by S. W. Capps
Stacy moved closer. “Did you ever put him in jail?”
“A number of times. I just couldn’t keep him there. He was smarter than the rest. And his parents had money. Mother was a lawyer and a damn good one. She was able to keep her son’s nose clean. Most of the time.”
“Most of the time?”
He tossed the match. “One night, Toole and his cronies jacked a car in Avalon. Took it down to Gainesville and met up with some college girls. Cops popped them on the way back.” He turned his head, blowing smoke. “Since they took the vehicle over state lines, I was able to push for grand theft auto instead of simple joyride. Could’ve made it stick, too, but in the plea bargain process, we agreed to drop all charges if he left the area. At the time, that was good enough for me.”
He adjusted his hat, eyes still smoldering. “Unfortunately, he got the last laugh. When he came back as a reporter, he aired a story that got most of us fired, or in my case, worse. Some of it was bullshit. Some wasn’t.” He looked the reporter in the eye. “I’ve made mistakes. And I’ve paid for them.”
Stacy knew all about the exposé. Billy Nemetz of the Herald had filled him in on the details, Diana Grimm of the Gazette providing the rest. “Mr. Longdale, did Larry Toole ever commit arson?”
The man smiled, smoke escaping his lips. “Not that I know of.”
Stacy shot a glance at the faraway gala. As the mayor announced a raffle, someone lit a cherry bomb, causing momentary panic. “Is there anything else you can tell me?” Longdale shook his head. “All right. Well, thank you for your time.”
Stacy turned to go, the man’s voice stopping him. “Why arson?”
He looked in both directions, not wanting to show his hand.
But a card or two couldn’t hurt.
“I have reason to believe Toole knows something about the Torch fires.”
Longdale flicked his cigarette away. “So what’s your next move?”
“I’ve got an associate at the newspaper looking into something for me. Toole was married once. Back when he worked at Channel 8 the first time. His wife died in some sort of accident. I’m hoping there’s an obit.”
“Not bad. For a reporter.” The man pushed away from the wall. “But I can save you some time. She died in a house fire. They never determined the cause.”
***
‘Felon Friday’, that was the name they’d given it. Twice a month, inmates were paraded over the courthouse lawn for hearings, appearances, and trials. As usual, all three news crews were there. So far, they’d captured a child molester covering his face and a drug dealer offering the middle finger. Nate Shefler was also scheduled to appear. And deputies had just arrested a rape suspect, the man being transported to town now.
“Hey, Candelle,” Channel 2’s camera op chirped, “where’d you get that Sony?”
“Got it from your mama last night!”
“Easy, Jul.” Stacy pulled a folder from his briefcase, setting it on the courthouse steps. After a glance behind him, he surveyed the article, dated August 8, 1977. Billy had faxed it over that morning, the archival obit verifying Longdale’s story. Melissa Toole, 21, had died in a fire of questionable origin, survived by her husband, Lawrence, and parents, Lucinda and Caleb Wells of Massachusetts. As far as Stacy was concerned, it was another huge strike against his boss. Not only had they discovered physical evidence in Toole’s garage, he was now linked to an actual fire—one that killed his wife!
“’Comes another one, Stace.” As the other cameramen took aim, Julius moved closer, deputies walking a hairy man in a jailhouse jumper past them. He was accused of stabbing someone on the wrong side of town, known in the news business as a ‘misdemeanor murder’. Julius moved to within inches, the Neanderthal swearing at him.
“One of these days, you’re going to get hurt, Jul.”
“No way, dude.” He continued to roll. “I can run faster’n I can swim.” As the courthouse door shut, a black-and-white rolled up to the sheriff’s station. “Just watch!”
He took out sprinting, arriving a full five seconds before the others. As they jockeyed for position, Stacy watched a deputy move to the door. Instead of the rape suspect, a young victim emerged, her frightened face covered in bruises.
Stacy made eye contact with the girl, a college student no more than eighteen. A few hours ago, she was planning her weekend. Now her whole life had changed. In the moment their eyes met, Stacy glimpsed all the pain, the helplessness, the utter shame she was feeling. It weakened his knees.
“Don’t, Julius.” The camera op looked over his shoulder, Stacy having joined him. “Stop rolling.” Julius lowered the camera, the others tracking their subject to the station. Stacy shuddered—that poor girl!
She’d already been violated. Now she was being violated again.
Moments later, another sheriff’s vehicle arrived. As the hungry journalists moved in, Julius looked to Stacy, his expression saying, ‘Should I or shouldn’t I?’ After a long pause, Stacy nodded.
Two deputies pulled a man from the backseat, a stubby little man in filthy clothes. Thanks to Oklahoma’s Cap Law, one forcing penal officials to thin populations when they neared capacity, Rocky Tumwater had been released from prison. Stacy watched him mug for the cameras as he entered the Hall of Justice, wanting badly to wipe the cocksure look off his little face.
This man had raped before. And now, because of a ridiculous mandate—one his victim had probably never even heard of—he’d raped again.
What justice?
***
Light pierced the window, the exploratory beam of a police car. Neither Stacy nor Julius flinched. They’d grown used to the harassment. It came at all hours. Searchlights. Sirens. Loudspeakers. Between the regular patrols, threatening letters, and stares from their neighbor, they weren’t exactly feeling welcome in their new community.
“How come you never showed me how to play this thing?”
Stacy reached for the guitar.
“Never asked.” Julius placed his roommate’s fingers on the frets. “It ain’t hard.” He helped him with a C-chord. “Just hold the strings and strum.”
Stacy’s digits responded as if webbed. “My God, Jul… I’m horrible!” Julius smirked, showing him a D and E-minor. In the corner, the television flickered—a wrestling match of some sort.
“Maybe you should stick to the squeezebox.”
The ex-accordion player frowned, continuing to mangle chords.
“Hey, I went to school with that dude!”
Stacy looked to the screen. A man in a tux stood next to a wrestler, who promised to snap his opponent’s neck ‘like a Pixie-Stick’. “Hope you didn’t piss him off.”
“Not that dude. The one with the mic.” The camera panned to Danny Fox, the fearless interviewer braving threats and spittle. As the wrestler stormed off, Fox teased an upcoming ‘cage match’, tickets on sale now.
“How did he get that job?”
“Don’t know. He graduated top of our class, Summa Cum somethin’. Got hired a week later as a reporter in Fort Smith.”
“A reporter? How long ago?”
“Last May.”
“He moved on after a year?”
“Dude moved on after a week!”
“A week?” Stacy wondered what it would be like to leave Channel 8.
“Went to work one mornin’, found out there was a kid missin’ at the mall. Spent the whole day coverin’ the story.” Another light flashed through the glass. “Come four o’clock, they find the kid locked in a bathroom at Radio Shack. He gets a shot of the mother-and-child reunion, then runs back to the station to edit. That’s when the news director shut ’im down.”
“Shut him down? Why?”
“Said it was a ‘non-story’. ’Cause it didn’t end badly.”
“That’s bullshit, Jul.”
“That’s what Fox said. Quit the next day and started sendin’ tapes to the WWF. Said if he was gonna be part a’ bullshit on TV, he wanted people to—”
>
A knock at the door cut him off, Julius urging Stacy to stay put. After a peek, he turned the knob, revealing a dark figure on the porch—the overhead light hadn’t worked in weeks.
“Got the money?” Julius reached in his pocket for a wad of bills. “Almost didn’t risk it. Neighborhood’s crawlin’ with cops.”
“They ain’t lookin’ for you.” Julius slipped him the cash, the man handing him a giant tube as he slunk into the night. The cameraman grinned, hauling his newfound booty into the room. “Been waitin’ for this a long time!”
“What is it?”
“Sachtler tripod. Check out how light it is.” He opened the tube and fished it out, Stacy feeling uncomfortable as he lifted the thing. It was light, all right—it was also hot! “Fifteen hundred in the catalog. Buck-fifty on the street.”
Stacy grabbed the remote. “Ever feel guilty about this stuff?”
“Hell, no,” Julius responded. “I didn’t steal it.”
Stacy clicked to Channel 8. “Fire claims another local landmark.” A monitor rose over Toole’s shoulder. “The old Dexter County Jail is in ruins tonight. Reporter Reg McNair joins us live. Reg, is this the work of the Texomaland Torch?”
Stacy had already heard about the fire, having spoken to Roy Maghee by phone. Off the record, the investigator had all but credited the Torch. Same M.O. Same burn patterns. And another Wilhelm building—the fifth ‘officially’. Fortunately, there was no one inside this time, the jail having been abandoned for a modern structure next door.
“Larry, investigators are remaining tight-lipped at this hour. But all signs point to the elusive Torch, a dangerous serial arsonist who seems hell-bent on destruction. And shows no signs of letting up.”
No doubt who wrote that lead-in!
“Dude’s hair looks huge tonight!”
“Shhhhhhhh.” Stacy moved forward, listening to the man’s package. There were no new details. Despite amazing video, the writing was pedestrian. Reg was a handsome man, but that was about it.
“Larry, one last bit of information. According to a credible source…” By now, Stacy knew that ‘credible source’ meant friend of a friend, wife’s cousin’s neighbor, or worse. “…a team from the ATF is flying in from Rockville, Maryland to assist in the investigation.”
Stacy leaped to his feet. “The feds are coming, Jul!” The cameraman nodded, shoving the tripod back in place. “Toole’s really going to have to watch his step now!”
“If you say so, dude.”
Stacy flipped channels to see how the other stations covered the rape story. Channel 7, against all protocol, mentioned the victim’s name—she was the daughter of a local doctor. Channel 2 withheld the name but aired a close-up of the woman being led from the car. Stacy flipped back to Channel 8, his package focusing only on the suspect.
In his eleven months on the job, he was never more proud of a finished piece.
That didn’t stop the phone from ringing ten minutes later. Stacy thought about answering, thought about listening to Toole’s lecture on ‘reporting the news, no matter how unpleasant, especially during ratings month’.
Instead, he killed the lights and went to bed.
***
“What do you mean, he didn’t say?” Stacy braced himself as Julius steered.
“He rattled off an address and said, ‘Go shoot it.’”
“Shoot what?”
“Somebody’s house.” They turned left. “Told me to get some exteriors, is all.”
Stacy shook his head. “I don’t like it, Jul.”
“What’s not to like?” They stopped at a traffic light. “It ain’t even our story. Just a pick-up shot for someone in Avalon.”
“You remember the last time Toole sent us somewhere without explanation?”
“’Course, I remember.” The light turned green. “But what was I s’posed to do?” When the reporter didn’t answer, Julius hit the gas.
Stacy sighed, opening his Steno. Ratings month was more than half over, and his boss was using every trick in his mawkish bag to nab the blue ribbon. There’d been solo and team coverage reports on murders and rapes. More features on pornography. And, of course, the Torch had struck again, hyperbole in scripts reaching an all-time high. Stacy had kept a log. The phrase “disturbing trend” was used 23 times, “epidemic” 31, “crisis situation” 40. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Toole had managed to identify two Nielsen families in the area, sending crews to their homes for an exclusive— ‘What’s It Like To Be a Nielsen Family?’ And if that wasn’t enough, he gave viewers one more reason to tune in, a nightly spin-to-win game known as the ‘Great 8 Giveaway’, where one lucky fan could win up to a thousand dollars cash. Stacy couldn’t believe his eyes when Katie spun the wheel, nor could he believe his ears when he heard the promos— “The Great 8 News Team. Paying the Bills When You Can’t!”
The Escort squealed to a stop, Stacy looking up.
The house was nothing special—brick facade, attached garage. Stacy climbed out of the car, glancing at the windows. The shades were drawn. He looked to the driveway. No cars. For a moment, he thought he smelled roses, but the scent disappeared on the hot western wind.
Julius began shooting. A wide shot of the house. A pan from street to yard. A close-up of toys on the lawn. Somewhere in the distance, a meadowlark sang, the street otherwise quiet. Nothing seemed amiss, yet Stacy’s gut twisted like a rope of tobacco. “Let’s get out of here, Jul.”
“Couple more shots.”
Without warning, the front door opened, a man in rumpled clothes trudging out to meet them. His hair was a tousled mess, his eyes two swollen orbs. It looked like he hadn’t slept, eaten, or done anything else in days.
He had reason.
“Please go.” He spoke softly but firmly.
“Public street, dude. We ain’t—”
“Julius.” Stacy peered into the man’s eyes. He knew that look, knew it all too well. He’d seen it in Toole’s eyes when he spoke of his wife, seen it in his own mirror after his mother died, could still see it if he looked hard enough. He reached down and killed the deck. “I’m sorry, sir. We didn’t know.”
Julius was confused but trusted his friend. By the time he loaded the gear, Stacy was already on the radio. “Mobil 6 to Base!”
Julius cranked the engine, the reporter slamming his fist against the dash.
“Mobil 6 to Base!” he repeated, his skin the color of blood.
As the Escort pulled away, the radio crackled. “Go ahead, Mobil 6.”
“What the hell are you trying to pull, Larry?”
There was a lengthy pause, then, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But if I were you, I’d calm down.”
“Yeah, dude.” Julius shot him a begging glance.
“You’re not me, asshole!” The cameraman winced, Stacy barreling ahead. He could no longer listen to a man he didn’t respect—a man who’d committed murder! “Why the hell did you send us to that house?”
“Perhaps you should remember who you’re talking to.”
“I know exactly who I’m talking to. Why did you do it?”
“Because we need the footage for a story.”
Stacy keyed the handset, cars flying by like shrapnel. “What story?”
“Not that I’m obligated to tell you, but it’s a story of family tragedy.”
“What kind of tragedy?”
Another pause. “I think this conversation’s better suited for a landline. Why don’t you head back to the office and we’ll finish it by phone.”
“We’ll finish it now!” He struck the dash again, Julius leaping in his seat.
“Fine…” Toole appeared to gather himself. “…it was a suicide. A nine-year-old boy locked himself in the garage and started his father’s car. By the time they found him, it was too late.”
“Jesus, Larry!” Stacy stared at Julius, hands shaking. What kind of hell was that family going through? What kind of pain? Imagine the mind-numbing shock of find
ing that child in the garage. Imagine the guilt! “For God’s sake, we can’t do this! That family’s been through enough!” His mind raced out of control, lurching to a halt in a stuffy college classroom—Media Law, Junior year. “What about the rule on suicides?” Toole couldn’t fight the basic principles of journalism, could he? “We only cover them if they happen in public, right?”
Stacy heard static, then, “There are no rules.”
No rules? The hair on his neck stood.
“Then what about reasons? Give me one good reason why this story should air!”
“All right, for the sake of argument, I will. The boy in question learned about carbon monoxide poisoning on TV. From a Saturday morning cartoon, no less. I think we owe it to our viewers to raise awareness in the community. By covering a story like this, we might just save another family from similar tragedy.”
“That’s noble, Larry.” He leaned forward, gritting his teeth. “It’s also bullshit!” Julius made hand signals, Stacy ignoring them. “I’ll tell you why we’re doing this story. We’re doing it to exploit this family, to ogle at their pain! We’re doing it so we can all sit back and thank our lucky stars it didn’t happen to us. But how many people does it really affect? How many lives?” The words roared from his mouth like a speeding train. “And ‘for the sake of argument’, how many lives does a traffic fatality affect? Or a murder? Or even a fire that burns down an empty building? We air these stories because they’re sensational. We do it for the same reason we slow down to look at a car wreck!”
“You better think long and hard about what you’re saying. And I’m going to give you that opportunity.” The reporter stared through the windshield, eyes wide open. “I want you to drive back to the station, feed me the footage, and take the rest of the day off. And I suggest you use every minute of that time to evaluate your future.”