Dead Line
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Chapter 4 - Trent Wheeler
Trent Wheeler was the general manager of Hall Media. He liked it, mostly, but was often quoted saying managing a group of radio stations was like herding cats through a dog show—the cats hated to stick together, but it was their only chance for survival. Except that day, it looked like one of the sicker cats was going to get thrown to the dogs, and Trent could not be happier. He was heading down the main corridor of the second floor—which some long-ago wag had dubbed “the Hall hall”—to confer with the powers that be about the pending deal.
The Hall building was three floors tall and laid out according to progress. The main floor and basement held the offices and presses of the Plains Beacon, a daily paper that had survived the panics, floods, booms, and busts of Sioux Falls to become its sole newspaper. The second floor was originally the studio and staff of the mighty AM giant, 710 KHAL, the Voice of the Sioux Empire, ten thousand watts of news, weather, and sports—broadcast partner of the Spartans—and back in the day, host of Donny Dumont’s polka band, featuring a dance floor and seating for two hundred. The station hosted Lawrence Welk on a regular basis and the traveling big bands when they came through town.
The third floor held the TV station KHAL and the better offices. The bigger media buys, client events, and photo ops were held there. All of it was part of Hall Media, a virtual monopoly of media coverage that had been grandfathered into protection by Senator Hall when he was chair of the Senate Committee on Commerce, Science, and Transportation.
Wheeler’s turf was strictly second-floor stuff, managing the ebb and flow of radio stations. When Donny Dumont and his polka band disbanded and left, KHAL-FM showed up and took over the dance floor, and a big remodeling job was done. Then KHAB-FM—adult contemporary—and KHAC-AM were purchased and added, and the dance floor got halved again. Then KCHD was absorbed into Hall Media as a part of purchasing a juicy fifty-thousand-watt FM signal out of Harrisburg. An alphabet soup of radio stations now filled up the marquee in the lobby and was enough to hold down the market until the radio-station group across town—whose name was never mentioned—added two more stations to their team. In frustration, Hall Media bought up an AM-FM duo out of Beresford and shoved them into a closet and a production room with no remodel whatsoever. Finally, Hall Media had twice as many stations as anyone else in the market, and Trent Wheeler had to manage the chaos. Three did well in the ratings and in budgets, two others gamely fought to hold their positions, and the bottom three never lived up to expectations or budgets, which meant a quarterly ass chewing for Wheeler.
Until today. Trent whistled cheerfully as he contemplated the demise of his problem child, KCHD-AM 1610. Eight hundred meager watts of static and problems were about to be told goodbye.
How times had changed. Back in the day, the world of radio ran on the AM dial, and FMs were tagged on as the bastard stepchildren in the early ’70s. Now FM ran the world, and the strategy was to buy FMs to control the market and deal with the AM stations that were part of the purchase. AM stations struggled for relevance, staffs were slashed, syndicated programs were added, and equipment was left to struggle along.
Sales staffs were wise to the trends. It was easier to sell FM music stations, and the rates were better, which meant better commissions. AM stations were seldom sold anymore, which caused big headaches when budgets came around. When KCHD AM-FM was absorbed into Hall Media, the juicy fifty-thousand-watt FM started cranking out hot hits to the eighteen-to-twenty-five demographic, and the AM remained a syndicated music-of-yesteryear format, a seldom-sold format that sales reps preferred to give away, offering dozens of free ads every time a client purchased ads on the bigger stations.
Until today. Trent glided into the conference room two minutes early and helped himself to a bagel. Better lay off the donuts. He was pushing forty, and his gut wasn’t responding to normal post-Christmas dieting like it used to.
Diane VanDenBosch, the company controller, came in shortly after. A lot of Dutch lived around Sioux Falls, and the stereotype that they were tightfisted was exemplified in Diane. VanDenBosch was her married name, but her maiden name was TenHaaken—Dutch to the hardened core.
“Who authorized bagels and donuts?” A smaller woman with sharp features, Diane spent words like they were dollars.
“I did.” Wheeler wanted it to sound magnanimous, but it came out defensive. Geez, lady, lighten up.
“I see.” She picked up a cinnamon bagel and sniffed it suspiciously then wrapped it in a paper napkin and put it in her purse. “Let me see the contract.”
Wheeler slid it across the table. “Two hundred thou.” He could have saved his breath. Diane would not have believed mere words, especially his. “Is Harrison coming?”
“Dr. Hall has business at the hospital.” She spoke without looking up, focusing instead on the far more important contract in front of her.
“Anyone from legal?”
“They will have their chance.”
Wheeler realized that this meeting for up to eight would be attended by just Diane and him. He reached for a donut and tried again. “Two hundred thou is a good price.”
“Where’s the transmitter?”
“South of town. Four-hundred-foot stick. Transmitter’s a relic from World War II. Remember the radio school the Air Force had up by the airport? The transmitter is from that—war surplus. Still uses tubes, for God’s sake.”
Diane said nothing.
“New transmitter would cost at least forty grand.”
Nothing.
“The board is shot too.”
He was about to explain what a new control board might cost when Diane poked at a line on the contract. “Who’s Emilio Gonzales?”
Wheeler brightened. “He’s the guy that wants the station. Wants to simulcast an evangelical Spanish station out of Texas.” As shitty as the frequency was, Hall Media was loath to sell it to a competitor who might take any listeners or revenue away from their large share of the market.
Diane sat back. Her expression settled into peevishness. That was her most pleasant look.
Wheeler added, “He seems like a nice guy.”
Diane was ignoring him and packing the contract into a briefcase, preparing for a more important meeting on the third floor. Her eyes focused on the donuts and bagels. “You ordered too many.”
Wheeler rolled his eyes. “Geez, Diane! Look at the contract! I know for a fact that three years ago, we bought that whole combo for two hundred fifty, and now we can peel off an underperforming eight-hundred-watt AM for two hundred? This is a great deal!”
The COO stood, hefted her briefcase into one hand, and lifted the plate of donuts and bagels with the other. “I’ll take these upstairs.”
Chapter 5 - Emilio Gonzales
Emilio Gonzales was his real name, and he did speak Spanish, and he did sign the contract. However, he was not interested in a Spanish-speaking radio station or in evangelism, and he was especially not interested in freezing his ass off on the northern plains. What he was interested in was collecting fifteen grand in easy cash for fronting for the real purchasers of the frequency. Cutting close to FCC laws, the application was technically true—it would broadcast to the Sioux Falls community, it would focus on news, and it would target an underserved audience. And for one hundred twenty days, no one seemed to care or investigate the humble Señor Gonzales, which was just the way the real purchaser wanted it.
Chapter 6 - Stan Martin
Stan Martin sat uncomfortably in an uncomfortable suit and tie in an uncomfortable chair, having an uncomfortable interview with Charlie Hofer, the king of sleaze.
“Want some booze?” Charlie snapped his bejeweled fat fingers and reached for a crystal decanter.
“No, thank you,” Stan said uncomfortably.
“Yeah, that’s right, you’re an alky.” Hofer grinned. “No sauce for you—too bad.” He motioned to a top-heavy woman in stilettos to pour for him alone. “You seen my fiancée, Veronica DuPont?”
“Ho, but you’ve seen her—up and down the interstate. She’s the Goody Gal.” He pointed to her chest and leered. “See?”
Stan’s face grew a bit hot. “Pleased to meet you, Miss DuPont.”
The woman looked at him curiously but said nothing.
“Now, to business,” said Hofer, sliding a contract across the table. “How’s this look?”
So much for formalities. Stan looked at the number and raised an eyebrow. “It looks suspicious.”
“How so?”
“That is easily four times the going rate for reporters in a town of this size, and it’s only a two-year contract.”
“I’m new to this business.” Hofer failed to look innocent.
“But not new to business. You might as well tell me what this is about.”
“It’s about me starting a new business, a radio station.” Hofer either raised his shoulders or made his neck disappear. “What’s wrong with that?”
“And you want me to work for you… why?”
“Because you’re the guy from Dansing, the guy who solved the murder of that rich heiress chick. And you’re the guy that figured out who poisoned that other chick in Wisconsin. You’re a reporter. You find out stuff.”
Stan leveled his gaze at Hofer for a solid thirty seconds. Hofer squirmed a bit, pretending to be interested in his drink.
“You are Charlie Hofer. You are probably the richest resident of South Dakota. You have earned a fortune and a reputation. I found out that you are building the largest home in Sioux Falls, but you are not building it in the nicest neighborhood.”
Hofer looked sullen but did not meet Stan’s gaze.
“That neighborhood is the Oaks, a gated community where the very wealthiest live. I did a little asking around. The Oaks is a members-only club. You must be asked to join. I’m guessing you asked, and they said no.”
“Those fucking mealy-mouthed bastards. Like their shit don’t stink,” Hofer snarled, his eyes small and glittering. Stan’s guess had hit home.
“There is nothing illegal about gated communities,” Stan countered.
“But there is some shit. There’s always some shit.” Hofer pounded the table with the flat of his hand, making Veronica jump. “Those bastards got a paper and a TV and a bunch a radio stations and a high-and-mighty attitude that nothing they do is ever gonna get found out.” He leaned back, eyes triumphant. “But I got my own station now. And I got you, and I got the money to hire as many reporters as you can find to dig as deep and as hard as you want to find the shit.”
Stan sat back. The cards were on the table. “So, say I do this. Say I set up an investigative news station. I will not break any laws or take any shortcuts. What if I search and ask and dig and, after months of effort, find nothing?”
It was Hofer’s turn to sit back. “Don’t worry, pal. You’ll find it. There’s prolly some shit goin’ on at this very moment.”
Chapter 7 - Dr. Harrison Benjamin Hall V
Dr. Harrison Benjamin Hall V paced outside the surgical suite, impatient and worried.
The surgery was scheduled for seven in the morning, and it was 6:58. Dammit, dammit, dammit!
LaCroix knew he liked to be on time, and he was purposely trying to toy with him and get him off his game. Cocky asshole. Hall was first in his class at Harvard Medical and a member of Mensa. He had a photographic memory. And here he was, waiting for a college dropout—a Southern hick with no background…
“Hey, Big Five… looks like I’m just in time.”
Hall wheeled around, instantly relieved. Worry was replaced by anger. “No, you incompetent imbecile! You are late.”
Devon LaCroix flashed just the right smile, a perfect mixture of contriteness and roguishness. “Big Five, you are right as usual. I have no excuse worth mentioning, just a little ice and snow and an accident on the Twelfth Street exit… you all prepped?”
The question was obvious, and so was the answer. Hall was swathed and masked and gloved, hands held up and away from the blue gown.
Devon glanced around and said quietly, “Need a boost?”
Hall didn’t bother to answer. He jerked his chin, and Devon stepped in, pulled Hall’s mask down, and expertly tossed the pill in, following it with a squirt of water. He replaced the mask and nodded toward the entrance to the suite.
“What do we have this morning?”
“Diabetic three F-er. Right hip.” Three F-er was hospital slang for female, fifties, flabby. Now that Devon was there, Hall was starting to calm down, his nerves replaced by arrogance. “The surgical team is in place, and we have three scheduled for this suite.”
Devon smiled again. “Semper Fi. Let’s rock and roll.” He lifted his own mask in place and backed through the suite doors, leading the way for the famous Dr. Hall.
Chapter 8 - Stan Martin
First things first. Charlie Hofer’s experience in broadcasting was sparse and naive. There was usually a one-hundred-twenty-day wait between purchase and FCC approval. Normally, this waiting time was wasted, but Hofer had the money, the confidence, and the impatience to make use of it. He simply gave Martin a checkbook and carte blanche to make any decisions on getting a station up and going. April 1 was the deadline.
Stan started with the building. He decided not to tempt fate and look for a place downtown. Too close to Hall Media. Theoretically, a diverse introduction into a media market would sail through federal compliance, especially with a minority on the application, but Stan doubted the Emilio Gonzales story could withstand much scrutiny, and he fully respected the might and political power Hall Media could bring to play, so discretion seemed the best action for the moment.
Driving around town, he saw a For Lease sign in front of a three-story office building off of Cleveland Avenue. He pulled into the parking lot. Three stories. It looked like the other tenants were a dentist, a real estate agent, and an insurance company. Anonymous architecture, main entrance off the back parking lot. He added it to the list.
There was a McDonald’s down the street. Stan checked the time—almost noon. Claire had an appointment with a specialist at ten o’clock that morning, and they’d agreed to meet at the McDonald’s for lunch.
Stan drove a 1970 Chrysler 300, matte black, that he called the Shark. It was hard on gas but had a powerful thrumming motor that was addictive no matter the mileage. He pulled out into traffic and then did a right into the McDonald’s next to Claire’s waiting truck.
They’d decided that two vehicles were absolutely necessary if he took the gig in Sioux Falls, and Claire immediately chose an extended-cab Ford pickup with a ladder rack, dingy white with some rust. She was adamant. “Not a beauty but solid mechanically, well below book, and it’s what I will be needing.”
Stan raised an eyebrow. “We’re getting a truck?”
“Baby, a girl like me has needs, and I needs this truck.” She’d flashed her dimples, and that was that.
Claire and the baby were in a booth. She waved him over and pointed at his waiting food. “Quarter Pounder with cheese. Water. No fries.”
Stan smiled and nodded. He kissed her on the cheek and the baby on the top of the head, slid into the booth, closed his eyes, and was quiet for thirty seconds. Since meeting Claire, Stan never failed to thank God for the food he ate and the woman he loved and the family he had.
He looked over. Claire was halfway through her food, motioning to him with a fry. “Well, whatcha find?”
“You first.” He nodded to John, anxious to hear what the specialist had said.
“I think our little man here has stumped the band. Not autism, not hearing loss.” Claire ticked off the things it was not. “Plus a bunch of other nots I couldn’t pronounce.” While she talked, the baby stared at both of them. “When I said he never cries, the doctor said she wanted to do a little more research and set another appointment.”
“Speaking of never crying, do you think he’s hungry now?” Stan was studying th
e expression on the baby’s face.
Claire cocked her head and looked at him. “Yes. Yes, I think he is.” She picked him up out of his seat and reached for a bottle. “How about you? How’s the search going?”
“Think I found a place. I’ll swing by the realtor after this. That’s the easy part. Now I’ll have to find an engineer to wire the place up. Not easy since everyone I can think of does contract work for Hall Media.”
“I have two cousins that do tower work… is that the kind of work you need done?”
“Some of it.” Stan was eating his burger in small fastidious bites. “Have you mentioned them before?”
“Don’t think so. Cal and Wes Cole. They travel around a lot. Solid guys. You’d like them, I think.”
“Well, it’s worth a call, anyway.”
Claire held the bottle for the baby and continued eating fries with the other hand. “How much time before the license comes through?”
“Just over ninety days.”
“Then what?”
Stan shrugged. “Then we start an all-news station with a focus on investigative news.” He considered the baby drinking milk steadily from the bottle. “What was the name of the clinic?”
“Hall Clinic for Children. Part of Hall-Hauptman Hospital. Nice place. Big. Fancy. They must get a lot of endowments.” Claire’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
Stan shook his head. “Nothing. Just that Hofer’s got his mind set on some of these bigger businesses in town. Maybe Hall Clinic is one of them.”
The baby looked at him.
Chapter 9 - Janet Brecht
Janet Brecht was suited and scrubbed up, looking exactly like the rest of the surgical team. She’d seen the assignment on Friday and knew she was working with Dr. Hall. Now she could see for herself what others had warned her about. As a surgical tech, she was low on the totem pole and knew it. She was taking a two-year course in the exciting world of medicine, which meant holding flaps of skin open while some high-paid jerk yelled at her because he could. Oh well. Ann Johnson was the other surgical tech. They knew each other from school and were work friends, sometimes hanging out after work to blow off steam and gossip.