Frontline

by Warren Hately

  Anna smiled despite herself, not registering it was her first genuinely warm expression in a day already coiling tension around the base of her spine.

  “I was always surprised you didn’t become a teacher,” she said.

  Tom made a face. Anna decided to answer his question.

  “I rented a shitty apartment off the internet last week,” she said. “Flew in on Friday and met my boss in person. It’s a … well, newspapers, as you probably recall–”

  “Facing some challenges,” Tom said.

  “You were always optimistic.”

  “Not really,” Tom said. “I just knew any problem could be solved with effort and good leadership. But one of those were always in short supply.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe I can blame my current predicament on you after all,”

  Anna told him. “More of you rubbed off on me than you ever realized.”

  They were both conscious the comment sounded strange – and had its own undertones – but Anna at least knew Tom knew what she meant. He nodded slowly.

  “Sorry for that.”

  “You’re a dick, Tom Vanicek,” Anna laughed.

  A warmth sparkled between them.

  Tom wasn’t married anymore, after all the horrible things that happened with him.

  “It is my first day, though,” Anna said. “There’s a heap of things I have to get done … but I thought, if you wanted, we could catch up this evening?”

  Tom smiled, nodded, then his expression turned apologetic.

  “I’m actually catching my flight back to Knoxville in about an hour.”

  THEY HUGGED AWKWARDLY, mutual bemusement that they’d never actually ordered coffees and what an “un-newshound” thing that was also a convenient cover for the unexpressed sentimentality between them, as well as that long-unresolved affection which Anna now wondered if they would ever really confront.

  It didn’t seem likely.

  She gave Tom a kiss on the cheek, and that only made things more awkward as Tom slowed, paused, as if it could’ve become more – except then Anna smiled tightly and patted him on the shoulder as she backed away, scooping up her bag.

  Tom saluted her, grabbed his own shoulder bag, and walked away without a backwards glance.

  Anna looked down at their half-empty water glasses and the napkin she’d twisted beyond recognition, and resisted the urge to swing her satchel at the whole sorry mess. Instead, she cleared her throat again, finished her water, and headed back to work.

  It was only a few blocks to the Gazette building. Once upon a time, they’d occupied the whole structure. The print operation in the basement was outsourced to

  the one company now doing all the city’s papers, and a fairly smart decision to redevelop the ground floor and the basement allowed a couple of offices and a fresh food café to move in. The Springfield Gazette shed its second floor a year later, subdivided its upstairs chambers the year after that, and nearly crumbled into receivership only six months ago – saved at the eleventh hour by the intervention of the philanthropic Alban Casabian.

  Anna took the stairs to the third floor because it was her mantra, not having much time these days for a yoga class or the gym or the random classes in parkour and bodyweight training and krav maga she’d never managed to maintain for more than a few weeks at a time. Irene ensconced behind the horseshoe desk smiled up at her, lingering gaze hungry for a conversation Anna simply couldn’t spare right now.

  She fobbed the woman off with a light greeting and hurried through and down the corridor to the back.

  SHE HAD A quick consult with Serik Iskov, but the tight-lipped technician assured Anna everything was already in place with the live studio. And because the younger reporters were filing their online packages themselves – O’Dowd had absented himself from those duties thus far – the revamped webpage and their linked social media channels had been steady for the past three weeks. Syndicated content across the wider Gazette group, with news outside Springfield – including the national desk in DC – helped fill any gaps in coverage.

  Anna swept on into the newsroom. O’Dowd wrapped up a hurried call and Charlotte Francis was glued to a phone she put away guiltily at Anna’s entrance.

  There was no sign of Melina, hopefully not off in a bathroom somewhere sharpening her grievances, while Demien sat ensconced in his corner fiddling with one of the new LD1s while watching one of several video monitors his science-reporting role afforded him.

  “Douglas, can you help me for a minute?”

  Anna moved to the two black couches and started trying to wrest one into a different position on her lonesome. Once the older reporter saw what she was doing, he hurried across to help out of some sense of male obligation. Within seconds, the two sofas faced each other across five foot of threadbare gray carpet.

  Anna motioned and then dropped heavily into one of the comfortable chairs.

  O’Dowd cautiously sat on the opposite armrest while Anna rifled through her bag to extract the thick personal diary she carried everywhere. Yellow page markers jutted from the book like tiny flags, but they guided her to her place quicker than anything else she’d tried. Watching her, O’Dowd slid down properly into the couch opposite.

  “How are you getting on with your emergency piece?” Anna asked.

  “It’s definitely coming through,” he said.

  “I didn’t doubt that,” Anna said. “Is there something wrong?”

  “Nothing ‘wrong’,” the other reporter said, though he hesitated. “Admittedly, it’s … a little weird.”

  “Weird in what way?”

  “We already know there was an unusual number of incidents overnight,”

  Douglas replied. “Crime and domestics, mostly, from what I gleaned last night. A couple of fires. But a few of my regular sources aren’t returning calls, or they’re playing it strange. Someone’s told them to keep their mouths shut.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Now they were talking news, and O’Dowd was in his bastion of expertise, he relaxed into the duty and Anna was struck by the silver-haired reporter’s vague resemblance to an older, more indirect version of Tom. Like Gus Fitzwilliams, O’Dowd wasn’t great with eye contact – an essential skill for journalists, or so Anna’d been taught – which pointed to some latent weakness of character or ability to handle confrontation. He’d already displayed as much with all the sniping during their earlier news meeting and Anna was still somewhat flabbergasted to think Lenore Barrett put up with it.

  “So, I was out last night,” Douglas said. “I went to a comedy show pretty late.

  One of my guys sent me a text about a crashed ambulance, coming back from one of these incidents. That’s what saw me out after a dark like a madman or a fucking teenager filming with my phone. There was an apartment fire – one of my firefighters called me about that – and the fire was caused by a vehicle wreck too. But when I called my ambulance guy … and by ‘guy’ I should actually mention he’s a she – I tried to get some details on the ambulance crash and Topsy went real quiet. Like … weirdly quiet.”

  “Your source was spooked,” Anna said and shrugged because it didn’t mean much on its own.

  “Yeah, but now I’m getting that from everybody.”

  “OK, but you have details on a number of these incidents?”

  “Yes,” Douglas said. “As long as you don’t mind ‘a source who was close to the scene who spoke on condition of anonymity’.”

  “Always so long-winded,” Anna huffed. “If we OK unidentified sources, we should just report it as such … you know, following proper guidelines and stuff.”

  “You’re worried about people’s attention spans.”

  “Something like that,” Anna said and resisted a brief smile. “So, you’ll have page one covered and we have your video and … anything else?”

  “I have some pics,” O’Dowd said. “More sources.”

  “What are the photos?”

  “Cops getting atta
cked.”

  “You have photos of cops getting attacked?”

  “Don’t get too excited,” he said and actually made calming motions at her.

  “The images aren’t that hot. It’s just two cops beating the fuck out of a hobo.”

  “Hmm, OK,” Anna said. “Who’s our reporter for the Capitol Building?”

  “No one,” Douglas replied. “It’s the City you want. Most of the State Government’s in Chicago.”

  “But I thought Springfield –”

  “You really are new, huh?”

  Anna tried not to huff again and mostly succeeded.

  “How long are you gonna hold that against me?”

  O’Dowd surprised her with a gentle laugh, though that turned out to be a ruse.

  “Lucky you’re easy on the eye,” he said.

  Anna’s face blanked at once.

  “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

  “Yeah, the good-looking women reporters never do,” he said. “Talk about privilege. You don’t think it’s helped your career?”

  “I’m not a weather girl, Douglas,” Anna growled. “I’m a news reporter.”

  “We’ll see about that, huh?”

  He said it without meeting Anna’s fierce gaze. She forced her mouth shut, jaw tightening on an invisible bridle she chewed as she drew herself back to their tattered professional discussion.

  “So who is our City Council reporter?”

  “Me.”

  “You wear a lot of hats.”

  “I’ve had to,” he said. “I’ve been here a long time.”

  Anna nodded and stood.

  “Hopefully not too long.”

  O’Dowd didn’t like that comment much and Anna couldn’t care less. If anything, she was secretly thrilled. It didn’t pay to make more enemies in the newsroom than required, but some enmities were unavoidable – or at least that’s what she’d learnt in her life so far.

  THE TRAINING WENT as planned except for the fact O’Dowd didn’t show up.

  Demien Christopher had already figured out how to use one of the recorders and Melina Martelle was a quick study. Even more pleasingly, she did it with a minimum of eye rolling, and quickly helped Charlotte Francis play catch-up. The redhead got super-giggly around Iskov, who mostly stood impassive at the back of the room answering technical questions with as few words as possible, radiating the air of a man who either didn’t want to be there or had literally nowhere else to go. Or maybe both. Either way, their session wrapped in less than the hour allotted.

  Anna gazed around the new, dimly-lit live studio space with a surprised air of satisfaction. Casabian had thrown some decent money at an already failing news operation and now they had the equivalent of a TV studio set for interviews and anything else they wanted to run, provided they could do it with just two LD1s. Anna fiercely argued the Gazette had to transcend the limits of print media without losing its legacy, and YouTube and podcasts featured firmly in that plan.

  “Demien,” she said quietly as everyone else started to leave.

  The science reporter seemed self-consciously aware he was a science reporter cliché – not good enough at math to become a software engineer or app developer, that passion turned towards reporting tech trends instead. At six-foot-three, he was a bearish figure, though that wasn’t a term probably often applied to the neck-bearded, slightly conical-shaped young man wearing a checkered shirt untucked because of his girth.

  “You figured out the LD1 pretty quick, huh?” Anna said to him. “What do you think of the studio?”

  Anna gestured. Demien looked around as if not getting the point.

  “Yeah, it’s … pretty cool,” he said.

  “It’s a hell of a resource,” Anna told him. “I’d like to see you start using it in the content you’re producing.”

  “Doug doesn’t like it when you call it ‘content’.”

  “Douglas doesn’t like being called ‘Doug’,” Anna countered.

  Demien snickered, resembling some kind of goofy hedgehog for a moment.

  Anna found that oddly adorable, though she wasn’t looking for a new pet, and her appreciation ended almost as soon as it began.

  “I can talk you through some ideas, if you like,” she said more seriously.

  “Your piece for tomorrow, it’s about hemp and a new kind of artificial skin?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So?” Anna prompted him. “Tell me about it.”

  “None of the other reporters are really interested in my stories,” Demien said and sounded genuinely hurt, though perhaps unaware of the depth of it. “I think they resent me because of Mr Casabian.”

  “Hey,” Anna said. “I get that people are going to have trouble adjusting to change, and these guys … you’ve been here almost six months, right? They’re still upset about the people who got cut.”

  “I didn’t take anyone’s job,” Demien sniffled.

  “No,” Anna replied. “And if the only editorial requirement imposed by Mr Casbian is that we have a dedicated science reporter? Frankly, we got off light.”

  “He gets those free full-page ads, too.”

  “Sure,” Anna said and shrugged. “But he hasn’t asked you to write about any of his ten-million-odd start-ups yet, has he?”

  “No.”

  “Like I said, it could’ve been much worse,” Anna said. “It would be good if you brushed up your interviewing skills … and maybe buy a few new shirts … for the camera, you know? I’d love to see you hosting a panel or a science forum. Local news, obviously. There’s a heap of local firms we can reach out to.”

  Demien’s eyes glazed over at the well-founded yet implied criticism of his dress sense, knowing Anna could’ve weighed into him about his health in general with equally good reason. Instead, Anna punctuated the conversation with a gentle hand on his arm and then headed out of the room, nose tingling at the younger man’s strangely antiseptic body odor.

  MELINA STOOD HALFWAY down the corridor checking her phone, only noticing at the same point as Anna did when Charlotte Francis cautiously walked back towards them.

  “Hey,” she said slowly, unsure of herself. “There’s a man out front who asked to speak to a reporter. Irene got me … but I think. …”

  Judging by the expression on Charlotte’s face, people turning up at the front counter wasn’t unusual – rather, it was more a remark about the man in question.

  Charlotte looked flustered, and uncomfortable with it. Anna’s intuition tingled, so she immediately followed the young reporter with Melina Martelle on their tail.

  Enthroned if not imprisoned behind her fortress of a desk, the Gazette’s one-woman office manager Irene Mengele stared at Anna as she arrived with a look of open-mouthed horror. Her expression only upped Anna’s pulse as she, Charlotte and Melina came around to where two pairs of stylish, clear plastic chairs formed an L-shape at a matching coffee table. Copies of the previous week’s editions were stacked, folded in half on top.

  The white man was in his late sixties and looked frail and unwell. In Anna’s experience, such types were the most frequent visitor to newsrooms – usually with a bee in their bonnet about some imagined slight and a barrow-full of folders they’d insist needed “careful examination”.

  But Giles Freeman didn’t have anything with him except an iPhone.

  “Mr Freeman?” Charlotte said to him without banishing the slightly out-of-it tone in her voice. “This is Melina Martelle, and also our new … um, what’s your title, Mrs Novak?”

  Anna ignored the question, and Charlotte’s deliberate mistake with the honorific, forcing her smile and direct eye contact as she strode forward and extended her hand.

  “I’m Anna Novak, Mr Freeman,” she said. “Hello.”

  The old man shook her hand like it was an after-thought. Melina folded her arms, slightly off to the side, giving Anna a cold look and the sense she didn’t like anyone else muscling in on the job. Thankfully, whatever their bickering in private,
professional pride meant few reporters let those rivalries play out in front of the general public they served.

  “Charlotte said you had some phone footage to show us?” Anna asked.

  “Yeah, here… .”

  Mr Freeman started turning the phone over in his hands, but Anna stilled him.

  “Do you mind?”

  She smiled tightly, taking the phone even as Charlotte and Melina settled into positions either side – in Charlotte’s case, to watch the video for a second time.

  And then Anna understood why Irene Mengele looked so spooked.

  ANNA CUED THE iPhone movie as Giles Freeman reluctantly explained in the gluggy voice of a man in shock.

  “My wife woke up in the middle of the night like a crazy thing,” he said.

  “She tried to bite me. Had to lock her in the bedroom.”

  The old man sniffed, moving towards the verge of tears.

  “When the police came… .”

  He motioned at the phone in Anna’s hands.

  “You filmed it, Mr Freeman?” she asked with obvious surprise.

  “No,” he said. “My … our grand-daughter was there. You’ll see.”

  That sounded ominous. Melina nudged Anna with impatience, eyes bright and curious despite the old man’s obvious distress. He probably needed to be somewhere other than a newspaper office right now, but since they had the video in front of them, such sensitivities lost out in favor of the news.

  The footage was dark at first.

  Two cops tramped up a dimly-lit stairwell to a bedroom door. A banging, scuffling noise sounded clearly from the other side, as well as someone’s breathing –

  the young woman holding the iPhone and whispering to herself, “I can’t believe the freakin’ police are here” three times in a row.

  The officers kept hands on holstered batons, polite despite Mr Freeman out of frame telling them to be careful and repeating his claims about “nearly gettin’ bit”.