willie Nelson song filled the air. The walls had murals of American vistas, the Pacific Ocean, the Rockies, the Grand Canyon, the Florida Keys and Great Plains.
Barely in his twenties, Toby Overmeyer came to the counter. He studied the note and listened as Gannon explained his story once more.
“That’s my big sister, Darlene,” Toby said. “Always wants to help.”
He told Gannon that the Central Cargo Depot had ten warehouse buildings, with tenants from major corporations, including a couple of shipping companies that housed and loaded for distribution goods from a spectrum of customers. The shippers used fleets from major trucking operations and hundreds of independents and subcontracted carriers.
“In total, we’ve got one hundred and sixty loading docks and trucks coming and going nonstop. We’re a major hub for the central U.S.”
“Any way you can check for companies or trucks where the word sword figures in the name?” Gannon asked.
“Sure, wait here.”
Toby went to a terminal and worked quickly at a keyboard, then came back to the counter with a printed page, shaking his head.
“We got Sawyer, Simpson, Simon, SASX, SWWK, SWANE, SWISTER, nothing specifically with sword, although we don’t get all subs.”
“Subs?”
“Subcontracted carriers, hauling for other companies listed. Smaller independent operators.”
“Mind if I walk through the complex, check out trucks, talk to the guys?”
Toby hesitated.
“You can’t enter the warehouses. What you see mostly are empty trailers backed to loading docks, either being loaded or unloaded.”
“That’s fine with me.”
Gannon thanked him and set out walking through the complex. The buildings were identified with large numbers.
For as far as he could see, trailers were backed tight to the loading bays. Every type of merchandise imaginable was loaded, or unloaded, amid the creak and clank of forklifts at work inside the trailers and the constant thunder of trucks rolling in, or out, of the depot.
Gannon had to get out of the way whenever a diesel roared, and brakes knocked as tractors hooked the trailers then maneuvered to begin a long haul across the country.
He found nothing that looked like a blue truck, or trailer, with “sword” in the name, logo or brand. Like searching for a needle in a haystack, he thought as he checked each dock, slowly working his way to Building 2.
Time tumbled by.
Outside, at the edge of Building 5, a group of warehousemen were seated at
a picnic table on a break, watching two guys toss a football. Gannon approached them, told them that he was a reporter researching a story and asked them about Jolene, the truck, Buffalo, everything.
Again, his inquiry resulted in a lot of head shaking.
“Sorry, dude.”
“Heads up, buddy,” one of the guys holding the football said.
As a truck rattled past Gannon, he got a quick look at the door.
He froze.
The rig moved fast without a trailer as it swung around the building, disappearing into a dust cloud that hurled grit into his eyes, temporarily blinding him.
It was blue. Wasn’t it?
And wasn’t there something written that said “sword”?
Or was it “swift”?
Rubbing the grit from his eyes, he wondered if he was losing his mind.
“Did you guys see that? Was that a blue tractor?”
The men were returning to the warehouse, disinterested in Gannon.
Determined to investigate, he trotted after the truck. As he rounded the building, he thought he saw a dust cloud in the distance at the corner of Building 7.
It must’ve turned in there.
He started to run when he came headlong to a sedan, the light bar on its roof brilliant with flashing yellow and white, like a squad car.
“Hold it right there, sir!” The driver was wearing dark aviator glasses. He held up his hand.
Gannon stopped.
“Sir, your presence here violates our security policy. Do you have identification?”
Gannon passed him his New York State driver’s license.
“I was told at the office I could conduct research here.”
“I have authority out here.” The man was making notes on a clipboard. “And I’m going to escort you out of the complex now, Mr. Gannon.”
“But I just need to talk to the operator of the blue rig.”
“That is not going to happen.” The man had to be six foot six inches tall. He was holding the back door open for Gannon. “Get in, please, I’ll take you to your vehicle.”
Gannon glanced toward Building 7.
Damn.
“Sir,” the big man said, “get in or I’ll report you to the Chicago PD as a trespasser.”