The Weatherman

by Steve Thayer

  “And did you find a match to the parking ramp print?”

  Arkwright paused before answering. “The final conclusion of the Calendar Task Force was made by the FBI.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question. Did Glenn Arkwright in examining those sixty-two fingerprints find a match?”

  “My finding was inconclusive.”

  Stacy Dvorchak wheeled over to the posters of the two fingerprints and picked up the pointer. “Mr. Arkwright, you’re the state’s leading fingerprint expert. You were assigned to the Calendar Task Force. Can you tell the jury, is this partial fingerprint on the right the same as this complete fingerprint on the left?”

  Arkwright paused again and adjusted his glasses. “In my opinion there’s not enough of the partial print to reach a conclusion.”

  Rick Beanblossom marched up slippery sidewalks and trudged over snowbanks to the warehouse district. The renovated brick building he entered was warm and clean inside. He stomped the snow from his shoes and unzipped his jacket. The video company was listed as being on the fifth floor. He took the stairs.

  At the end of a long hallway was a pair of double doors that read, HY PETER PRODUCTIONS. A security guard with piss-yellow hair and bloodshot eyes stood watch. “You got a part?”

  “No, I’m a news producer. Mr. Peters said he’d talk to me today.” “What’s with the mask?”

  “I’m a burn victim. Vietnam. How do you explain your face?” The surly guard was lost for words. He mumbled, “Go on in.” Half of the studio was lights, cameras, and cables running along the floor.

  Black plastic hung over the warehouse windows. Fat beams supported a high ceiling. A dozen people roamed about. Everybody seemed preoccupied with nothing. Nobody was nude. Nobody paid much attention to the man in the mask.

  It was the set itself that surprised Rick. Peters told him this would be a good day to stop by. It was a television news set. The anchor desk read, CHANNEL 8, I WITNESS NEWS. The logo behind the two anchor chairs was a big eightball. Behind the weather chair was a map of the United States with a smiling Mr. Sunshine over the heartland. It was obvious they had studied the local news shows. Many a smallmarket station would be proud to broadcast from the set.

  Standing at a desk at the rear of the studio was producer and director J.C. Peters. He was on the phone. Rick worked his way to him. He overheard a conversation about money. “How’m I suppose to find that kind of cash in this town? I can’t even find a good deli.” J.C. Peters slammed down the receiver. “Investors! What’s with the mask? We don’t have a mask in this shoot.”

  The news producer extended his hand to the porn producer. “My name is Rick Beanblossom. I’m with Channel 7. I’m doing research on adult videos. You said we could talk today.”

  Peters offered a weak handshake. “Channel 7, huh? Tell your news director I said fuck you. What’s with the mask?”

  “I’m a burn victim. Vietnam.”

  “No shit? You mean that’s real? You gotta wear that all the time? I love it.” Peters began shouting. “Mortie? Mortie, where da fuck are ya? Mortie, can we get a mask like this here? I love this.”

  Mortie, who looked like a maintenance man, shuffled over. “I’d have to rewrite the script.”

  “So take ten minutes and rewrite the fuckin’ script. Got his face burned off in Vietnam. You didn’t get anything else burned off, did ya?”

  Rick Beanblossom grinned. “No, just the face.”

  “Thank God. What didya say your name was?”

  “Rick.”

  “Yeah, Rick, you wanna be in my movie? Mortie here’ll write ya a good part.” “No, actually I wanted to ask you about amateur videos.”

  “Aw, Christ, I hate those two words. Get back to me in ten minutes.” The director stormed through a jungle of video technology to the set, shouting orders.

  “Everybody on the set! In your places!”

  Rick Beanblossom moved behind the cameras as they began lighting the set. Add a couple of computers and an assignment board and the place would look just like a television newsroom. He was struck by this amazing resemblance when she came and stood next to him.

  She had a gorgeous figure and a provocative smile. Heavy on the perfume. Her hair was rustic red. Tight skirt. Bloused top. The kind of woman men would describe as a real cutie pie. “J.C. said you have to wear that mask all the time because you have no face.”

  “Yes,” Rick said to her, “that’s true.”

  “I think I know how you feel. My brother had real bad acne.”

  Rick tried not to laugh. “What’s your name?”

  “My name is Carolyn, but everyone calls me the Little Bimbo.”

  “I like Carolyn. Are you in this movie?”

  “I’m just a fluffer with a bit part.” She had a little girl’s voice.

  “What’s a fluffer?”

  “A fluffer’s job is to keep the guys hard between takes. It’s important because it saves a lot of time. I’m hoping to get bigger parts, but it’s not easy. In this business a girl is washed up by the age of thirty. I’m almost twenty-six now and I still haven’t had a leading role. Maybe later would you like to come over to my place and watch TV. I live right downtown.”

  The invitation took him by surprise. “That’s very sweet of you, Carolyn, but I have to say no. Thank you, anyway.”

  “Is it because you don’t like me, or any of us who make these?”

  “No, that’s not it at all.”

  “You’re not married, are you?” She was like the child that would not stop asking questions no matter what the answers.

  “No, of course not.”

  “Are you in love?”

  Rick looked up at the empty anchor chair and thought about that one. “Yes, I believe I am.”

  “Does she love you?”

  He let a sad laugh escape. “I’m not sure. I’m not sure she’s sure.”

  “Because of your face?”

  “I suppose.”

  The Little Bimbo shook her head. “How sad. You shouldn’t judge people by their face.”

  The lights faded up and down on the news set. The actors took their places. There was a sexy female anchor and a young stud of an anchor, both in blue blazers with an eightball on the coat pocket. There was a busty, slutty-looking weather girl. The sports chair was still empty. The mouth of J.C. Peters seemed always on fast forward. “Hey, Rick, ain’t there a good restaurant in this town? I been eatin’ Chuck Wagon for six weeks. Ain’t you fuckin’ Lutherans ever heard of spices?”

  Rick walked up to the director. A stagehand courteously brought a stool over for him to sit on. “Your set looks as good as ours.”

  “Channel 7, huh? You think your weatherman done them women, Rick?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Me neither. Makes no sense.”

  “So how do you make these kinds of movies?” Rick wanted to know.

  Peters leaned over to him and talked with his hands. “Lay out a script. Plan on at least ten come shots. Keep it straight. No faggot shit. You need at least three scenes of straight fucks. Those are your meat shots. Get some good close-ups. Remember, people are watching these at home on their TV sets. They can run ’em in slow motion, they can play ’em over and over again. You can’t fool people anymore.” He was back to shouting directions. “Okay, lemme see my lights, c’mon!”

  The studio went dark. White lights came up on the I Witness News team. “Why don’t you just tape an orgy?” Rick asked.

  “Stay away from orgies. Orgies are expensive. Two faggots always end up fucking each other, then ya got a nightmare in editing.”

  “What else?”

  “Get yourself some good screamers. Men love to hear women scream.”

  “Do these women’s groups bother you with their protesting?”

  “Yeah, yeah—every time there’s a woman raped or murdered they come after us. You got more violence on your news show every night than I got in my movies. Sex don’t cause violence. Violenc
e causes violence. I don’t like violent movies. I like ’em sweet and simple. Boy meets girl, they fuck.”

  Rick tried to get to the point. “I want you to tell me about amateur videos.”

  The master of porn was livid. “I hate those two words.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re killing us, that’s why. They’re the hottest thing on the video market.”

  “What exactly are they?”

  “Just what they say . . . amateur videos.” Peters explained the problem. “These people get a video camera for Christmas and they turn around and start shooting each other fucking. Then they go and sell the tapes to a distributor. It’s usually some guy banging his wife, or the neighbors come over and hump one another. They got no quality. No story. But they’re real, ya know what I mean? What other business could amateurs walk into and take over?”

  “Television news,” Rick said. Peters laughed. “Do you ever get your hands on any of these amateur videos?”

  “Yeah, people bring ’em to me all the time. Once in a while when I get a good one I’ll distribute it, but most of ’em are shit.”

  “So the more real they are, the better they sell?”

  “Exactly, Rick. Your hidden camera is your best bet. Don’t let the bitch know she’s being taped.”

  The Sex

  March came in like a lion. Blowing snow, falling temperatures. There were few signs of spring. City workers were hauling truckloads of snow down to the river and dumping it. Harriet Island across from the Ramsey County jail was growing into a small white mountain.

  Most of his days were spent in court, but in the evening Dixon Bell would be transported back to St. Paul and returned to D Pod, Cell 340. He watched some television, mostly mindless game shows and old movies. No more news—not even Andrea. His evenings were spent sitting on his bunk staring out the window. Staring south.

  The Mississippi River was frozen, a pristine highway of unbroken snow flowing beneath the bridges and around the bend. Street lamps up and down the bluffs were yellow, like fireflies, and their reflection off the white earth created a candlelight glow. The only bright lights were at the foot of the Wabasha Street Bridge above a billboard advertising Sky High News. Splat Man, where are you? Trains passed beneath him, and almost every hour of every night a siren would wail in the distance, and the Weatherman would watch the flashing red lights of an ambulance as it dropped down a steep street and raced across the bridge on its way to the emergency room at the Ramsey Medical Center. These were the sights and sounds of a jail cell in St. Paul, Minnesota, on cold winter evenings. Dixon Bell had been locked up for ten months If the jury found him not guilty, where might he go to get his ten months back?

  During those ten months the meteorologist had been bouncing up and down on a rail bolted to the floor. This was the rail the steel cell door slid over to open and close. One night while he was tiptoeing up and down on this rail it finally snapped, just where he wanted it to snap. Now he was scared he’d be caught. But he had the deputy’s movements down to a science. The rail was better than a crowbar. He hurried it into his cell and chipped a few tiny pieces of mortar from around the brick in the wall over the river. Then he stepped outside his cell and placed the rail back on the floor. The deputy in the control room walked over and looked up at Cell 340 and saw Dixon Bell sitting on his bunk.

  The first night and the next morning he was the most worried. But when the deputy came upstairs to slide the door closed, it worked like a charm. Slid right open the next morning too. From then on it was cat and mouse. The deputy in the control room would disappear from sight for two minutes and Dixon Bell would run out of his cell, pick up the rail, chip some mortar from around the bricks, then run out and place the rail back on the floor. The deputy returned and looked up, saw the Weatherman sitting on his bunk, staring out the window. He taped letters of support on the wall to hide the gashes. He kept the chips of concrete in his pocket until he had to use the toilet; then he’d flush them. By his calculations, with his size and weight, he’d have to get six big bricks out of that wall before he could squeeze through and lower himself down to the tracks with bed sheets. It would take weeks, maybe months. But he was on trial for his life. It wouldn’t hurt to keep chipping away.

  Even by Minnesota standards it was a hard winter. Every morning they had to leave St. Paul before dawn in teeth-chattering temperatures just to get to court on time because of poor road conditions. The trial was wearing everybody down. Lines outside the courtroom grew shorter and shorter. Court TV said ratings were falling off. If it had been a network series it would have been canceled. Everybody was waiting to see if the Weatherman would testify in his own defense.

  The state had left no legal path unplowed. Prosecutor Jim Fury turned out to be even more cunning and shrewd than he appeared. Stacy Dvorchak was doing a hell of a job, but after six weeks of negative testimony Dixon Bell couldn’t see a whole lot of sympathy over there in the jury box. Some jurors were avoiding his eyes.

  The parade of quacks had begun. Much to his credit Judge Lutoslawski limited the state and the defense to two psychiatrists apiece. They pretty much said what they were paid to say. Like the state’s shrink from New York, a self-proclaimed expert on serial killers. Dr. Harcourt Joffre was a clinical professor of psychiatry at New York University Medical Center, which was affiliated with Bellevue Hospital. He had built a career studying the darker side of human behavior. He interviewed a very uncooperative Dixon Bell for all of two hours. He examined the diary.Then he raised his hand in a court of law and swore to tell the truth. He was a young, slender man, late thirties, with one of those finely trimmed beards popular in the psychiatric community. Slight New York accent. Answering Prosecutor Fury’s questions: “There’s no way these women can live up to what he’s made them out to be in his mind. He fell in love with women that don’t exist.”

  “You mean Lisa and Andrea?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if one of these women had given herself to him?”

  “They would have shattered the illusion. He would then go off and find another woman to say no to him. A woman he knows in his heart he can never have.”

  “So by saying no to him, these obsessive loves of his only increased his obsession with them?”

  “Precisely.”

  “To the point of murder?”

  Stacy objected to the question.

  The judge agreed with her. “Sustained.”

  “Let me rephrase that, Doctor. Can obsessive love lead a man to murder?”

  “Yes. All too often in our society. There have been several cases in the past few years of men murdering women they fell in love with on television or in the movies. Until they killed them, they had never even met them.”

  Jim Fury glanced over at Dixon Bell, then turned his attention toward the jury. “But could it drive them to kill someone other than their obsessive love?” “Sure,” said the doctor. “The most famous case being that of John Hinckley, who tried to assassinate President Reagan back in 1981 to impress a movie star.”

  To Dixon Bell this line of reasoning was bullshit, pure and simple—that he fell in love with Andrea Labore and then went out murdering women because of her.

  Yes, he fell in love with Andrea Labore, but he worked with her. He didn’t fall in love with a two-dimensional image on his TV screen like those couch potatoes who go to bed at night and jack off after watching their favorite anchorwoman read them the news. And what about Lisa? If he killed out of obsessive love, why didn’t he wipe out half of Vicksburg, Mississippi? Answer that, you quack!

  Fortunately Stacy Dvorchak had a more intelligent and professional ap proach.

  She picked up a psychology book so that the jury could read the big fat words SERIAL KILLER. She wheeled over to the good doctor and held the book up to his face. It was like threatening a Southern Baptist with a Bible. “Who wrote this book, Dr. Joffre?”

  “I did.”

  Stacy fumbled through the book until
she found the page she’d marked.

  “Clinical portrait of a serial killer,” she read. “Abused as a child. Broken home. History of petty crimes and bizarre behavior. Is that correct, Doctor?”

  “That is the clinical portrait, yes.”

  “In your clinical portrait of Dixon Bell, did you find any evidence that he was sexually or physically abused as a child?”

  “No, that was not the case.”

  “Were his parents divorced?”

  “No, I believe his mother was widowed.”

  “Does Dixon Bell have a criminal record of any kind?”

  “None that I’m aware of.”