In The Middle of Middle America
Page 26
Walter cleared his throat, swiped across his mouth again, then reached into his inside blazer pocket and removed a tin box.
“Well,” he said. “I guess this story is almost as much his as it is yours.”
“Uh-uh,” Sarah-Jane said, swaying her ponytail from side to side again. “Not almost. This story is as much his as it is mine. He just happened to be behind the camera. I happened to be in front of it. But we broke this story together. We arrived at that school together.”
Timing can be everything in journalism. And on October, 24, 1997, Sarah-Jane Zdanski and Philip Meredith happened to be victors of the time lottery. All of their numbers came up. They were in the right place. At the exact right time. They skidded their white van with the PBS sticker peeling from the side of it onto the school lot and then raced, as quickly they could, to the entrance — a camera shuddering up and down on Phil’s left shoulder — within twenty minutes of the shots being fired. They just happened to be waking up in the middle of middle America having stayed in a local motel the night before after interviewing the state senator and the school’s principal for the local PBS network, exclusively revealing Median High as the victors of the state’s school lottery. Nearest journalist to the story wins the time lottery. Sarah-Jane and Phil were only nine minutes away from this story. And the jackpot was huge.
Three local police officers were at the scene by the time they rushed to the entrance, after the cameraman slash producer had heard the original phone call made live by a teacher to emergency services through the receiver in his van while he was munching on a breakfast burrito. He dropped the burrito to the pedals of his van upon hearing a teacher scream down the line that she had heard multiple gunshots coming from the classroom opposite hers, then he raced into the motel to inform his colleague who was drying her hair. With no national reporters anywhere close to the vicinity of the middle of middle America, Sarah-Jane and Phil began to take total control of the story. And boy was it a huge story. Monumental. Mass school shootings didn’t just happen every day. In fact, they rarely happened. Not like this. Eight shots fired, seven bodies confirmed within minutes by Sarah-Jane as she delivered the news to America straight down the lens of Phil’s camera. Within the space of one twenty-minute period that morning — between nine-fifty and ten a.m. — Sarah-Jane’s beautiful face appeared on every major network in the country; from FOX News, to CNN, to MSNBC and then to CSN before cycling all way back through those networks over and over again. She handled the reporting of what was such a monumentally emotional and shocking story so coolly and professionally, that within twenty-four hours of the Median High school shootings, the owners of every major network were on the phone, lobbing all manner of offers her way. No offer arrived more attractive than the one sold, repeatedly in four separate phone calls, by Walter Fellowes at CSN: a quarter of a million a year to host her own panel show—Zdanski; a hard-hitting, all-encompassing cultural affairs program that would see her interviewing all popular public-interest guests each and every Thursday evening. Walter Fellowes knew exactly who the panel of guests should be for her debut show, and knew as soon as he conceived the idea that it would prove to be a ratings smash.
As he sucked and puffed to light the cigar he had just removed from the tin box, Howie’s loud voice distracted him, shouting from behind the curtain.
“Only five minutes until we are live, ladies and gentlemen,” the campy executive producer called out. “Can I ask the interviewees to take their seats around the desk on stage?”
Upon hearing the bodies shuffle, Walter took a step away from Sarah-Jane and Phil to pull at the gap in the curtain, so he could squint his beady eyes into the brightly lit studio. Then he exhaled a huge cloud of smoke, just as the first guest was taking her seat at the sausage-shaped desk. Patricia Edwards. She was the mother and wife of two of the victims—Brody Edwards and Johnny Edwards. Johnny was the only victim shot twice. It’s not known why exactly, but it has been strongly suggested by investigators that he was charging at Meric Miller, even having being shot in the stomach, before a second bullet was fired through the bridge of his nose from close range.
Brendan Larkin sat in the chair next to Patricia. He was the father of Caoimhe Larkin; an Irish girl about to celebrate her sweet sixteenth birthday just three days after the massacre occurred. Her and her family had only moved to Lebanon two months prior.
Beside Brendan sat Tyrel Nelson— the father of Wendy Campbell. Though “father” should probably appear in quotation marks. Sperm donor is a more apt title to give him to describe his relationship with his beautiful, late daughter. Her mother, who raised her and her young sister Sally single-handedly, didn’t live long enough between the atrocity and Sarah-Jane Zdanski’s exclusive interviews with the loved ones of the victims of the Median High School shootings, and so her estranged ex-husband, whom she hadn’t seen for fourteen years and who hadn’t met with his daughter Wendy since she was just eighteen months old, was the only person who could appear on national television to mourn her tragic loss.
Next to Tyrel sat, with rigid shoulders and a strong, somber face, Nova Chayton—a man who had already appeared multiple times on TV for different news organizations since the shootings happened six weeks ago to inform the nation of the pride and love he had always held inside his heart for his “flawless” son, Kai.
On the far end of the sausage-shaped desk, the chair furthest away from Sarah-Jane Zdanski’s eleven thousand dollar chair, sat Mia Hahn—the twin sister of the only teacher killed in the school shootings: Lucy Decker. It had been confirmed by eye-witnesses that Lucy was the last person shot, before Meric turned the gun on himself.
It’s not known if Meric fired his bullets randomly or whether he knew who he wanted to take down during his rampage—though he couldn’t have foreseen that US soldier Johnny Edwards would be in the classroom when he entered with his gun outstretched at nine-ten that morning.
There were some clues left by the shooter in his manifesto. Meric had produced one final newsletter for Median High — announcing his “annihilation” of those who had continually failed to acknowledge his existence. What is clear from the manifesto is that Lucy Decker seemed an intended target, as her name was mentioned in unsavory terms repeatedly within the one-sheet newsletter. But while the names of four of his victims were also mentioned throughout the manifesto, so too were other names who weren’t shot. What is abundantly clear, however, from the text of the manifesto, is that Meric Miller was yearning for attention. He had headlined the newsletter Meric Miller, Serial Killer and then placed an oversized portrait of himself, grinning a menacing smile, beneath that headline.
Sarah-Jane would get to the manifesto in part two of the show—when Meric Miller’s mother Abigail was due to appear alongside distraught school principal Patrick Klay, who, coincidentally, Sarah-Jane had interviewed the night before the school massacre to reveal the winners of the state school lottery. Though Abigail Miller was still suffering backstage, and it was not yet clear if she would or would not appear on air.
“Three minutes,” Howie shouted. “Where is my host?”
Walter exhaled a cloud of cigar smoke through the gap in the curtain, then croaked, “She’s out here, talking to me. Don’t worry. I’ll have her in to you before cameras roll.” He spun back around, cleared his throat disgustingly, then pressed a hand to his host’s stomach. “You still got that knot in there?” he said.
Sarah-Jane closed her eyes gently, filled her lungs, then exhaled slowly before answering.
“I’m not nervous about the viewing figures.”
“Oh, I know you’re not nervous about the viewing figures,” Walter said, before sucking on his cigar again.
“It’s just… oh, I don’t know…”
“I know,” Walter croaked, while exhaling. Sarah-Jane shifted her marble eyes, just in time to see him slurp his wet tongue across his dry lips again. “I’ve hired sixty news anchors in my time and I know no anchor gets nervous because of the viewing
figures. They’re never nervous that something can go wrong. Why would they be? They’re smart people. They know nothing can go wrong. They’ve got cue cards in large writing in front of them, a full script on their desk right under their nose, their questions printed out on little cards in their hands, a producer hunkered down beside camera four with a full script in his hand, and a director in their ear who knows every beat of the script by heart. Of course you’re not worried that you might go wrong in front of so many people. You know nothing can go wrong. The only reason that knot is there inside your stomach is the same reason every news anchor gets nervous before their first major story. Your moral compass is swinging in your belly.”
He sucked on his cigar again, and as he did, Sarah-Jane took a moment to glance over her shoulder at Phil’s bullish, unmoving features, before she swung her beautiful face back around.
“I just don’t think the opening two lines are necessary―”
“Just say the opening two lines,” Walter said, leaning into her, before slowly whistling a cloud of smoke upward, between their two faces.
“It’s about what those two lines represent,” Sarah-Jane said, waving the smoke away. “Do we need to highlight right off the bat that we’re putting these grieving folks up on a perfectly lit stage for America to gawk at?”
Walter chuckled, then turned to poke his head through the gap in the curtain again, to see all members of the crew stood or hunkered in their proper positions, waiting for the floor manager to begin his countdown.
“One minute!” Howie shouted.
“You seem way too focused on those who have nothing to gain, Sarah-Jane. You haven’t mentioned anyone who does gain from this.”
Walter turned back around.
“Gain?” Sarah-Jane said, squinting at him. “What do you mean gain? Not one of these guests gains from appearing live on national TV. The next hour and a half is hardly gonna relieve them of any of the anguish, or torment… or confusion... or grief… or whatever it is they are feeling, is it?”
“You’re still focusing on those who don’t gain.”
Walter wrapped an arm around Sarah-Jane’s shoulders and moved her forward to the gap in the curtain, before pulling it further across just in time for Howie to stare at them, shrug his shoulders, and then shout out: “Forty seconds.”
“See those cameras,” Walter said, pointing a stubby finger into the shadows. “Thirty million Americans are gonna be watching you for the next ninety minutes through those. Who gains? America gains. You gain. A quarter of a million a year contract. Your own show. Nobody has gained from this story more than you, Miss Zdanski. Except for CSN, of course. That quarter of a million you’re earning a year, we’re gonna make that back in the first sixty seconds of commercials we are going to air in…” he glanced down at his watch while clearing his throat disgustingly, “just twelve minutes time.” He squeezed the beauty closer to him. “And your job for CSN, who pay you that quarter of a million a year, is to squeeze as much juice from this story as you can. I told you before. You are not in the news business. You are in the television business. You know that, right? We’ve spoken about that. That’s what you get paid to do. So, go do your job… go squeeze some juice.” He patted her on the ass, then spun around to shuffle his short legs back in the direction he had walked from while he continued to puff on his cigar.
Sarah-Jane turned to Phil, pressed a palm on either side of his face, then leaned up to press her lips against his before spinning on her high-heels and walking herself through the gap in the curtain, where she stepped up onto the stage while still pressing a hand to her stomach. She pursed her lips at each of the blank faces of the guests sitting around the sausage-shaped desk, then turned to face the lights.
“Ten seconds,” Howie called out. “Makeup!”
Mollie raced onto the stage, balancing an open foundation compact on her flat palm and a makeup brush gripped in the other. She didn’t say anything as she matted the glow from Sarah-Jane’s brow before stepping off stage right on cue for the floor manager to raise his voice.
“And we go live in… five,” he shouted, “four… three…” He signaled with his fingers, in front of the camera Sarah-Jane was looking at, the numbers two… and then one.
A tiny red light switched on just above the lens, and a motor could be heard humming within the mechanics of camera number one. Sarah-Jane pursed her lips tight and clasped her hands. Then she delivered the opening two lines she had always felt were highly inappropriate.
“Good evening, America. And welcome to the show.”
…
In 2019, there were more mass shootings in America than there were days of the year.
Watch an interview with author David B. Lyons right now in which he discusses:
The tells that Meric possessed the profile of a High School shooter
Why the first two sentences of Sarah-Jane Zdanski’s live broadcast are so powerful
The significance of the last morning of the lives of these seven characters
It’s absolutely free.
Just use the link below to access the video now.
https://www.subscribepage.com/middleamerica
The end.
David B. Lyons IS THE AUTHOR OF:
Midday
Whatever Happened to Betsy Blake?
The Suicide Pact
She Said, Three Said
The Curious Case of Faith & Grace
The Coincidence
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book was written during the Coronavirus pandemic—when we were all isolated from our loved ones.
We missed the O’Hanlons during that crazy year more than any other family. Barry, Eleanor, Emma, Ben and Grace — this one is for you. We’re looking forward to making up for lost time…
I owe huge debts of gratitude to so many people whose support and insight made the challenge of writing this book an actual possibility (because it most certainly wasn’t when I first conceived the idea). The biggest thanks goes to Hannah Healy — a consultant on this novel — who was instrumental in ensuring this story achieved its American voice. You’re awesome. The wonderful Kathy Grams’s feedback and insight on American voice was also super helpful. Thank you ladies so much for taking the time to give me fantastic notes on this manuscript while it was in development. Your finger prints are all over the pages of this book.
Margaret Lyons, Eileen Cline, Roz Casagrande, and Rosemary Rasmussen — thank you so much for reading early drafts of this novel and giving me really helpful notes on how it could become an even more improved experience for the reader.
A huge thank you goes to City of Lebanon, Kansas who gifted me some insight into the wonderful, colorful and characterful real town in which I set this novel.
I would also like to thank MiblArt for their unique design work on these covers and, of course, my editors: Lisa Gellar and Brigit Taylor.
And to you, the reader. I hope you enjoyed this read, even though the themes are ultimately very dark. I would highly recommend checking out the video link at the back of this book, so you, too, can join in the discussion.
Contents
Prologue
Praise for David B. Lyons
Untitled
Untitled
Untitled
Chapter 1
LUCY DECKER
CAOIMHE LARKIN
MERIC MILLER
KAI CHAYTON
LUCY DECKER
BRODY EDWARDS
CAOIMHE LARKIN
Chapter 2
BRODY EDWARDS
LUCY DECKER
WENDY CAMPBELL
CAOIMHE LARKIN
LUCY DECKER
MERIC MILLER
BRODY EDWARDS
LUCY DECKER
Chapter 3
CAOIMHE LARKIN
BRODY EDWARDS
LUCY DECKER
MERIC MILLER
BRODY EDWARDS
WENDY CAMPBELL
CAOIMHE LARKIN
KAI CHAYTON
LUCY DECKER
Chapter 4
MERIC MILLER
BRODY EDWARDS
JOHNNY EDWARDS
LUCY DECKER
KAI CHAYTON
CAOIMHE LARKIN
MERIC MILLER
WENDY CAMPBELL
LUCY DECKER
Chapter 5
JOHNNY EDWARDS
KAI CHAYTON
WENDY CAMPBELL
LUCY DECKER
MERIC MILLER
CAOIMHE LARKIN
JOHNNY EDWARDS
Chapter 6
BRODY EDWARDS
LUCY DECKER
WENDY CAMPBELL