Killing Reality

by Bob Henderson

Spitz stopped swiveling back and forth in his chair, and while still looking pissed, he started looking a lot less bored. “Keep going,” he said.

  I took a deep breath. Whew, here goes... “When I was a grip working on the Being Stronge set, I saw Petra Stronge having sex with Andrea Milk in the electric closet. Petra saw me and later came to my apartment to make sure I wouldn’t talk. He wasn’t alone, either. Andrea was waiting in the car. He beat me up, tied me to a chair, and then tried to kill me, using Andrea as his getaway driver. I had no choice but to defend myself, so I hit him hard with my Louisville Slugger. He went down like a rock and never regained consciousness. I panicked and didn’t know what to do. I figured the police would never believe a nobody like me and would take the side of the big television star, so I drove to the river and dumped the body in it, hoping no one would ever find him.”

  I stopped abruptly, my mouth dry and heart hammering in my chest. Spitz looked incredulous, like I’d just told him I was from Mars. Then he leaned across the desk, squinted his eyes at me, and asked, “Are you shittin’ me, Henderson?”

  He probably thought I was high as a kite on something. I couldn’t really blame him. “No way in hell—it was totally self-defense. I panicked and never went to the police. I was scared shitless. Still am.”

  While part of me felt relief to have told someone—even a prick like Spitz—I also felt more than a little uneasy now that someone else knew my secret.

  “Wait a sec—what happened to Andrea that night? Did she come inside or what? Did she just drive away, or did you have to kill her in self-defense too?” Spitz demanded.

  I worried that Spitz didn’t believe me—by now, he probably thought he had a whacked-out serial killer sitting across from him, so I lied and quickly assured him that I’d had nothing to do with Andrea’s death. Confessing one self-defense killing was more than enough for now. Spitz didn’t need any more ammunition. Plus, I might’ve needed to use that information later.

  There was an awkward silence. I thought, Oh shit, I really did it now. He’s going to call the police and I’ll be on The First 48 Hours. But then, Spitz’s face split open into the biggest smile, as if he’d just won the lottery. Twice.

  He demanded details and I complied, giving him a play-by-play account of what had happened. Spitz was furiously scribbling notes as I talked. I could tell Spitz was over the moon—he couldn’t stop smiling or giggling. If I knew anything about Spitz, he was already counting the money this news was going to make him. And he’d be laughing all the way to the bank. Relieved beyond measure, all I could think was, God bless his greedy little soul.

  The wheels were turning so fast in Spitz’s head, I was surprised smoke didn’t start wafting from his ears. He didn’t know what to do first. He did agree that the ratings would explode if the public found out that the star of Get a Grip had killed not one, but two reality stars. Spitz also realized he would get amazing publicity himself for being the one to not only convince his star to “do the right thing” and turn himself in, but also help the police close an open homicide case.

  This could turn him into an even bigger power player in the TV industry. It was a slam-dunk. Spitz would play the Good Samaritan to obtain my confession, his picture would get plastered all over the papers and social media, and he would receive even more press by bailing me out of jail and following the self-defense case as part of his reality show.

  Once again, I wondered if or when I was going to be arrested for murder. I really didn’t know how Spitz would play this whole thing out. I felt a very sharp, deep pang of guilt and regret when I thought about my mom and Mrs. Fox finding out. I hadn’t even returned any of their calls for the last couple days, but I deeply regretted that I hadn’t told them all this first. Hearing about this would tear them apart. I thought of calling them the minute I left Spitz’s office but realized I couldn’t turn their lives inside out. The fallout from my actions had to be on my shoulders alone, and I’d protect them at all costs. I couldn’t bear the thought of them getting sucked into the downward spiral I was heading in. They were wonderful, kind, and amazing women who loved me, in spite of the fact that I’d done nothing to deserve it. At least now I could protect them by keeping my distance for a while.

  I told Spitz I couldn’t go back to my apartment with all the paparazzi hanging around, so he decided to put me up in one of his many apartments around town until he could figure out the best course of action.

  I asked him again, “Spitz, do I have your word that you will help me with this?”

  “Kid,” he said, standing up and putting out his hand. “When it comes to your well-being in this matter, I will do everything in my power to keep you safe. Now, you go and take it easy. I need to bring in some counsel on this.”

  He shook my hand as he practically pushed me out the door.

  32 Back In Business

  It didn’t take Spitz long to put his plan into motion, because the next morning I received a call from his secretary telling me to be on set at noon sharp that same day. So, at noon sharp I stepped through the familiar front door of the dilapidated house that was used as our set with new eyes—the eyes of a second chance. I noticed the people on set were acting a little nicer to me. Granted, the news of my little gun episode in my apartment lobby had probably helped promote this change, which was one positive thing that came out of that whole disaster. I noticed right away things felt a little different. I started getting more attention than the other cast members. It was definitely a good feeling. Maybe, just maybe, I was back on top. Or, at least moving in the right direction.

  While Spitz was brainstorming how best to incorporate this new twist into the show, I was in wardrobe working on a new look that was a little less slacker and a little more hipster. While I did like my new look, I kept my mouth shut and kept my eye on the prize, a second chance at the brass ring. Claire from wardrobe was taking in the sides of my new shirt, pins sticking out from her lips, as I mused, “You know Claire, it’s good for today's kids to see what really happens when you get instant fame and treat people badly.”

  Claire looked confused and alarmed, stopping in mid-tuck. She had obviously heard of my earlier meltdowns and was probably nervous to see what might be coming next.

  “I mean—don’t get me wrong, Claire, I don’t believe that killing anyone is good, or that it should even be acceptable. But there are some circumstances where you don’t have much of a choice.”

  Claire just looked more disturbed, so I shut up before she accidentally swallowed one of those pins—or worse. Inwardly, however, I knew I was right. Reality TV had a unique psychosis of its own. It should’ve come with its own definition in the psychology textbooks: Reality TV Addiction: A potentially deadly illness in which a person is addicted to living in front of the TV night after night. Sufferers experience symptoms including, but not limited to: wishing they were a Kardashian, a Stronge, or whoever the flavor-of-the-month currently is. Prognosis: fatal. Chance of Recovery: slim to none.

  Twelve-step programs should be implemented for these wannabes who didn’t have lives and were content watching vapid, self-centered “stars” acting badly in front of the camera. Maybe then, more young adults could see what happens to these whack-jobs in real life. They could see that they act badly—very badly—hurting other people, lying, and turning into greedy monsters. With treatment by experts and a little group therapy thrown in, they might realize that the stars they worship aren’t role models at all; they aren’t even borderline decent people. They are scum. And they’re expendable. Then another thought popped into my head: Am I becoming one of them? That means I’m expendable too.

  While Claire pinned the last hem on my pants, Spitz showed his face in the door in an uncharacteristically jovial manner. “Hey Marky Marc! Great to see you, kiddo—looking good!”

  “Hey, James. Thanks. Again, I really appreciate you letting me stay on the show.”

  “Hey, I’m glad you’re with us! This is going to be great—you just wait an
d see,” Spitz said with that dopey grin still plastered across his face.

  On the surface, I was trying hard to appear professional, courteous, and most of all, cool as a cucumber. I pretended to be keenly interested in the buttons of my shirt in the mirror. Spitz noticed and asked Claire to step out of the wardrobe room for a few minutes so he could talk to me in private, and then he shut the door.

  “Listen, no need to be nervous, Marc. You’re going to be fantastic. Listen, just between you and me—and you’re the first person I’m telling this to, of course—we have some new twists in story ideas coming up that could push our ratings way, way, up. I’m talking ‘move aside Scandal, Game of Thrones, and Ray Donovan’ kind of changes. Think of it as an all-new, jacked-up, kick-ass Proven Killers! The details are a little sketchy at the moment, so I can’t say anything more, but if the team can deliver on even half of what they’re promising, we’re all going to love it! Okay, talk to you soon—break a leg!” And with that, Spitz winked and disappeared out the door before I could form a reply.

  If possible, I became even more nervous. What was Spitz up to? “New twists...jacked-up show”? What the hell did that mean? I prayed to God Spitz hadn’t told anyone else what he was up to. I hadn’t even been back at the set for a day and he was already going 100 miles per hour. So, Spitz was going to throw a new curve ball into the show, huh? This had better be good.

  But deep down, I knew it wasn’t going to be good at all.

  33 Quick Sand

  Later that same day, Spitz called and asked me to come by the office the following morning for a meeting. He arranged for a car to pick me up so I could go straight from the apartment to his office. He said he wanted to discuss the new ideas for the show he’d alluded to earlier. But I wasn’t buying any of it. If Spitz was happy, I had a feeling I’d soon be unhappy. In the short time I had known him, Spitz was the proverbial “fair weather” friend, throwing something away (or more likely, someone) if anything better came along. When the weather turned ugly, so would he, and he’d kick you to the curb and not give it a second thought. TV stars were a dime a dozen, Spitz always said, and even with my whopper of a confession, he had no allegiance to me. I was starting to get a bad feeling about all of this.

  As promised, the car service arrived early the next day and this time, when I showed up to his office, I wasn’t frisked. Spitz’s secretary escorted me into his personal office so I could wait for him there.

  I sat in the guest chair, checking my phone messages and playing Words with Friends for a good twenty minutes. Glancing down at my watch, I wondered why Spitz was late for the meeting. It wasn’t his style. I got up out of the chair to stretch my legs and walked around. I was bored and antsy by now, so I walked over to his desk and started snooping—wondering if any of the files laying on top of it had anything to do with the new so-called “twist,” or if there was some information about me in them. Before I could take a peek, however, I noticed the tip of a shoe sticking out from behind the desk.

  I slowly leaned forward to get a good look at what my mind could not yet process. There, crumpled up and stuffed like rubbish between his chair and under the desk was James Spitz—who looked deader than a doornail. I froze. My head swam, my mind reeled. I took what I hoped was a steadying breath and leaned down to touch Spitz’s neck. No pulse. Having had some experience with this kind of thing before, I knew if I lingered any longer, I would be suspect, so I pressed the intercom button on the phone.

  “Yes?” came the secretary’s voice.

  “I found him—Mr. Spitz, I mean. I mean, I found him lying on the floor—I think he may be dead. Can you please call the police?”

  There was a shriek from the outside office, followed closely by the secretary rushing in, the phone still in her hand. She came around the desk, confirmed with her eyes what her ears had just heard, looked at me, and shrieked again.

  Forty-five minutes later, the crime scene unit was lifting fingerprints from Spitz’s office. They also took a set from his secretary—just to rule her out, they assured her. There was no need to take prints from me, seeing how mine were already on file. Once again, I was riding in the backseat of a police cruiser. The officers couldn’t have been nicer. After all, these guys and I had gotten to know each other over the past few months.

  At the station, they brought me into a conference room where a bored-looking detective sat. I recognized him from one of my previous interrogations in the Prime case. He asked several questions, but it was as if he was just going through the motions—perhaps knowing I wasn’t involved with this latest case and couldn’t be bothered to care. Maybe he had teenaged daughters at home who watched Proven Killers and figured I’d be out before the ink was dry on the paperwork. When he was done, he asked me to sign my statement, which I did. Then two young officers standing guard near the door asked if they could get my autograph “for their girlfriends.” I smiled and complied.

  Just as I was about to get up to leave, an older, more senior detective came in who did not look happy. He looked like ex-military with a crew cut. He wasn’t tall or short, but built like he could readily handle himself in any given situation. Just like a bulldog, I thought. He dismissed the other detective with a nod and sat down across from me.

  He introduced himself as Artie Kramer. I had heard the name before. Kramer had a reputation around the station as being very tough, but fair. You didn’t want to get on his bad side, and most of the younger guys were afraid of him, so I’d been told. Before I could say a word, Kramer jumped right into what would be the first of countless rapid-fire questions. Some had already been asked by the other detective, while others were more in-depth about Spitz and his background, who he associated with, and so on. There were even a few oddball questions I think he threw in just to keep me off balance, like “What do you know about something called S.T.S.?”

  I didn’t understand the question, so I asked him to repeat what he had said.

  “S.T.S. Tell me what you know about it.” Kramer’s face remained impassive, giving nothing away.

  “Uh, not much—the only S.T.S. I know is a tire service,” I replied. I was curious to learn what the hell he was getting at with the S.T.S. and Spitz’s murder, so I played ball and cooperated. The interrogation dragged on in this vein for a while. Kramer then asked one more time if I knew nothing else S.T.S. could stand for. How repetitive can one guy be?

  “I’m sorry, but I’m confused. I’ve already told you the only S.T.S. I know of is a tire service company. It’s a large chain and I think I even got a flat fixed there once, but I don’t understand why you keep asking me basically the same thing. I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

  Kramer didn’t look up at me, nor did he answer. He kept his head down and continued taking notes. The silence was unnerving, probably a tactic Detective Kramer had learned in his military training. Suspect Interrogation 101: Ask as many questions as you can so as to confuse the suspect. Write constantly, as if you’re taking copious notes. Do not look up at subject. Ignore all requests for food, water, and bathroom breaks. This tactic has shown to be extremely effective in causing the subject to become nervous, to sweat profusely, and eventually blurt out a confession. Case closed.

  I tried to get my point across anyway. “I don’t know what happened to James—I only know it had nothing to do with me! You’ve got to know that questioning me is a waste of time, when the killer is still out there. I had nothing to do with his death. For cripes’ sake, he was my boss! He gave me a great job, we are—were—friends. I had no reason to kill the man.”

  “Hmm…really, Mr. Henderson?” Kramer finally looked up at me as he continued. “No reason whatsoever? And you know absolutely nothing about anything that relates to S.T.S.? And you were under the impression that you and Mr. Spitz were friends?”

  He proceeded to open a file that he’d brought into the interview room earlier. “Do you know what this is? This is a file from Mr. Spitz’s desk. Have you seen this file before?” he aske
d, not waiting for an answer. “Because I have. And after reading what’s in it, I find it hard to believe you and Mr. Spitz were friends. There’s a memo in this file that claims a cast member by the name of Armando Quesada was going to be integrated more into the storyline to become the show’s new star attraction. It further indicates that with Armando as the star of Proven Killers, they planned on diminishing your role after your recent meltdown and lessen your screen time considerably. And by doing so, they could trim costs to help finance their new star’s salary.”

  He shut the file with a flourish. “So, do you still want to tell me you two were friends? Because I know it would piss me off big time if I found out that my so-called ‘friend’ was up to something like this behind my back.” He looked at me expectantly.

  I remained calm and acted genuinely surprised by the contents of the memo. “I’m shocked. I mean, I know this is a business and all, but James seemed so sincere and even said he wanted us to brainstorm some ideas for the upcoming season. That was the whole reason for our meeting this morning.”

  Kramer seemed not to hear me. “This note was found shoved in Mr. Spitz’s mouth, post-mortem—that means, after he was killed.”

  He slid over a sealed plastic bag, containing a crumpled piece of paper so I could see it. All it said was “S.T.S” scrawled in some type of red ink. I picked it up to peer at it closer. “I don’t know who wrote this or why. But I didn’t. I mean, look at it—it isn’t even my handwriting.”

  I slid the note back to Kramer, who returned it to his folder. He leveled a long, cold stare at me as I tried not to wet my pants. Then, without warning, he said abruptly, “Thank you, Mr. Henderson. You have been more than cooperative. I think we’re done here.”

  “I can go? Really?” After all the intense grilling, his sudden dismissal had me bewildered.