by A. C. Fuller
Mia unmuted the TV as the report began.
Brooke Haberman, a young woman with straight black hair, began the report. "New this morning, KRON has obtained an exclusive photograph of the man who may be the journalist killer. And right now, we have the woman who took the photograph, who says she was kidnapped by the man in downtown Seattle only hours ago."
The camera panned right, revealing Shannon in a studio, sitting next to the anchor. She wore the same outfit she'd left me in, but her hair had been neatened and someone had put enough makeup on her to make her TV-ready. It was an incongruous look—informal dress with tanning TV makeup.
"I have with me in studio, Shannon Brass," Haberman continued. "She herself is a journalist, the creator of the website Public Occurrences, and she's here to tell us her story. Shannon, welcome."
"Thank you, Brooke."
"Before we get to the story, we feel it is our obligation to share this photograph." The image popped up on the right side of the screen. "This man may be the journalist killer who has terrorized Seattle over the last week. He may be armed, dangerous, and roaming the streets at this moment. If you see him, call the police. Do not approach him. We will leave the image on screen for the entirety of the interview." She paused dramatically, and turned to Shannon. "Now, Shannon, tell us what happened this morning."
To my surprise, Shannon was great on TV. I'd never given it any deliberate thought, but somewhere in the back of my mind I assumed she'd come across as off-putting or opinionated in the dull, polished setting of local news. But over the next twenty minutes, she walked Brooke, and the audience, through a blow-by-blow of the last few days. From the article we'd published about Burnside's suicide to the morning when the killer had taken Carlson's spot out front, to the bombing, all the way through to the scheduled meet-up where she got the warning.
She even managed to work in several references to Public Occurrences and her series on Burnside's CIA ties. All the while, she came off as professional, precise and, most of all, credible. She used details to enhance her re-telling, mentioned specifics about Carlson that humanized his story. In short, she did what good journalists are supposed to do: she made a complex subject understandable. And she did it while providing the public with an important piece of factual information it hadn't had before: the photo.
I paid particular attention when she explained how she'd escaped. "After the killer grabbed me, he dragged me underground. He could have killed me if he'd wanted. He pressed a gun into my side and...I didn't get a look at it but I assumed it was a gun. He pulled me about a block underground. I knew he was going to kill me, so I did the only thing I could think of to keep myself alive: I told him I had an open line to my friend and partner Alex Vane, a cellphone call that had been going since before he grabbed me. I told him we were being recorded right now. He smashed the gun against my neck, knocking me to the ground, then searched me for the phone. The phone had fallen when he'd grabbed me. He stood over me, smiling, and said only one word, 'Liar.' From my knees, I threw an uppercut to his groin. When he fell backwards, I didn't wait for him to get it together. I bolted out the way we'd come."
"Were you afraid?" Haberman asked.
Shannon was defiant. "He got the drop on me. I didn't expect that. If there's a next time, I'll be ready."
The comment hung in the air. I wondered what Shannon meant, but Haberman had to go to break and the segment ended.
I'd monitored Twitter as the interview went on, wondering whether it was spreading. It was. Within minutes of its appearance, the photo had gone viral.
By the end of the interview #TheJournalistKiller was the number one trending topic in the United States. The original tweet from the official KRON Twitter account had been retweeted a million times. Hundreds of people had donated to Shannon's Patreon account, which had gone up fivefold. I couldn't see the site traffic stats for Public Occurrences, but I imagined they were through the roof.
No matter what happened next, Shannon had become a media sensation.
An hour after the interview, Shannon strolled out of the elevator and into The Barker.
I didn't say a word, just walked up and hugged her tight.
"I'm not coming back from war, Alex."
"You did great," I said.
She followed me to the lounge area, where we sat on the couch. "You sure I didn't screw things up? How was Sanchez after I left?"
"Pissed, but she understood."
"Police will be pissed too, right?"
"Of course. It's their job to get the information—in this case the photo—and share it when and if they deem it necessary for public safety. It's our job to get the damn thing out there."
"So you would have published it on The Barker before offering it to the police?"
I considered that. "Honestly, this is a close one. Police likely would have released the photo within a few hours, but your way was faster. Everyone in America is looking for that face now. So yeah, I probably would have published it."
"What's the possible downside, why only 'probably'?"
"It's what Sanchez told me in the coffeeshop after you left. They have a psychological profile on this guy. They have clues and information we don't have, things that have not been released to the public. Things that—" Shannon shook her head dismissively. "Let me finish. Sanchez figured you were running out to release the photo. Her fear was that it could cause the killer to go on a kamikaze mission. If he thinks he's about to be caught, why not walk into The Seattle Times or CNN with a bag of guns and take out as many people as possible?"
Shannon got herself a cup of coffee. She had a thoughtful look on her face, like she was considering her response carefully. My sense was that the gravity of what she'd done was hitting her. "I did consider that. Maybe not for as long as I should have. You know the phrase you learn in your first week of journalism school?—I bet Burnside taught it—sunlight is the best disinfectant."
"I know the phrase."
"What you said is a risk, but I have to think that getting all the information out there helps. Sure he could do the horrible thing you mentioned, but he might have done that anyway. And now he might get recognized in the lobby before he makes it to a crowded area. A random beat cop could be picking him up as we speak because he saw the photo on his kid's Facebook page over breakfast. I have to believe that getting the story out there makes everyone safer."
“Maybe so, but I’ve also been tracking the hashtag on Twitter. There are way too many folks saying #TheJournalistKiller is an American hero and they hope more people like him emerge. Even if we’re not provoking him, raising his profile might give the next psycho ideas.”
Shannon shook her head flatly. “If we’re going to let a bunch of internet tough guys and delusional scumbags set our agenda, there’s no point getting out of bed. Should we only do stories that will definitely not set off some talking-point-addled obsessive someplace? Because there’s literally nothing on that list.”
Mia approached holding a cordless landline. "Shannon, you have a call. Well, it's for you and Alex. Mikey Johnson at KING-5 news. Wants to do a sit down with you both at the noon hour."
Shannon looked at me. During the entire conversation, her cell phone had been vibrating every few seconds. Each time, she'd checked the caller-ID, then sent the call to voicemail. My guess was that every local and national news channel wanted her story.
Mia handed me the phone.
I was about to unmute it when a thought occurred to me. "You sure it's Mikey?" I asked Mia.
"I set up your interviews with him the last couple times. He came to our Christmas party. Sure I'm sure."
"I know Mikey," I said to Shannon. "He's fair. Interviewed me twice before. If sunlight is the best disinfectant, we may as well keep spreading it."
"You think we should do it, then?" Shannon asked.
"If you don't mind me borrowing some of your spotlight."
She punched me in the arm. "Let's do it."
I unmuted the phone. "Mi
key, what time do you want us in studio?"
"You'll do it?" I was relieved to hear his familiar voice.
"We'll do it."
"11:20 for a noon interview," he replied. "This could be big for me, Alex, and I'll owe you one. National evening news might play some of the interview, unless you agree to go on with them live tonight and steal my thunder."
"How about this, Mikey," I said, glancing at Shannon. "We do your show, and only your show, thereby ensuring clips of you hit the national news. In exchange, you get someone to do an editorial about police persecution of journalists, specifically of Shannon Brass, if it ever happens to come up."
"What would they be persecuting her about?"
"Maybe nothing, maybe something about a stolen notebook. But promise me, if it comes up over the next month or two, you'll speak out."
"I promise."
Chapter 28
The studios of KING-5 were located in an old warehouse between the ferry terminal and the stadium district. Like every news outlet in Seattle, they'd added extra security over the last few days, so Shannon and I were greeted not only with the usual security checkpoint, but two guys wearing dark green uniforms from Blackwood Private Security. They stood on either side of the regular security window, where I'd checked in at least a half dozen times over the last few years, twice for interviews with Mikey and a whole series of times when The Barker was in negotiations to provide them with local news content.
I recognized the guy behind the desk at the gate, but couldn't recall his name. He was in his early twenties with a messy mop of brown hair and a look that told me he'd prefer to have any job but this one. "Alex Vane and Shannon Brass," I said.
"Hey there Alex." He didn't look up from his computer monitor. "Crazy what's going on, right?"
"Beyond crazy."
"Just lemme check you off the list."
I gestured at the two beefy men. "What's with the sentinels?"
"They've upgraded our security, with everything that's been going on." After another moment, the kid looked up from the screen. "Weird. You're not on the list."
The two men eyed me suspiciously. "Did you check under Shannon's name?" I asked. "She's gonna be the main interview subject."
"Checked under both your names."
"Huh, is there someone you can call or something?"
Behind us, a KING-5 TV van tapped its horn.
The kid said, "I'm gonna open the gate, and you can pull to the right while we get this sorted out. I gotta let the van in. They've got footage to get on air."
When he lifted the gate, we pulled in to the right and stopped next to a dumpster. The van pulled in and headed for the studio.
The two security guards appeared and stood on either side of the car. "What's the deal?" I said through the window.
They didn't reply.
"Calm down," Shannon said. "They're just doing their jobs."
"I know, but…"
The kid let another car through the gate, then emerged and walked up to my window. "I'm sorry, Alex. There must be some mix-up. You're not on the list and I couldn't find anyone who set up the interview."
"Oh, why didn't you ask? It was Mikey Johnson. Said he wanted to do a segment with Shannon and me on the—"
"Mikey? He called in sick today. He's not even here."
"That can't be," I said. "He…" My mind went blank.
"Oh shit!" Shannon shouted, swiveling her head in a panic. She looked out all the windows in rapid succession. "No no no no no! Alex, it was a setup."
Crack.
The sound burst the air, drowning the sound of Shannon's voice.
One of the security guards disappeared from my peripheral view.
"Down!" Shannon shouted.
Then a crack crack in rapid succession. The other security guard fell to the ground. The kid fell forward across the hood of the car, his wavy brown hair stained with blood.
Shannon opened her door and slithered out onto the ground between the car and the dumpster. Contorting my legs into a pretzel, I slid across the gear shift into Shannon's seat, then out her door onto the ground.
The shots had come from the direction of the large warehouse that contained the KING-5 studios, so we had the car between us and the shooter. The corpse of one of the security guards lay next to the front tire, face-down. There was a large exit wound in his back, and a pool of blood around him. The blood was slowly starting to trickle toward the dumpster. I forced myself to look away.
Shannon's eyes were wide with fear and she looked at me imploringly. "I thought that was Mikey on the phone."
"It was."
"But then how…"
"He…Oh God. The killer got to him. Kidnapped him or something. That's why he was out sick. The killer forced him to make the call to get us to show up here."
"Shhh." Shannon lifted her head, listening. "The shots came from over there. If there's only one shooter, he can't hit us where we are."
"I'm pretty sure this guy is alone, but we don't know how far away he is. Cellphone! I left mine in the cupholder. Do you have yours?"
"In my bag in the car."
I reached up and felt around in her bag on the floor of the passenger seat. When I found it, I handed it to Shannon, who quickly dialed 9-1-1. "Shooting at KING-5, three men down, active shooter. Hurry." She set the phone on the ground without ending the call. "As we drove in, I noticed a row of cars to the left, maybe a hundred yards away, near the front of the building. I bet he was hiding there, waiting for us to come in."
She reached around to the small of her back and produced a short-barreled revolver. I must have gaped a bit, because she gave me a look and said, "I've got a permit to carry it, and this right now is exactly why."
"That's what you meant when you said you'd be ready if there was a next time?"
Ignoring the question, Shannon crawled around the corner of the dumpster, staying low to the ground. I followed, relieved to have both a car and a dumpster between us and the shooter. There was a space of about fifty yards behind the dumpster—unpaved like they were saving the space for a future parking lot. At the end of the open space was a ten-foot-high fence topped with two feet of angled barbed wire. "We're trapped here," I said. "We could run for the fence but if he's still behind us he could pick us off as we tried to climb."
"We can't just sit here."
"Security must've heard the shots."
"He just killed security," Shannon said.
"They probably have someone inside."
We sat in silence for what felt like minutes. Hours. It was probably thirty seconds. The security guard's blood continued trickling slowly downhill.
Then, for the first time, I heard his voice. It sounded far off, but not as far off as I would have liked. "Shan-non. Ale-eeeex. Come out, come out wherever you are."
Chapter 29
"When you hear a shot," I said, pointing at another dumpster about twenty feet away, "go for that dumpster. Then run inside."
Twenty feet separated the two dumpsters, but if she hurried she could make it from one to the other before he could get a shot off.
"Why?"
"Just do it."
"Alex, what are you—"
I got to my feet, staying hunched so my head wouldn't stick out over the top of the dumpster. I duck-walked back to the car, trying to keep my head as low as possible. I could see the killer through the car windows. He was coming closer, rifle held ready. He also had a pistol in a holster at his belt, which ended my fantasy of waiting for him to reload and then rushing him.
For an instant, I raised my head over the top of the car, long enough to let him catch sight of me. The rifle leapt up to his shoulder and I heard its sharp crack.
I'd already dropped back to the ground, and the shot shattered the rear windshield.
I couldn't see if Shannon had used the opening to get to the second dumpster, but I hoped so. I was betting that from the second dumpster she could make a run for the building before the killer could ge
t to her, assuming she waited for him to get close to the car before making her run.
"Al-eeeex." His voice was louder now. He was closer. I heard a noise like metal sliding against fabric, and I realized he was close enough that he'd decided to draw his handgun.
"Alex, you ought to stand up and take what's coming to you. You're going to die, Alex, but there's something I want you to know beforehand. You weren't even on my top twenty list. You and that bitch messed this up with the story making fun of my work. Then, when you ran the one about that degenerate, homeless piece of filth, well..."
My chest burned with rage. I wanted to jump up and run at him, pin him to the ground and bash his head in. I took a couple deep breaths and suddenly everything got clear and quiet. Strangely, it occurred to me that in all my dangerous stories, I'd never actually had to harm anyone. With this guy, it would be a damn pleasure. But I had to keep him talking.
"He didn't deserve to die," I called from behind the car. "His name was Carlson and he wasn't a journalist. He didn't deserve to die. Maybe in your twisted world, I do. But he didn't." This didn't elicit a response, so I tried another angle. "I read your letter. Why wasn't I in your top twenty?"
"Because you're not one of the worst liars, Alex." His voice was getting closer all the time. "I'm going to kill all of you but I wasn't going to go for you until you stuck your nose in my business. There were a lot of people ahead of you."
"Should I be offended or complimented?"
"You can take it however you want. Doesn't matter now." His voice was loud. He was right on top of me.
I peeked through the window. He was only about eight feet away on the other side of the car.
"Your kind of work is a distraction for mindless sheep," he said, his voice a slow monotone. "Listicles to make them feel like they can change their lives when in truth they're going to stay asleep to the destruction of God and country taking place right under their noses. You're like a heroin dealer, taking out the weakest among us, except instead of opiates to shoot into their veins, you offer them opiates of the mind. That's really all the internet is for most people. A way to numb the pain—a pain most aren't even aware of—the pain of the gradual destruction of truth caused by a handful of corporations and governments and sold to the people by journalists like the ones I killed. Journalists who would lie about the climate, who would topple great leaders who inspire men like me to break our chains. Men like—"