Margin of Error

by Edna Buchanan

  Who is writing his lines? I wondered.

  “A heady comparison,” I said, “but I don’t see it.’

  “Even the voice,” he said. “You have to admit your voice is husky.”

  “It is,” I acknowledged. “But people don’t call me ‘sir’ on the phone.”

  He watched me closely. “Always in control, as though you can handle anything. You don’t take any guff. I bet you give as good as you get. A sense of humor. A woman of the world. Or is it all a facade? Sometimes, off guard, your eyes look haunted.”

  “I don’t do much self-analysis,” I said. “No time.”

  “You’re an exciting, fascinating woman.”

  I felt as though I were being dissected, like a bug.

  “A bit insolent,” he continued. “And you behave like a man.”

  “What?”

  His mouth twisted in a sly smile; he knew what I was thinking.

  “No games. You look people straight in the eye when you talk to them. And you always look like you’re expecting something to happen at any moment.”

  “It usually does.” Time to change the subject. “I thought actors only talked about themselves.”

  “You have no idea how boring that is. Does the haunted look relate to that incident after the hurricane?”

  I sighed and nodded. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Something’s bothering you, something more than he usual everyday cops-and-robbers routine.”

  “It shouldn’t haunt me,” I began, toying with my drink. “But it does. I’m not sure why. I’ve reported hundreds of deaths, mostly murders, seen the dead lying in the street, on slabs in the morgue, in their coffins. Bodies still bleeding, decomposed corpses no another would recognize, people frozen in rigor mortis. It was my job. I always slept like a baby because I new I did right by them. Told their stories because they couldn’t. You know, crime survivors can form support groups, lobby lawmakers, and fight for justice But death seals lips. Nobody speaks for them. So it was my job to find out all I could, then tell their stories in blade and white, printed on our consciousness.”

  “How was this one different?” Interested and attentive, he was surprisingly easy to talk to. And I surprised myself, spilling things I had discussed at length with no one.

  “Obviously, I had never been the one to pull the trigger, to look into a man’s eyes after I fired a bullet into his head.”

  Suddenly my mouth was dry and my eyes were wet. What was wrong with me?

  “He was trying to kill me. He was the man who had betrayed my father and caused his death, he was a serial killer who had kidnaped, raped, and murdered teenagers. Nobody deserved to die more than he did. He is not mourned. The only people who may regret his death are the shrinks who would have loved to pick his brain and publish papers about him. He would have loved the attention, matching wits, playing cat and mouse with them. He would have enjoyed the process, while the taxpayers footed the bills. I’m glad he’s dead and will never have the chance. My father…”—my voice kept cracking but I had to get it out—”I never knew my father because of him. I ruined my mother’s life.” I began to sniffle. “But I don’t think I went there to kill him. I had my gun. But it came down to kill or be killed.”

  I stared at the tablecloth, fighting tears. What was wrong with me? I looked up, directly into Lance’s eyes. They looked soft.

  “People even congratulated me, said I saved the state and the victims’ parents the cost and the ordeal of a trial. One set of parents even sent me flowers when the shooting was declared justifiable.” I gulped. “Their twelve-year-old son was dead—and they sent me flowers.”

  My eyelids burned. A tear skidded and dropped ungracefully off my nose. I fumbled in my bag for a handkerchief. Lance pulled one from his pocket and handed it over. It was monogrammed and smelled good. I gave up delicate dabbing at the tears and loudly blew my nose.

  “I wasn’t upset,” I insisted. “Everybody said I did the right thing.”

  “Would you say you’re upset now?”

  “Not really.” My voice quavered.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said. “I wish you could see Silverman.”

  I sniffed and blew my nose again. “Who?”

  “My therapist. He’s in LA.”

  “Not you too.”

  “Somebody else has suggested…?”

  “Everybody: my bosses, Lottie, McDonald; that’s what—”

  “McDonald, that cop?”

  I nodded and unfolded his handkerchief, searching for a spot that wasn’t already damp.

  “So he’s the one,” Lance said, pointing a finger, that you were involved with.”

  Since I didn’t trust my voice, I kept nodding. “Shit.” He smiled and shook his head. “That explains a lot.”

  “His attitude?”

  “Yeah. You coulda mentioned it. I thought I was losing my manly charms. Cops usually like me. I played enough of them.”

  I tried to smile back at him. “Sorry. And I’m sorry about all this, I didn’t mean to spoil lunch. I never fall apart. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I must be manic depressive. I was so happy a little while ago, on the way down here.”

  “I know manic depressives. Manic depressives are friends of mine, and you, sweetheart, are no manic depressive. What you are is human. You just need to talk it out with somebody. Seeing a therapist is no disgrace, no sign of weakness. Where I come from these days, anybody who isn’t seeing a therapist needs to.”

  I sipped some water. “You see one?”

  “The guy’s great, helped me through some rough spots. The rags-to-riches syndrome, too much, too soon; Hollywood; Lexie. How did you think I got to be such a together guy? How did you think I handled all this?”

  “Drugs,” I said in a small voice. “I assumed Rad Johnson was your supplier.”

  We talked and walked the beach all afternoon, then flew back through a fiery sunset reflected in water like a mirror. Lance held my hand and I toyed with the leather bracelet on his wrist.

  “From my gunslinger days,” he said. “Wore it in my first Western.”

  “The one where you kept cracking the bullwhip?”

  “No.” He looked surprised. “You didn’t see The Bandits?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “The least you can do, woman, is watch my movies.” He pretended to pout but the blow to his ego was real. I really had to go to Blockbuster.

  “Look,” I said, changing the subject. A necklace of lights, the Julia Tuttle Causeway, glittered to the north as we hovered over Watson Island. “See there, on the south side. That’s where the Pieces of Eight case started.”

  “Pieces of Eight? Sounds romantic.”

  “Eight dismembered body parts washed up. Never identified them or solved the case. And right down there is where a drunken cabdriver named Captain Jerry crossed the median and killed himself and five tourists.”

  “Thank you for the guided tour.”

  Stephanie was not waiting for us, but Dave was, standing next to the convertible, wearing a nylon wind-breaker. We zipped across the darkening causeway back to the News.

  “See you later?” Lance asked, as we pulled up in front of the building.

  “Later?”

  “We’re shooting in the newsroom tonight. Hope you’ll be there, to give another guided tour.”

  “But you don’t start until after midnight,” I said.

  “If you can make it.” He shrugged.

  He and Niko urged me to call the police at the first sight of Stephanie. Hopefully this time they would hold her long enough for a judge to issue the commitment order sought by her family’s lawyer.

  “They can’t be trying very hard,” I said. “She’s not all that difficult to find. I mean, we keep seeing her. Maybe they’re simply relieved that she’s down here, out of their hair.”

  “If she shows up, don’t even try to deal with her,” Niko warned. “She’
s dangerous. Let the police handle it.”

  Lance planted a kiss on my forehead, and they zoomed off into the growing darkness. I took the elevator to the newsroom, mind racing, wondering how to explain my six-hour lunch. I didn’t need to. Nobody had even missed me.

  13

  I did feel better after unburdening myself to Lance. That was all I needed, I told myself: to talk it out with a friend. Now I was fine.

  Messages waited. “Britt,” Gloria said, her expression odd, “some woman called, said she wants you fired because you went to Bimini with her husband.”

  “I haven’t been to Bimini, with or without somebody’s husband,” I said innocently.

  “And a guy called, wanted to know what kind of shoes you were wearing. When I said I didn’t know, he asked what kind I had on. Is he a…?” Her eyes rolled.

  “Yes,” I said. “Just hang up if he calls again.”

  “But you know the publisher’s policy, to make the paper reader-friendly and be helpful and courteous to every caller no matter who they are or what they say.”

  “Then transfer this guy to the publisher’s secretary.” The woman, a prim spinster, had held the same job since leaving a convent thirty years ago.

  Gloria looked doubtful.

  “Or you could simply say that you are wearing four-inch metal spike heels with open toes, crimson polish, and that you want him to—”

  “Okay, okay!” she said. “Never mind.”

  Since nobody had missed me for six hours, I left again. Went home, walked the dog, took a catnap, changed clothes, returned to the paper, and made some phone checks.

  The guys in the sports department were crowded around a TV watching the Panthers roughhouse at the Miami Arena. Cries of “Rats on the ice!” meant our team had scored.

  Phillip Hodges showed up first, stalking the newsroom, pacing, frowning, and looking creative. He was accompanied by his chief cinematographer, who kept whipping out a light meter. I waved but stayed at my desk, working.

  Fast-moving crew members appeared precisely at midnight, rolling in with lights, poles, and scaffolding. They brought racks of clothes, equipment on dollies, and huge metal camera cases on wheels. They changed the time on all the clocks in the newsroom, efficiently positioned lights, covered the big picture windows, and, in effect, turned night into day.

  Impressive, especially in this city, run by highly paid professionals unable to even synchronize the traffic lights.

  The newsroom, which had slowly emptied except for the few diehards who work until 2 A.M., began to fill up again, as though the internal rhythm of the building had been accelerated to warp speed. Ziff Bodine arrived, lugging a satchel and wearing another belted safari outfit. All he lacked was a pith helmet.

  He greeted me like an old friend and pulled up a chair. His fingernails were still glossy black. “I have some scrumptious gossip,” he confided.

  “Great,” I said. “Exactly what I need.”

  “Especially since it involves you, girlfriend.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  His voice became intimate and he rolled his chair closer, as extras drifted around the room and settled in at desks. Most appeared too well dressed and well mannered for roles as reporters and editors. “Well, Van Ness and Wendy were absolutely livid when you wrote about poor Rad’s unfortunate encounter with those nasty crack house hookers and the police. He wants to stay on as AD, so they had a meeting and he agitated them even more. He’s so angry about your story—which was picked up, by the way, and reported out on the Coast—that you emerged as the villain, as if you are to blame, not him, for landing his tail in jail.”

  “Kill the messenger, of course,” I said. “Obviously, I sent him to the crack house. Par for the course.”

  “Well, don’cha know, Van Ness declared you persona non grata, barred from the set.” He grinned slyly. “Until someone pointed out that we were shooting at the News. And that even he did not have the authority to ban you from your own newspaper. Get outa town! Don’cha love it?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Thanks for sharing. I really didn’t plan to be here tonight.” I hit the SEND button, dispatching my story into the editing system. “But now a SWAT team couldn’t budge me.”

  “Get outa town.”

  We high-fived.

  Lexie made an entrance, trailing an entourage, dramatic as always, like a rare exotic bird. She wore a blue dress and dripped aquamarines, like glistening drops of water, from her throat and wrists. Van Ness rushed to greet her and stuck to her like something impossible to scrape off the sole of your shoe.

  “I didn’t know she had any scenes here at the paper,” I murmured to Ziff.

  “Her part is growing by leaps and bounds,” he said knowingly. “You are planning to join us when we blow up the warehouse, aren’t you? We’re doing it Sunday morning, less traffic.”

  “You’re blowing up a real building?”

  “You betcha, sugar. Moviegoers want happy endings or lots of very large explosions.”

  “I thought you would build a set, like the nuclear reactor.”

  “No way. They did a deal for this warehouse near downtown. It’s been condemned to build a new hotel. We’re doing the demolition.”

  “Lance will be in it when it blows up?”

  “Gardiner Bowles, his character, will. It’s a toss-up on who actually does the run through the building as the charges are detonated. Lance loves to do his own stunts; you know, that macho image. It’s not really dangerous, been done a hundred times, but the studio chiefs get antsy at the thought of singeing even a hair on that bad boy’s gorgeous head.”

  My phone rang. Who would call this late?

  “Gloria?” asked the voice.

  “No, this is Britt.”

  “Good. Would you like someone to worship at your feet?”

  “Hold on.” I covered the mouthpiece with my palm. “Ziff? Would you talk to this guy?”

  I opened my ladies’ room locker, added a little blusher, and brushed my hair. The six-stall six-sink bathroom is adjacent to a shower and a mirrored locker room with a sofa, coffee table, and chairs. The place was empty and half lit, a bit spooky at midnight. While in a stall, I heard the shwoosh of the door. Heels clicking on the tiled floor. Someone from the film crew, I thought, but by the time I flushed and stepped out, she was gone. I took a final look in the mirror, slammed my locker door, and snapped the little padlock.

  On the way back to my desk, I encountered Lance outside the wire room. He was trying to stretch his too-tight black jeans by doing deep knee bends as Niko hovered nearby.

  “Didn’t think you were here when I saw Ziff at your desk,” Lance said.

  “I was working on a story.” I glanced into the newsroom. Ziff was chatting happily on my phone. Was he still talking to the same caller? He was. As we watched, he leaned way back in my chair, raised his right foot, and thoughtfully studied it from several angles while speaking into the phone.

  “He’s talking to one of my crank callers, a fugitive with a foot fetish.”

  Ziff grinned, then laughed.

  “Looks like they don’t wanna be disturbed.” Lance grimaced and did another deep knee bend. He looked red in the face. “They must’ve bought ‘em a size too small.”

  “Or too much arroz con polio,” Niko said.

  Lance shot him a dirty look. “The other two pair that somebody sliced up were fine.” He took a deep breath. “Tell the soundman my voice is gonna register a few octaves higher.” He turned to me. “I still haven’t seen where they print this newspaper.”

  “The pressroom,” I said. We walked toward the employee elevator, Niko trailing behind.

  “What were you working on?”

  “The rat patrol is rounding up suspects, busting them on the street and in parking lots around the arena, confiscating their rats.”

  “Say again?”

  I pushed the elevator button. “Whenever the Panthers score
, fans throw rats on the ice.”

  “I noticed.”

  “The tradition started after a rat wandered into the home-team locker room. Scott Mellanby, the forward, beat it to death with his hockey stick. When he scored two goals that night, everybody decided rats brought the team luck. Fans started throwing toy rats. Long tails the best, to wind up for a good fling onto the ice. Some are pretty cute.”

  We stepped onto the padded freight elevator, and I hit 3.

  “Nice-size rubber rats with good hang time sell for about three-fifty. Then there are matched sets, the Rat brothers, Wilbur and Orville. They’re not recycled after they’re picked up; that would be tacit approval. The league frowns on throwing anything onto the ice. Arena concessions don’t sell rubber rats for the same reason. But for street salesmen, they’re big business. Factories in Taiwan are working overtime. They have to make it now because next year they’re gonna ban the practice. This is the last hurrah, and at the moment they’re in such demand that a truckload of rubber rats got hijacked at gunpoint awhile back. Fans will do anything to get them.”

  We stepped off on 3, but instead of a right turn into the cafeteria, we hung a left and descended a short, dimly lit stairway. “So why are they arresting people?” Lance’s voice and our footsteps echoed off the concrete block walls.

  “Money. Panther officials pressured the police to stop rat sales outside the arena. Fans have only so much disposable income, and they want it all spent on T-shirts, mugs, and hats at their souvenir stands inside.”

  “So little old ladies are getting mugged,” Niko said, “while the cops arrest guys for possession of rubber rats?”

  “You’ve got it. Our system at work.”

  The double doors into the bowels of the newspaper loomed ahead. Air space actually separates the vast three-story pressroom from the rest of the building in order to contain the noise and the vibration. The shudder can still be felt underfoot in the newsroom when the presses roll.

  We pushed through the doors into what sounded like the path of a runaway freight train. The sound was deafening. The final edition was rolling.