Social Death: A Clyde Shaw Mystery

by Tatiana Boncompagni

  “Oh I get it,” Georgia drawled. “This is about the merger.”

  It was a well-known secret that FirstNews was up for sale. A few years ago, Charles Kravis had suffered the first of a series of debilitating strokes, after which he stepped down as the company’s CEO and handed the chairmanship to one Naomi Zell, his chief operating officer and most trusted adviser. By all accounts, Zell was capable of running a multi-platform, multi-billion-dollar media company, but Charles Kravis’s poor health, which had continued to decline even after his retirement, had spurred speculation that the family would want to cash out of the business.

  Plus, FirstNews wasn’t exactly performing up to expectations. The tepid economy and falling ratings had hurt advertising revenue. The board didn’t have any reason to reject a reasonable offer from a bigger conglomerate—one that had a better shot at profiting in the current financial climate. But with a merger came redundancies and consolidations, i.e. layoffs and belt-tightening. Nothing any of us were looking forward to. Georgia was right to think that Olivia’s death could affect the outcome of any merger negotiations; murder made people reevaluate their lives and priorities. The Kravis family could change their mind about wanting to sell the network. So too might potential buyers reconsider making an offer to purchase the business if they were worried about appearing like vultures after the family sustained such a horrific loss.

  Diskin tapped the tip of his Montblanc against the top of his desk. “Above all, we have to stay on message. This is a tragedy and we’re going to cover it as such. The other networks may go salacious. God knows we can depend on GSBC to go as lowbrow as they can with it, but we’re not taking this story in that direction. Have I made myself clear?”

  Georgia was growing impatient. “Yes, I think we all can appreciate the deeply sensitive nature of this case. But what about the facts? Do we know how she died? Do we know anything about the crime scene?”

  Alex answered for Diskin. “She was killed in her apartment. No sex play, no drugs.”

  I wondered how he knew that, but Georgia clucked her tongue before I could ask. “We won’t know that for sure until the toxicology reports come in,” she said.

  “What I mean is that she wasn’t found bound and gagged in a latex suit,” Alex replied. “We can cross off S&M gone wrong.”

  Georgia crossed her arms, sending her gold bangles jangling again. “Too early to cross anything off. You got anything else?”

  Diskin cleared his throat. “Clyde, this might be hard for you to hear.”

  I’d spent the last decade of my life submerged in the goriest details of murder. A person can’t hold on to a job like mine that without building a certain tolerance for violence and tragedy. And then there was my own sob story. You hear about cops with hard exteriors, well mine was made of steel. But this? This I wasn’t sure I could handle. Still, I couldn’t have anyone in the room thinking that. They had to believe that I was capable of covering the case if I was going to have any shot of getting to stay on it, and I had to stay on it if I wanted to be able to dedicate myself to catching Olivia’s killer. “I appreciate your concern, but I can handle it,” I said, sounding more sure than I felt.

  Diskin propped his elbows on his desk. “Monica Kravis told me the police are working on the assumption that she was attacked on Friday night, apparently with some sort of crystal object. The killer used it to beat her on her head.”

  “A bludgeoning.” Georgia remarked grimly.

  I knew from interviewing countless criminal psychologists that bludgeoning, like strangulation, was a deeply personal method of killing, unlike, say, poisoning or shooting. Those allowed the killer to keep some distance between himself and the victim, but beating someone with an object required the killer to get close. Bludgeoning also indicated rage and was more typical of homicides carried out by men rather than women. Women tended to use poison, cars, and guns to get the job done. I inhaled deeply again, pushing aside the horrific images that were swimming through my thoughts.

  “Does anyone know if she had a boyfriend?” Georgia asked.

  “She didn’t,” I said. “Not for a while.”

  “What’s a while?” Alex asked.

  “A few years, at least,” I said, wondering if Diskin and Georgia actually expected me to betray Olivia’s private confidences to enhance our coverage. I wouldn’t do it. “What’s the game plan for coverage after we break the news?” I asked, hoping to change the topic.

  “Updates from the crime scene at 4 and 6,” Diskin said.

  “I’ll obviously want to cover this on Topical Tonight at 9,” Georgia said, staking her show’s claim.

  Georgia was a former district prosecutor, a Southern spitfire who had risen to fame as a legal commentator back when there was just one cable news network. The show was best known for missing-person cases, especially those involving children or attractive young women, but just about any criminal investigation that had the potential to garner national attention would do, anything from unwanted sexual advances from a politician to a particularly grisly murder. Topical Tonight was FirstNews’s highest-rated hour, and as such, got to call more than its fair share of shots around the network.

  Although I had been tapped to handle this morning’s breaking news at the Haverford, that wasn’t my usual gig. Technically speaking, I was one of Topical’s segment producers, a Jill-of-all trades role that had me flying off to cover a shooting spree in Mobile, Alabama, one day, and a Boston College hazing prank gone fatally wrong the next. I also kept my eye on the tabs and newspapers for breaking news, scoured regional publications for unsolved cases we could blow up into media feeding frenzies, and pitched in from time to time with guest booking.

  “Up to you what you do with your airtime,” Diskin said, responding to Georgia. “But everything related to the Kravis case gets vetted through legal and standards and practices. Nothing goes to air without their stamp of approval.”

  It wasn’t unusual for my scripts to go through the legal department. Most of what we put on the air did. But I’d rarely had to deal with standards and practices. Their role, as a department, was to make sure everything that happened at the network was in the best interest of the company. If, for example, something Georgia said on air stirred up trouble with Christian Scientist viewers and as a result caused a company-wide boycott by religious groups, it was up to standards and practices to deal with the fallout. They figured out whether to arrange mediation sessions, issue an apology, or stand by Georgia’s right to free speech.

  Diskin pointed his pen at Alex. “Also, he’s taking the lead for us on the case.”

  Georgia and I exchanged looks. I could already tell she wasn’t going to be happy with this arrangement. Not that she would have wanted to do the on-scene reporting herself—that would be like Katie Couric doing a stand-up in front of the White House—but generally speaking the assignment desk let Georgia dictate which correspondents would cover what cases for her hour. She usually called the shots. But apparently not this time.

  “I take this is a done deal.” Georgia hooked her thumbs in the belt loops of her jeans. She was wearing her off-air uniform: men’s button-down, jeans, and copious amounts of diamonds and gold.

  Diskin nodded, looked her straight in the eye. “He was first on the scene.”

  “And what about me?” I asked. I was there too. By the same logic, this should be my story.

  “He’s going to need a producer. Alex doesn’t have any experience covering murder cases, and we need him to work with someone who does. You’ve got connections with the PD and I know I can depend on you to employ an extra level of sensitivity in our interactions with the Kravises,” he said.

  Alex turned to me. I could feel his brown eyes on me.

  “It’s still Clyde’s call,” Georgia said, asserting her authority. Technically, she was my immediate boss and Diskin was supposed to clear it with her before assigning me to work with a correspondent.

  Working as Alex’s segment producer meant I
would be glued to him for as long as we were covering the story. I’d have to go with him into the field for live shots and on-site interviews, work my sources for information and leads, set up on-camera interviews with law-enforcement officials and homicide experts, and get my hands on footage of Olivia from public appearances to use as B-roll. There was a lot of work to be done.

  “I do have some reservations,” Georgia said, clearing her throat. “What about Clyde’s relationship to the victim?”

  Diskin answered before I could. “Her connection to the family is precisely the reason she’s the best person for the job. She’ll have access, which, like it or not, is something we have to take into account.”

  Georgia wasn’t convinced. “If this is too hard for you to handle, Clyde, we’ll understand. You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

  “I’m good, Georgia. Trust me. I want this.”

  She turned back to Diskin. “You’re not at all worried about the conflict of interest?”

  “Jesus, Georgia, we’re not The New York Times.” He pawed at the neck of his blue-striped button-down.

  Georgia tucked her chin into her neck. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” She cared about the quality of what we put on the screen, while Diskin was a numbers man—big audiences plus low costs equals mega revenue and happy shareholders. He had a wife, three college-age kids, and a five-acre estate in Pound Ridge. All of them cost money, lots and lots of money.

  Diskin regarded me over his glasses. “Professionally, I believe you are capable of remaining objective while working this story, and personally, I feel completely comfortable with this arrangement.” He suddenly pointed at his gold watch. “You guys have to get back to the Haverford. We’ll want to go live at the scene again after we read the family’s statement. Alex and Georgia, you may leave. Shaw, hang back a moment.”

  As Georgia left the room, she squeezed my shoulder. She and I had been through a lot together—scrapes with network brass, all-nighters in foreign cities, her multiple divorces, and my many failed attempts at relationships. She was more than a boss, she was a mentor and a friend.

  The door clicked closed and Diskin turned his watery gaze back to me. “You’re sure you can do this?”

  “I am. One hundred percent.” Olivia was my best friend. I owed her for rescuing me from myself in more ways and on more occasions than I cared to remember. I needed to make it up to her—if not in life, then in death. I was going to figure out who did this to her. And then I was going to bring them to justice.

  “In that case, the clock’s ticking,” Diskin said.

  I stood up, straightened my skirt, and made a dash for the door.

  So much for getting a head start.

  The Haverford was even more of a mob scene than it had been when I’d left it just an hour earlier. Diskin may have made a gentleman’s agreement with the other networks that allowed us to report first on the details of Olivia’s murder, but that didn’t mean our competitors were going to stand idly by. The second we wrapped up they’d be live from the Haverford; in essence, we’d get three minutes, five tops, before every other cable news network was jamming their air with the story.

  I jumped out of my cab and hurled myself into the crowd to reconnect with my team. This time everyone was where they were supposed to be, thank God, and as we waited for the director’s cue to get ready, I put in a call to the PD’s chief information officer to confirm some of the facts we were reporting. It was a formality, but this was the kind of case the guys in blue would want to handle by the book. One screwup and there would be hell to pay by anyone remotely involved. The Kravises were big political contributors—despite Charles Kravis’s conservative leanings—meaning they had plenty of connections to the mayor’s office.

  “Three, two, one,” I counted down again for Alex. He had a sheet in his hand, but he didn’t glance at it once as he reported the extent of what we knew: Olivia had been found dead in her apartment that morning at approximately 7:08 by her housekeeper; the police had reported to the scene within minutes of the 911 call and promptly ruled her death a homicide; the cause of death was bludgeoning. The anchors thanked him for his report and we were out.

  I breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

  The feeling lasted, oh, about ten seconds.

  No sooner had Dino—short for Konstantinos—lowered his camera then I got a call from the assignment desk. They wanted another live shot from the crime scene during the 4 o’clock news hour. And this time they wanted a package, a three- to five-minute-long pre-taped segment that included the following elements: B-roll (standard visuals of say, snow falling if it’s a story about a winter storm); voice-overs (the reporter talking over the visuals); taped source interviews; and vox pop.

  If you could get past the jargon, it wasn’t rocket science. Just a hell of a lot of footwork. And I had only three-and-a-half hours to pull it all together. As I hung up the phone, I could feel the adrenaline surging through my veins. Cocaine had nothing on breaking news.

  “Anyone want lunch?” Jen asked. It was ten past noon. Aaron offered to go to a sandwich shop around the corner and started taking orders. “Want anything, Clyde?”

  My given name was Cornelia Shaw, but most everyone called me Clyde. Long story short, as a kid I was tall and on the heavy side, to put it nicely. I also liked to wear clogs. Put it all together and the comparisons to a Clydesdale were inevitable. In high school, I managed to lose most of the weight—I’d ditched food for boys and booze—but the nickname, mercifully shortened to Clyde, had stuck. In college, and while I was pursuing my graduate degree in journalism and for some years after that, I was back to Cornelia. And then one day I made the mistake of mentioning my old nickname to Georgia, who’d adopted it straight away, despite my numerous protestations. “It’s androgynous and unique,” she’d said, shooing me out of her office with a flick of the wrist. “Now quit acting like a whiny schoolgirl and get back to work.”

  For the record, I was never a complainer as a kid. I made better-than-average grades at Livingston and participated in a decent number of extracurriculars. Most of them were of the sedentary variety—we got to eat pastries and cheese in French club—but one year I worked up the courage to join the swim team. It was the fall of sixth grade, following a summer growth-spurt that included, unfortunately, my already well-developed breasts. On my first day of practice, a thin-lipped eighth-grade blonde named Missy McClintock picked me out in the crowd of newcomers. She positioned herself behind me in the line to start our drills, mocking my breasts with a pull-buoy stuffed beneath the chest of her Speedo and making farting noises with her mean little mouth. I’d pretended not to notice as all the other girls laughed.

  It got worse, of course. In the pool, Missy kicked and elbowed me every chance she got; out of the pool, she called me names to my face. Fatso, Tubby, and, on a good day, Dolly P. None of the other girls wanted to have anything to do with me. I sat alone on the bus rides to meets and was excluded from potluck dinners and other team-building events. Finally I complained to Olivia, who was furious with me for not telling her about the situation sooner. “What can you do?” I’d said to her. Missy was older than us, and more popular than both of us put together.

  The next day, Olivia showed up during practice. We were all already in the water warming up, so I didn’t notice her until she was sitting up in the bleachers with my coach, pointing first to the Charles S. Kravis plaque on the wall, then to me, and then to Missy.

  That was the end of the bullying. It was also the first time I realized I’d never have another friend like Olivia. She was one in a million, and now she was gone.

  “Food, Clyde?” Jen asked again.

  I shook my head. Food was the last thing on my mind. “I’ll pick something up later.” I pulled out my pad and paper and headed back toward the building.

  It was surprising how much information you could pick up just by being on the scene, watching what happened and talking to witnesses, neighbors, wh
omever. Good producers were like good investigators in that both believed in leaving no stone unturned. You never knew where you were going to stumble upon a detail that flipped a case upside down or ignited the public interest. Something as small as the color of the victim’s shoelaces could do it, and when you’re in the middle of a media feeding frenzy you guard those little nuggets like first-born babies.

  I was about ten feet away from the blue police barricade when I spotted Andrew Kaminski, the doorman, coming out of the building. He was heading straight for me.

  “You doin’ OK?” he asked.

  I looked him over. He looked like hell. Ashen face, bloodshot eyes. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” I asked.

  He put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m not the one who puked on the street.”

  Already it seemed like days since I’d lost it behind our van. “Not my finest hour,” I admitted. “But I’m OK now. Can we talk?”

  Kaminski pulled out a cigarette. I lit it for him. “You don’t smoke but you carry a fancy lighter?” He blew a plume of gray smoke out the corner of his mouth.

  “It has sentimental value.” I dropped the engraved memento in my bag, and touched the strand of gum ball-size pearls I had around my neck. They were both my mother’s.

  “You want to talk here?” he asked.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Penny Harlich approaching us, her long blond hair blowing in the autumn wind. A few fallen leaves swirled at her feet. I grabbed Kaminski by the elbow, leading him away. If Horsedick thought she could steal my No. 1 source out from under me, she had another thing coming. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” I asked Kaminski.

  He held his hand out so I could see it was shaking. “Too much caffeine already. Cops just loaded me up,” he said, hitching his hand back toward the Haverford. No doubt, they’d just spent the last hour grilling him.