“Christmas nerves.” Doris smiled. “They’re not usually quite this noisy.” About twenty big-eyed children stared at us. I stared back. All I could think of was one of those UNICEF Christmas card illustrations showing happy kids of every color playing together. That’s how those beautiful little ones looked to me.
Several women I guessed to be moms were seated together toward the back of the colorfully decorated room. A couple of them smiled in our direction. One waved. “If we blur their faces and disguise the voices, can we talk to the moms?” I asked.
Doris agreed that we could. I’d taught the pixilating and blue spot techniques in my TV Production 101 course at the Tabby, but this would be the first time I’d actually put it into practice. “And if the kids have their backs to us while they play with some toys, can we film them that way?” I said, trying to push my luck.
“Yes,” Doris said. “We’ve done that before.”
“Good. Thanks. Could we talk with you first?” I peered at the plastic covered ID tag she wore on a pink lanyard. It identified her as General Manager. She agreed, spoke briefly to one of the moms, and motioned me to a far corner where two yellow vinyl-covered club chairs were arranged beside a round maple table bearing a small artificial Christmas tree and a silver menorah.
Francine steadied her camera against a battered but sturdy indoor slide while I held the hand mic.
“Hello, viewers,” I said. “Lee Barrett here and this morning we’re visiting a local women’s shelter where holiday preparations are in full swing.” I held the mic in the direction of the chattering children across the room. “Perhaps you can hear the voices of some of the kids who, with their moms, will spend the holidays here in a safe and caring environment. I’d like to introduce Doris Ahern, the GM of the shelter. Doris, would you tell our audience a little about the services you provide here?”
The woman obliged with a succinct but heartfelt description of the purpose of the place and the 24/7 care the largely volunteer staff provides. “Of course we have paid staff too, professional people, especially trained for this type of work. Counselors, a psychiatrist, a registered nurse. That uses up a lot of our funding.”
“When we arrived here today, you mentioned that you were running low on diapers and baby formula. I understand that donations are needed and welcome?”
“Oh, yes.” She looked directly into the camera. “The money available for our supplies has been cut back in recent years, so we depend on outside donations a lot more than we used to. If you can donate packages of diapers or cans of formula, you can drop them off at the Historical Charities office on Washington Square and they’ll be delivered to us. We need clothes and shoes too.” Her smile faded. “I mean, I’m sorry. You can donate as soon as they open up again after—after what happened over there.”
“Yes, thank you Doris.” I said, racing to change the subject. “I believe the normal operation of the society will resume very shortly,” I said, remembering that the yellow tape was gone this morning. “We were greeted by a group of excited kids this morning, I guess they’re expecting a visit from Santa soon.”
Doris’s smile returned. “Aren’t they adorable? We’ve already given them some of the toys that arrived unwrapped.”
That’ll make a good shot. Kids, backs to the camera, playing with some new toys.
I asked a few more of my prepared questions, like how many women and children do you house here on an average week? How long are they allowed to stay?
Her statement about lack of funding bothered me. This project is an important one, so I pressed the issue. “How, exactly is the shelter funded? By the state?”
“Many different ways,” she said, beginning to tick them off on her fingers. “The state gives us a generous grant. The county too. Then the rest comes from various charities. A lot of it is from the Historical Charities of Salem. You can get a list from the office downstairs.”
I faced the camera and Francine zoomed in on me. “After the following brief commercial message, we’ll talk to a few of the women who are staying here, most with children, a few by themselves.” If there’s ever a pause when we’re recording a shoot, Mr. Doan likes to make it pay for itself with a “brief commercial message.”
Francine and I walked across to where a row of four moms sat in folding chairs. They chatted among themselves as we approached, but I noticed that they all were keeping watchful eyes on the children playing nearby. Doris introduced us to the women, using their first names only. “This will be on television. WICH-TV,” she said. “But they’re going to blur out your faces with those little squares or a big blue dot or something and change your voices somehow. Okay?”
To a woman, they agreed and willingly told their individual stories. Powerful stuff. I realized that even though I’d withstood some painful times in my life, I was truly fortunate. Their words made me both sad to the point of tears and angry to the point of ferocity. These brave and, at the same time, frightened women and their children deserved all the help, physically, financially, and spiritually a community could give.
Here’s a cause I can get behind! After this field report, I’m going to put my Investigative Reporter hat on and do something.
We spent longer at the shelter than we’d meant to, but neither of us minded. Trying to get a bunch of hyper-holiday-excited little boys and girls to all sit facing away from the camera at the same time is like trying to herd cats. But kind of fun.
Once finished, and satisfied that we had a good piece of video to share with the WICH-TV audience, we said good-bye to our new friends, got some hugs and candy-sticky kisses from the beautiful children, stopped at the office, picked up the promised charity list so we could give credit to those generous folks, and headed back to the station.
We’d worked right through our lunch hour. “I’m hungry,” I said. “Want to split a cinnamon roll?” I pulled the cold but still wonderful-smelling bun from my purse and broke it in half. “Let’s get some drive-through coffee to go with it.”
Francine pulled the van into a nearby Dunkin Donuts, and the two of us happily munched and sipped our way back to WICH-TV, then sat in the parking lot with the heater going and the radio playing Christmas carols until we’d finished every last crumb. “That was good,” Francine said. “Better get this material over to the production guys so they can do their magic.”
Rhonda didn’t have anything new scheduled for me, so I went downstairs to watch the two men who handled editing/bleeping and special effects on footage to be aired later. I was especially interested in watching the morning’s work materialize, particularly the shelter segment. I was pretty sure the Pennington interview would run just the way we’d shot it.
Francine had deliberately avoided showing the front of the shelter building. We didn’t want any abusive husbands or boyfriends to recognize it and show up and cause trouble. All she’d shot of the back was the sliding panel with a shadowy figure behind it, but that was enough to convey the message that the place was secure and safe.
I watched the rough cut of the shelter piece on a small camera-mounted monitor and marveled again at the beauty of those multihued children. And again, I was troubled by the plight of their mothers.
When I do my investigative story, I’m going to take my time. Do it right. No rush job like the recent Albert Eldridge effort.
Maybe I’d get in touch with the organizations Doris had mentioned, the ones that already donate money regularly, even though they may have had to cut back on the amounts. Their stories might encourage other groups to take up the slack. I fished in my big purse and pulled out the sheet of paper with the charities listed on it. Not as long a list as I’d thought it might be.
Although most of the happenings I’d be reporting on at WICH-TV would appear on the printed schedule Rhonda handed to me each morning, it was pleasant to think about a topic I’d chosen myself. The brief visit to the shelter had provided the inspiration. Now it was up to me to put in the research, the footwork, the dedication th
at a good investigative report requires.
Having made that decision, I put that project out of my mind and focused on what I was supposed to do for the rest of this day.
As sometimes happens, fate wandered in and decided that for me.
I was still checking the Pennington footage which, as I’d thought, could run just about the way we shot it. Mr. Pennington’s acting background, which included quite a bit of onstage Shakespeare, a few movies, and even some early TV productions, made him an easy interview. He knew the rules. He knew how to play to the camera. As Marty McCarthy was fond of saying, “a piece of cake.”
Cake reminded me that I was still hungry. A nice cinnamon roll can provide a good sugar rush, but it doesn’t last long. I thought that probably Francine was experiencing the same nutritional let down I was. I called her. “Want to meet me at the Scratch Kitchen for some lunch?”
“On my way,” was the brief answer. I decided to walk the couple of blocks to the restaurant. It was still cold outside but it was, for winter, quite a pretty day. I zipped up my parka all the way to the top, pulled the red hat down to cover my ears. Gloves and boots were both warmly lined.
I was within a few feet of the Scratch Kitchen’s front door when I heard a blare of sound from behind me. Police cars. Several of them, all with red, white, and blue lights blazing and sirens screaming. Pulling my phone from my pocket I called Rhonda. “What’s up? A bunch of cop cars just went flying by me. You monitoring the police channel?”
“Doan is. It’s a guy threatening to jump off the top of a building down near the Willows road.”
“Francine will be with me in a minute. Does he want us to go over there?”
“Do you have to ask? He says to get good close-up footage.” Short pause. “Especially if the guy really jumps.”
“What a sick puppy,” I said. “Here comes Francine. We’re on it.” I waved at the oncoming van which barely slowed down long enough for me to climb into the passenger seat.
“Jumper?” Francine asked.
“Looks that way. On the Willows road, Rhonda says.”
“Yeah. I got the call from Mr. Doan. Told him we’re already on the way.”
The sound of sirens had trailed off and stopped, but the flashing lights were just ahead of us. I didn’t see any other mobile units around. “Looks like we’re first, huh?”
“Yep.” Francine pulled the van into a vacant lot full of frost killed grass and straggly brown weeds, next door to one of Salem’s nondescript aged wooden buildings. It was four stories high with boarded-up windows here and there on the upper floors. Not a pretty place, but not the worst I’ve ever seen either. I clipped my laminated press pass to my collar. Francine still wore hers from the morning assignments. She handed me my mic and lifted her shoulder mounted Panasonic from its case.
Together we ran toward the building. I searched the roofline as I ran and spotted the man standing at the front edge. He looked very, very small up there. And terribly alone.
CHAPTER 18
More sirens. The fire department had arrived. I knew that meant there was an aerial ladder that would easily reach to the roof. Good.
“Let’s move a little closer,” Francine said. “You seem to know a lot of cops. Know any of those over there? Anybody who can help us out?”
I squinted at the cluster of blue uniforms gathered near the door of the building, spotting a couple of men and one woman I knew by name. Dating a detective means I get to recognize—and be recognized by—more police (and maybe more lawbreakers) than the average citizen might.
“Yes. I know some of them. I’ll see what I can find out. You just start getting some footage of the man up on the roof. Okay?”
“Gotcha.”
I approached Police Sergeant Joyce Rouse. I’d gone to high school with her. “Joyce, do we have the man’s name yet?”
“What? Oh, hi Lee. Yes. He’s Joseph Marshall. He works here. Does electrical work.”
“Do you know what his problem is?”
“Nope. But we’ve got our best crisis negotiator on the way up there. Hopefully, he can talk the guy out of jumping.”
“I sure hope so.” I looked up at the building again. “It’s a long way down. Is it okay if my photographer and I set up over there near that work truck?” I pointed to a white Ford cargo van with magnetic signs on the doors that read PRESTIGIOUS ELECTRICIANS. SALEM, MASSACHUSETTS. It was parked on a flat area of ground about halfway between the building and the area where our mobile unit was parked.
Joyce looked at the spot I’d indicated and nodded agreement. “Looks about right. Just stay out of the way, okay? And if he jumps . . . ” She didn’t finish the sentence.
“We’ll be careful. Thanks, Joyce. Anything happen so far with the negotiator? How’s he doing?”
“I don’t know yet. But we’ve got Marshall’s mother on the phone with him now. That works sometimes.” She shrugged.
“Hope it does here,” I said, meaning it with all my heart. I sure wasn’t looking forward to seeing the result of a body falling four stories to the street below. The red stain on Albert Eldridge’s Santa hat was more than enough blood for me.
I ran back to where Francine had already begun filming. With my mic live, I began describing the scene. I didn’t give the man’s name, of course, but told my audience about the crisis negotiator who’d been sent up there to talk to him. The two figures were now both in view, one dressed in tan, the other in a business suit. There was a considerable distance between them. (I was able to describe for my audience what a negotiator does because I’d studied the subject fairly recently in my online criminology course.) “Police have contacted the man’s mother,” I added, “hoping that she can dissuade him. She’s on the telephone with him now.” Francine panned across the row of fire trucks. An ambulance had arrived too. “Emergency personnel are on hand,” I reported. One of the police officers had taken a position on the street, directing traffic which had begun to build, as the curious “looky-lous” began to arrive. I cautioned drivers to avoid the area if possible.
The two figures suddenly backed away from the roof’s edge and out of range of the camera. Motioning for Francine to follow me toward the building, I approached Sergeant Rouse once again. I held the mic in her direction. “Can you tell us what’s happening, Sergeant?” I asked.
“They’re coming down,” she said. “Excitement’s over. Excuse me.” She turned away from the camera and hurried into the building. I looked around for someone else who might have information to share. No luck.
Francine focused on fire trucks pulling away from the curb, leaving the ambulance and the police cars, lights still flashing, along with a few civilian cars which had apparently stopped to get a better look at the action. I continued talking—Mr. Doan doesn’t tolerate dead air graciously—speculating on how maybe the mother’s phone call had saved the man—all the while hoping the would-be jumper would appear in the doorway so that maybe we’d get some answers as to the how and why of his obvious distress. I talked a little bit about the fire department’s modern rescue equipment for such cases, and how years ago they’d used nets and tarpaulins for people to jump into, sometimes with disastrous results.
The driver’s side door of one of the parked cars, a recent model Lexus, opened and a man stepped out. He passed Francine and me, glancing at the camera and favoring us with a warm smile. Walking with long strides to the doorway, he handed a piece of paper to one of the officers, and was quickly waved inside the building.
Who’s he?
I didn’t have much time to wonder. A man wearing a khaki work uniform appeared in the doorway with another man I recognized as one of Pete’s fellow detectives. Although I didn’t see any handcuffs, the detective had what looked like a tight grip on Joseph Marshall’s arm.
Francine and I moved in close enough so that we could get a clear view of the detective and his prisoner. Close enough to call out a question. “Mr. Marshall! Was it your mom who talked you out of it?”<
br />
I didn’t really expect an answer. But I got one. “Yes, she did.” His eyes were downcast, expression doleful. “Sorry about this, Mom.”
“Is he charged with anything?” I shouted in the detective’s direction. Didn’t expect an answer to that one either and I didn’t get one. The khaki suited man was assisted into the backseat of a cruiser with the usual hand-on-the-head method. His shirt was embroidered with “Prestigious Electric” in bright red. The detective sat in the backseat beside him. Francine got a good shot of the sad-faced electrician looking out the window before the cruiser pulled away, lights flashing, sirens screaming.
I looked back toward the building where things had grown quiet. The remaining vehicles, both official and civilian, began to leave. All of the police vehicles and most of the curious lookers drove away until only one police car and the Lexus remained.
The excitement over, it was a good place to end the live broadcast. “This is Lee Barrett,” I said, “at the scene of a human tragedy averted. The intervention of a trained crisis negotiator and a telephone call from a man’s mother may have saved someone here in Salem today. Stay tuned to WICH-TV for updates on this unfolding story.”
“Okay, let’s head down to the police station,” I said to Francine as we stashed our equipment in the van. “And see if we can find out how all this happened.”
“On camera?” she wanted to know.
“Nope. Not yet. Just snooping around. That works better when there aren’t any cameras.”
“Okay. How about if I drop you off at the station while I go find us some cheeseburgers or something.” Her expression brightened. “Great idea, huh?”
“Excellent,” I said. “I’ll see you back later. With food.”
I checked to be sure phone, notebook, pens, and pencils were in the purse, and stepped down from the van right in front of the big glass doors of Salem PD. I saw the lectern the chief uses for press conferences pushed over to the side of the covered area.
Bells, Spells, and Murders Page 11