“And what about the rest of the interviews?” Paul said impatiently.
“Nancy McGregor and the Jamesons are scheduled for Thursday. Peter’s agreed to come back from vacation and do both interviews,” Ethan said, nodding a thank you to his anchorman.
“Who else?” Paul said, shooting a quick glance at Sampson.
Ethan caught the subtle exchange and wondered what was going on. “We’ve booked the lead detective, the public defender, and Lloyd Howard as well. And I’m trying to find Colin Haggerty—the cop I told you about who says there was no blood on Cynthia’s body. But so far we can’t get him to pick up his phone.”
“That’s it?”
“No. We’re also trying to line up a couple of Cynthia’s friends and maybe her boyfriend—Jacob Lutz. I’m hoping they’ll give us some insight into her personal life that her family might not know.” Ethan waited for a reaction. “Okay, that’s your update. So what gives, Paul?”
“You’ve got to speed up your production,” Paul said testily. “Your story’s not gonna hold. I’ve gotten dozens of calls since you interviewed Feodor. Everybody and his brother wants to know what he said, and the senior management is worried about the other networks. I’ve been fighting with them all weekend and don’t want to be forced to give any of the interview to hard news so GBS can stay competitive if pieces of the story start to leak. It’s ours, and I want to break all of it on The Weekly Reporter. I’ve given this a lot of thought and discussed it with Peter, and he agrees with me.” Paul took a deep breath. “I want to get your story on the air right after you finish shooting.”
“What does that mean?” Ethan said, already knowing where the conversation was headed.
“I want you to complete the fieldwork this week. You’ve got the documents, the hard news footage of the police investigation and the trial, the undercover footage you shot in Brighton Beach, the junkies, and a bunch of other stuff we’ve been talking about. Speed up the scripting and postproduction, because I’m planning to run your story in ten days—on September 1. That’s the Thursday before Labor Day,” Paul said, his voice determined. “Can you make it?”
“Impossible,” Ethan said irritably. “I’ll have to shoot around the clock, then screen the footage, write the script, edit, and fine cut in a little over a week. It’ll kill me and everybody else in this room. There’s no way we can do it.”
“You don’t have a choice. This story is important not only for the show but for Global Broadcasting.” He looked Ethan squarely in the eyes. “We’re running on the first. That’s my decision.” There was a brief pause as Paul rolled up his sleeves. “And there’s one more thing, Ethan.”
“I’m listening,” Ethan said, staring skeptically.
“I’m making your hour a special edition of The Weekly Reporter and calling it ‘The Killer Talks: Confessions of a Madman.’ I can just see the headlines. We’re gonna make lots of news.”
“That title is outrageous,” Ethan said, appalled. “Pavel Feodor is probably innocent—the target of a monumental cover-up by the people who arrested, convicted, and represented him.” He glanced at Mindy and David, trying to control his temper. “Don’t get me wrong, Paul, I love the idea of running the story as a special. I told Feodor we were giving him the hour, but I’m still working on the facts and may not be able to nail down everything in the next ten days. We’ll make a mistake.”
“We’ll go with whatever you can prove,” Paul said, dismissing him. “This is what we’re doing.”
“And you’re on board with this idea, Peter? You’ve been fighting me tooth and nail every time I ask you to work on the story. Are you ready to cancel the rest of your vacation, just like that?” he said, snapping his fingers.
“Watch your mouth, Ethan,” Paul interrupted. “Peter’s already agreed to work the next ten days to make this happen. He understands the importance of crashing your story to air.”
“Well then, I guess I don’t have a choice, do I?” Ethan said, resigned to the decision. “So let me make this perfectly clear. It’s going to take a Herculean effort, and I’m gonna need a lot of help.”
“Done,” Paul said. “What do you need?”
“I want Mindy to take over the rest of the shooting. She’s got plenty of experience directing cameras. The only day I want to spend on location is Thursday, when we interview Nancy McGregor and the Jamesons. There’s a lot riding on those two interviews, and I wanna be there. Are you comfortable with that, Peter?”
“I’d rather have you in the field for all the shooting, but I know I can’t split you in two. So Mindy and I will make it work,” Sampson said reluctantly.
“What else?” Paul said.
“There are five full acts in the special, right, Paul?”
“That’s the format.”
“So I’ll need five editors—one for each act—and I want to meet them this afternoon to get them up to speed. Who’s gonna put together the research materials for everybody?”
“I’ll do it, Ethan,” David said.
“And what about the transcript of Feodor’s interview?” Ethan said, his mind firing away like a machine gun.
“Already in a notebook,” Mindy said. “I’ll give you a copy as soon as we’re done here.”
“Good. I’ll spend the rest of the day reading the transcript and organizing the sound bites. That’s how I’ll block out the hour.” He turned to Mindy and Peter. “As soon as you finish shooting the interviews, I want you to tell me what’s important. Then I’ll add those sound bites to the structure.” Ethan paused, looking at his desk calendar. “Then we’ll write narrations on Saturday and track on Sunday. You’ll have to work next weekend, Peter.”
“I hate working weekends, but I told Paul I’d do it. Let’s write in my office where I’ll be comfortable. I’ll get Consuela to come in and help. She won’t be happy, but if I’m gonna be here, so is she.” He checked his watch. “Are we almost done? I’d like to go to lunch.”
“Almost,” Paul said, addressing Lenny Franklin for the first time. “I want you to drop everything on your plate—and I mean everything. Give your other stories to Joyce and spend all your time helping Ethan. Find him five good editors and make sure they’re here and ready to go in two hours.”
“That’s gonna cost a fortune in overtime,” Lenny said.
“I don’t care. This is what Ethan says he needs. Make it happen.” Paul stood and started to leave, then stopped. “Where the hell is Lloyd Howard? He’s supposed to be guarding you, Ethan.”
“He’s doing a background check on Nancy McGregor.”
“You still trying to connect her to the Russians?”
“Still trying, but nothing yet.”
“And how are Sarah and Luke?”
“They’re fine, Paul. They want to come home.”
“No,” Paul said succinctly. “Still way too dangerous. Not till we’re sure the Russians are gone. And Ethan, don’t leave the building without security. I don’t care if it’s Howard or one of the guys from AAA Protection. Understood?”
“Understood, Paul.”
“Now let’s all get to work. We don’t have a lot of time.”
CHAPTER 32
IT WAS WELL AFTER DARK WHEN Ethan and Mindy walked into the lobby, leaving their AAA security guard standing in front of his building. There was still no sign of a black Lincoln, Ethan more convinced than ever the Russians had pulled up stakes and disappeared for good. He waved hello to the doorman, who reached under his desk and handed him a package. There were no markings on the now-familiar brown wrapping paper except his name and apartment number.
“Any idea who left this, Winston?”
“No, Mr. Benson,” the doorman said, shaking his head. “It was already here when I came in for my shift.”
“Think it’s from your source?” Mindy said.
“Could be another care package,” Ethan said, tucking it under his arm. “Thanks, Winston. See you tomorrow.”
He handed the doorman a
five-dollar tip and headed to the elevators.
After opening the front door and turning on the lights, he led Mindy down the hall to his study. The room was an ungodly mess—dirty dishes stacked on tables, cigarette butts spilling out of ashtrays, and garbage piled to the brim in the trash cans.
“Jeez, Ethan, this place is a pigsty. You don’t do well as a bachelor.”
He sighed. “I miss Sarah and Luke. I need to bring them home and get my life back on track. I hope Paul gives me the okay soon.” He sat at his desk and booted up his laptop. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Mindy picked up an empty bottle of Black Label wedged between two seat cushions. “No. But get rid of this.” She handed him the bottle. “Let’s finish up the new research book for Peter and make sure the questions are okay for all his interviews. I gotta start early tomorrow. I’m linking with the crew at seven for our first sit-down with Detective Jenkins.”
“Nothing like a short deadline,” Ethan said, staring at the mess. He poured a short glass of scotch from a fresh bottle of Black Label, lifted it to his lips, then put it down. Better wait until later. He needed to stay sober. “Should we see what’s in the package before we go over the notebook for Sampson?”
“Sure. Let’s see if it’s a missive from your mysterious source,” Mindy said, sitting down on the couch.
Ethan carefully removed the paper and opened the cardboard box, revealing two legal-sized manila envelopes and an unmarked DVD. “There’s no note,” he said as he opened the first envelope. “This is another copy of the autopsy report.”
“We’ve already seen that,” Mindy said, examining the document.
Ethan searched through a pile of papers on the floor until he found the copy he’d received in the court docket. Then he stacked them next to each other and gazed back and forth between the two documents.
“Is it the same?” Mindy said, baffled.
“I think so,” Ethan said, taking a closer look. “They’re both written on the medical examiner’s official letterhead and signed by the same guy, Leonard Toakling.”
Mindy walked around behind Ethan and leaned over his shoulder. “The evidence numbers are the same, and each one is stamped and signed by Nancy McGregor. I don’t see any difference, do you?”
“Not on the first page,” Ethan said, beginning to read the two documents. Everything matched until he got to the third page. “This is different,” he said, pointing to the last paragraph:
The victim had deep bruises on her body and face. In measuring the size and shape of the abrasions, they’re consistent with a human fist, suggesting the victim was beaten. There were numerous cuts and lacerations above her eyes and on her cheeks, her jaw was broken, and her left eye socket was shattered. The victim’s head was twisted to the left at an awkward angle, and her C5 cervical vertebra was cracked, severing her spinal cord and paralyzing her from the neck down.
Ethan looked up, bewildered. “This says Cynthia Jameson was savagely beaten the night she was murdered. There’s no mention of this in the original autopsy report, is there?” He carefully double-checked the document—the one entered into evidence and shown to the jury. There was no description of a beating.
“Any notation of a bullet wound in the new copy?” Mindy said, squinting her eyes as she scanned the document.
Ethan read the next couple of paragraphs. “Here.” He pointed to the middle of the fourth page. “But it, too, is different from the original. It doesn’t say there was any blood oozing out of the wounds or collecting around the body. And get this, Mindy”:
Preliminary lab reports show traces of sperm in the victim’s vagina and panties, indicating she had sex shortly before the murder. The lack of bruising around her genitalia suggests the sex was consensual. Preliminary lab reports also reveal she had intercourse with more than one partner.
He looked up from the document, perplexed. “What do you make of this? Did Cynthia have a wild reputation? Did she sleep around a lot? This isn’t how she’s been portrayed by the press or by her family. Have you or David talked to any of her friends about this kind of stuff?”
“Of course. I preinterviewed three of her college friends today when I scheduled their interviews. They all told me she was a focused, down-to-earth young woman. They said she was a straight-A student, a political science major who wanted to get involved in politics, just like her mother and father told us when we met them. They said she liked to party, drink a little, and occasionally do some recreational drugs. But nothing to excess.”
“Remind me how we found these three friends,” Ethan said suspiciously.
“We got their names and telephone numbers from Nancy McGregor. They all testified in court.”
“That makes sense. These kids were handpicked by the prosecution to paint a sympathetic picture of Cynthia Jameson. McGregor’s hiding something. What about the boyfriend, Jacob Lutz? Did he testify in court?”
“No,” Mindy said. “He was deposed by both sides and his transcript entered into evidence. He basically said the same stuff as her three friends.”
“But why wasn’t he called as a witness?”
“Good question,” Mindy said. “I can’t answer that.”
Ethan stared at the tumbler of scotch sitting on his desk. Something wasn’t adding up. Lutz was one of the last people to see Cynthia alive. Why didn’t the prosecution put him on the stand? Why didn’t the defense? Wouldn’t his testimony have shed some light on the final hours of her life? “Look, Mindy, there’s a side of Cynthia Jameson that somebody went to great lengths to hide from the jury. I know you’ve left messages for this guy, Lutz, but we need to find him before we go on the air.”
“I’ll do the best I can, Ethan, but he’s not answering his telephone. I’ll get David to reach out to some of Cynthia’s other friends. Maybe they know where he is, but no promises,” she said, jotting a note to make it a priority. “Anything else important in the new autopsy report?”
Ethan looked at the document, then lit a cigarette and highlighted the bottom of the last page before handing it to Mindy:
A bullet entered the victim’s chest just above her heart and exited through her lower back. No bullet or bullet fragments were found in her body. Due to the absence of significant amounts of blood at the entry or exit wounds or on the pavement around her, my preliminary findings show that the victim was dead before she was shot and that the cause of death was bluntforce trauma to the head, neck, and body. The time of death was approximately 2:00 to 2:30 a.m. on Monday, March 24, and the type of death was a homicide.
“Well, this contradicts almost everything that was entered into evidence and presented to the jury,” Ethan said, waving the new autopsy report. “Pavel Feodor didn’t kill Cynthia Jameson, just like he told us in the interview. He may be a sociopath with a long rap sheet, but he’s not guilty of her murder.”
“But how do we know the new autopsy report is real and the one from the court docket is a fake?” Mindy said, still skeptical.
“I don’t know,” Ethan said. “But we have to be certain before we report the findings in our story.”
“Can you ask your source?” Mindy said.
“I don’t know. I gave her my word I wouldn’t call.”
Then—as if God in heaven were listening—his iPhone rang. Ethan held his breath as he looked at the screen. The call was blocked. “Don’t say a word, Mindy. This may be my source.” Then he took a deep drag on his cigarette and answered, “Hello?”
“It’s me, Ms. Templeton. Did you get my package?”
“I’ve got it. The doorman handed it to me when I walked in.”
“Well?”
“I just read the autopsy report. It’s different from the one we got in the court docket. Why are there two versions?”
“Come on, Ethan, you’re smarter than that.”
“Because one’s a fake, right?”
“See? You’ve answered your own question.”
“How do you know?”
“Which is the real one?” Ethan said, shifting to the edge of his seat.
“Not the one the DA’s office entered into evidence. That one’s a lie.”
Mindy whispered, “What’s she saying?”
Ethan held up a finger, motioning for her to keep quiet, then continued, “So the document you just gave me is the real autopsy report? I can bank on that as fact?”
“Absolutely. I was in the office when the coroner sent it over, and I can tell you there were a lot of long faces.”
“Where did you get it?” he said, hoping to get a name.
“All I can say is somebody removed it from the trial boxes and deleted it from the computer. But I found the original hidden in a safe and made a copy for you late last night after everybody went home.”
“Whose safe was it in?”
“Do I have to spell out everything for you, Ethan? Who’s the boss here? Who’s in charge of the case? Use your imagination. I won’t say anymore.”
Ethan turned to Mindy, muting his mouthpiece. “She’s fingering Nancy McGregor.”
“Have you screened the DVD yet?” Ms. Templeton said, sounding calm.
He clicked off mute. “I was just about to,” he said. “What is it?”
“It’s the confession. The entire two hours. I think you’ll find it enlightening.” She paused a moment. “And if you open the second manila envelope I gave you, you’ll find a clean version of the transcript.”
Ethan reached for the document and thumbed through the pages. There were no redactions, and the missing page—page 71—was sitting right where it belonged.
“And this matches up to the DVD you just sent me?”
“Word for word.”
“Why wouldn’t Nancy McGregor give it to me?”
“You’ll know as soon as you go through it and screen the disk,” she said, breathing a long, deep sigh. “What a relief to get this off my chest. I’m not hiding anything anymore. Maybe now I can get some sleep. I’ve gotta go, Ethan. We’ve been talking too long.”
Live to Air Page 27