Death on Sunset Hill

by Kristi Belcamino

  Wondering what was up with the threes, Tommy pulled her Jeep into a visitor parking spot. As she got out, she saw a traffic cop she knew and gave a hearty wave. He looked down and away. That was odd. She swore he saw her. Tommy shrugged. Maybe the sun was in his eyes or he was lost in thought.

  As she opened the glass door to the lobby, another officer she vaguely knew was coming out with some cronies. She smiled and said hello. He gave her a blank look and kept walking, but as the door closed, she thought she heard some sniggers coming from the group as it went down the steps.

  Inside, she gave a big smile to the catty receptionist who was always snotty to her. “Hi! I’m here to pick up some photographs.”

  The woman smirked and mumbled something.

  “Sorry,” Tommy said leaning over with a glint in her eyes. “I didn’t catch that.”

  “I said, I’m surprised you walked in here without a bullet proof vest.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Tommy said. But she knew. She knew perfectly well. It had to have been her story. That explained the traffic cop avoiding her in the parking lot and the sniggers from the other cops leaving the station.

  “Here’s your mug shots,” the secretary said, sliding an envelope across the desk without looking up.

  Tommy paused for a moment and then decided it wasn’t worth the energy.

  In the parking lot, she saw something white fluttering underneath a windshield wiper on her car. As she got closer, she thought maybe Kelly had seen her car in the parking lot and left her a note. He sometimes did things like that: hinting at how much fun they would have together later. She loved his romantic side.

  But when she unfolded the paper, fear coursed through her.

  “Don’t stick your nose into police business unless you want it cut off.” It was written in red. In a way it was so childish, she wanted to laugh, but deep down inside, she knew there was nothing funny about the threat.

  She immediately stalked back into the station and asked for a detective to take a police report. The secretary rolled her eyes, but picked up her phone.

  Twenty minutes later, Sgt. Matt Laughlin met Tommy in a small room off the lobby without windows. His gray walrus moustache had something stuck in it that made Tommy gag a little. Was it egg? She looked away so she didn’t vomit. She remembered his snide remark at the murder scene, calling her and Parker bottom feeders. Whatever. She’d dealt with plenty of journalist-hating-cops in her time.

  He actually yawned as she told what she had found and showed him the note. Tommy tried not to stare at the piece of egg stuck in his moustache. He took the note from her without looking at it.

  Tommy gestured to his clipboard. “Aren’t you going to take notes? Isn’t there a surveillance camera in the parking lot so you can see who left this on my car? This is a threat. You don’t seem to be taking it seriously.”

  She could feel the vein throbbing in her temple. Heat flared up her neck as her anger grew.

  He grunted, leaned over, and very slowly scribbled something unreadable on the police report form.

  “Is that all?” he asked.

  Tommy started to speak, but realized it was no use and stood.

  Sgt. Laughlin led her out to the lobby. She watched him return behind the secretary’s desk toward the investigative bureau. She leaned over, pretending to re-tie the strap on her espadrille sandals. When she stood up, she could still see him. She watched him wad up the threatening note and toss it into a trash bin. He looked back and their eyes met. His mouth worked on something, chewing on his inner lip, his moustache bobbing.

  He held her gaze until someone came up to him and said something. He turned and Tommy slipped out the front door, heart pounding.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It got worse. Later that day, Tommy had gone for a long run and was sautéing eggplant, peppers and sausage for dinner when her cell rang.

  Kelly.

  “I’m not going to make it for dinner.” His voice sounded hollow, distant.

  “Why? What’s up?” she said, turning down the radio so she could better hear him.

  “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  For some reason her face felt cold. She turned off the burner and set down the spatula.

  “I think we need to take a break.” His voice sounded like it came from a great distance.

  The silence seemed to stretch forever. All Tommy could hear was her heart thudding in her throat. “I don’t understand.”

  “They think it was me. They think I was your leak. That I was your source. They have put me on unpaid leave while they investigate. If they find evidence, it’ll be permanent leave if you know what I mean. Kaput.”

  She slumped to the floor. “That’s absurd! You’ve never leaked a word to me ever. I’ll call them right now and tell them it wasn’t you. They’ll believe me. They have to. The chief will listen to me if I call him. Really. Trust me.”

  “No,” he sighed and sounded weary. “They’ll think you’re protecting me. Until all this blows over, I think it’s best if we keep our distance. I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to do.”

  Silence.

  Kelly cleared his throat.

  “I can’t ask you to give up a fellow cop, so basically we’re screwed here.”

  He was right.

  “I wish I could tell them who it was,” Tommy said. “I really do. But if I say something he loses his job.”

  “I know.”

  “Oh God, I don’t know what to do.” Tommy put her head in her hands.

  “I’m not asking you to do anything.”

  There was nothing else for them to say.

  Tommy felt trapped. It was either give up her source and get him fired or have her boyfriend fired? No, they couldn’t fire him without proof and there was none.

  Finally, Kelly spoke again. “Listen. I’m going to my parent’s cabin in Wisconsin for a few weeks until this blows over. I’ll call you when I get back.”

  “So, that’s it? You’re just going to take off when the going gets rough?” Tommy’s temper flared.

  “The going gets rough?” He was angry now, too. His voice was incredulous. “I’m going to lose my job and you call it ‘when the going gets rough?’”

  “Forget it. You know what I meant.”

  “No. No, I don’t know what you meant. I’ll call you in a few weeks.”

  The line disconnected.

  Tommy held the phone in her hand, staying slumped on the floor until the sun set.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Tommy decided to drown her sorrows in a large portion of a fifth of Scotch. In the morning, her throbbing head reminded her why she didn’t normally have more than one drink at night.

  Her eyes were bloodshot and her hair messy when she arrived at the newspaper that morning. Sandoval took one look at her and sent her into the cafeteria. His cure for a hangover was bulking up on foods filled with fat.

  “Go get some more coffee in you. Order a plate of hash browns, sausage and bacon. Read the paper and eat and I don’t want to see you again until all of that is done.”

  Tommy was too despondent to argue.

  Shoveling hash browns into her mouth and reading the paper, she flipped to the obituaries. Something there caught her eye. This last name sounded familiar. It was a unique one. Tommy walked over to the recycling bin and plucked a paper out from the day before. Yep. Sure enough. Same last name.

  Back in the newsroom, she made a few phone calls and a few minutes after that, she stood in front of the assigning editor’s desk, a too-smart-for-his-own-good graduate from Northwestern.

  “It sounds like a great story, St. James, but I don’t have a body to spare. I’m telling you, they are going to keep doing layoffs until I’m not only the editor, but the only reporter on staff, too. Right now, I’ve got the education reporter covering the school board, the transportation district, and the city council. It’s ridiculous.”

  Tommy bit her lip for
a minute, thinking. The story she pitched to the editor was a good one. A couple in their 70’s had died within twenty-four hours of one another, leaving their seven grown children behind. The mother had died first of a stroke and then when the father had watched her body being taken out of their bedroom on a stretcher, he’d suffered a heart attack. He died hours later in the hospital.

  When she reached the man’s daughter-in-law, the woman had said the couple had an unbelievable love story and that the family believed the dad had died of a broken heart. A quick call to a doctor she knew established that, yes, some medical professionals truly believed someone could die of a broken heart. That was enough to send her over to the editor’s desk.

  “What about me?” Tommy said suddenly. “How about I do the story? I was a newspaper major at J school for three years until I switched to photojournalism.”

  “Yeah, I know you can write.” He looked at the budget for the Saturday paper. “Frankly, we could really use another story in the paper on Saturday. Deadline for you is going to be early, though, say Friday night?”

  “Deal.”

  Thinking about Mr. Bender and his son, Tommy paused.

  “If I have other stories do I have free reign to pursue them as a reporter?”

  He looked distracted. “Sure, whatever. Go for it.”

  She’d come up with another story idea. She wanted to do an extensive photo essay about what it was like in a halfway home for mentally troubled adults. She would show people the heartache on both sides when a family member was mentally ill, she decided.

  She would do this story justice and hopefully ease a little pain and guilt from the feeling that she had crucified an innocent man because he was mentally ill.

  She made a few phone calls, hoping to find a halfway house that would welcome her and her camera. Nobody who could authorize the project was available, so she left five messages for people before she left the office that night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Tommy stood with her back pressed against the living room wall, feeling incredibly out of place and awkward as mourners in black passed by her, eyeing her suspiciously. She was the only person in the room who wasn’t Latino. And with her flaming red hair and ghostly white skin, she stood out.

  The daughter-in-law of the couple who had died within 24 hours of one another had invited her to the reception after the funeral. Tommy watched as people dressed in black continued past her, carting dishes and platters of food into the kitchen.

  One woman with long black hair glared at Tommy before she passed.

  Finally, the daughter-in-law arrived and introduced herself.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late. I had some things to take care of at the funeral home. Have you met anyone yet?”

  Tommy shook her head. The woman, whose name was Diane, led her into a quiet bedroom. “Let’s do it in here where it’s quieter. Wait here, I’ll go get everyone.”

  After a few minutes, about ten people filtered into the room, mainly the couple’s children, which included the woman with long black hair who’d glared at her earlier. Diane introduced Tommy and explained why she was there. The faces looked back at her blankly.

  Then the woman with long black hair, the youngest daughter of the couple, spoke up. “I’ll sit here. But I’m not talking to a reporter.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

  Tommy felt awful. This woman was obviously in pain and felt her home was being invaded. “I’m so sorry to bother you. I just want to know more about your parents and their great love story. Please don’t feel as if you have to talk to me. Please only talk if you want to share something about your parents. That goes for all of you.”

  Within a few minutes, most people were crying and laughing simultaneously as they shared memories. The parents had worked in the cornfields for thirty years, backbreaking labor, to support their family and send three of their seven children to medical school. The couple had met as youngsters in their Mexican village and had fallen instantly in love, the children told Tommy.

  Tommy told them that earlier in the day she had spoken to two different doctors who said they believed it was true someone could die of a broken heart. The couple’s children and grandchildren said of course that was true and it was clearly why their father’s heart had given out.

  After she had enough interviews and had taken some snapshots of the family holding pictures of the couple, Tommy left the house thinking about great loves and destiny and wondering if she would ever be lucky enough to find a man to love until she was old. Her heart hurt enough just remembering that Kelly wanted to take a break from her. Maybe she was destined to be alone.

  She spent the next day writing and rewriting her story about the couple, hoping to get it just right. Her joy in the writing process surprised her, since photography had always been her greatest love. Her pleasure was only interrupted once when she got a call from Daniels. She had been wondering when—or if—he was going to call.

  Her chest tightened as she answered the call, which said “unknown” on her caller ID and then heard his voice. “I heard your boyfriend might take the rap and I’m sorry. Listen, kiddo, I’m two years away from retirement. If I lose my job, it’s all over. My kids will have to drop out of college and get some shit job. My wife, you know she has MS. She can’t earn any money. She can’t take care of herself or the kids. Without my job, my family has nothing. I have nothing. This is the last time I’m ever going to call you, but I wanted to let you know. You give me up, I’m putting a bullet in my head. That’s the only way my family will survive without me — on the life insurance policy I got. It’s not a matter of me just losing my job. You roll—it’s all over.”

  He didn’t even wait for her reply, but just hung up.

  Tommy closed her eyes, squeezing them tight to stop the tears.

  She didn’t care about losing a source. It was for the best.

  What hurt was losing a friend.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Tommy slept fitfully that night. Vague nightmares with shadowy figures pushing and pulling and yelling at her continued to wake her throughout the night. She’d sit up heart pounding without a clear recollection of the dreams. Lying in the dark in the pre-dawn hours, she could not escape thoughts of what Daniels had told her: he would rather die than be exposed as her source.

  Finally, at 4:30 in the morning, Tommy went for a run in the dark.

  When she returned, she pushed brew on her coffeemaker and geared herself up to get ready for another long day. She pushed away thoughts of Kelly and Mr. Bender’s accusing eyes. She had to concentrate on her future —resigning from the newspaper and figuring out what other work she was qualified to do.

  During her run, she’d realized she’d lost heart for her journalism career. Crucifying innocent people on the front page, invading private grieving sessions at homes where loved ones glared hatred at her. It was too much. She just wasn’t cut out to be a journalist.

  Her job had lost all value. It meant nothing to her if it involved hurting other people. Maybe she would look into wedding photography after all. She would be bored out of her skull, but at least she would be bringing happiness to others. Instead of hurting them. It seemed like the only way out. She would do her story on the halfway house and then submit her resignation. It would make the layoff decision a lot easier, as well. How convenient for them, Tommy thought bitterly, slamming down her coffee mug.

  At the newspaper, she read a few nice emails from her coworkers about her piece on the married couple. Even the editor managed to say “nice story” as he walked by the photo department. But she was still blue. A few more days, she thought, and I’m out of here. She grew teary-eyed and nostalgic as she looked around the newsroom that had been her home for the past ten years.

  It was time. Just like the doctor’s tenant: Do only good, do no harm, or whatever it was. Once she was no longer doing good, only harm, it was time to leave.

  The next few days passed in a blur. Kelly didn’t call. Nobody from
the halfway house called. She stayed busy at work with fluff assignments: pictures for the features section on parades, shots of the interiors of McMansions for the homes section, and even a Twins game, which, despite being a lifelong fan, she couldn’t muster up any enthusiasm to cover.

  At the end of the day, she came home, showered and went to bed, sleeping sometimes fifteen hours until morning where she quickly dressed and headed into the early morning newsroom. She knew the sleeping was a sign of depression, but she didn’t care. She was depressed. Obviously. She was once again alone. Her boyfriend had taken off — from Minnesota and from her — and it was unlikely they would get back together with the way things were going. Her beloved career? Over in a few days. Nothing seemed worth getting out of bed for. But then again, sitting at home was too dismal as well, so she spent her days in the photo department, going on random photo assignments and in between, culling her old photographs onto disks in preparation for her departure from the paper.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  On Wednesday, a small light blue envelope was waiting in her mailbox when Tommy arrived in the newsroom. As a photojournalist, she rarely got mail like reporters did, so she not only immediately noticed it, but also was also instantly intrigued. Who would be writing her?

  For a second, her heart thudded as the thought passed through her that maybe it was another threatening note. Gingerly, she slit it open with her fingernail.

  It was a thank you card. She was baffled.

  She opened it. As she began to read, tears sprung to her eyes.

  “Dear Ms. St. James. I wanted to write you to thank you for the article you wrote about my parents. If you remember, I was the one who didn’t want to talk to you and was angry that everyone else was doing so. I apologize for that. Your article captured what my mom and dad were like. It will be forever treasured in our family. Thank you.”