Crime Beat Girl

by Geri L Dreiling

  You've got work to do, she told herself. Pull yourself together and get on with it.

  She grabbed her robe and dried her hair with one of the extra towels. Her gaze rested on the heap of clothes in the corner. I'll deal with that later.

  Debbie opened the bathroom door and stepped into the cool hallway. She threw on a pair of old sweatpants and a T-shirt. Her hair was a wet tangled mess that she didn't bother to comb. Instead, she made her way down the stairs and to the kitchen, where her laptop waited on a cabinet.

  Just get your thoughts down. Edit later. Just get your thoughts down.

  When her fingers touched the keyboard, they began to move haltingly. Within a few minutes, they effortlessly picked up speed. All that she'd experienced that day was somehow spilled onto the screen while Debbie watched, detached and fascinated. She had no idea how long she sat there. All she knew was that she wasn't pushing words out, they just appeared.

  When she'd finished the description of Flannery climbing into the ambulance, sitting down, and stoically refusing to flinch as an IV was inserted into his arm just before the ambulance doors were shut, Debbie's hands stopped. That was enough for today. She already knew it would be another blog post. A firsthand account that would later become part of the story she'd weave for the print magazine.

  Debbie grabbed a mug to make tea and caught her reflection in the microwave door. Her hair had dried into a tangled mess, as if she'd been sleeping on the streets for weeks.

  Her phone vibrated on the table. She'd been semi-conscious of the fact that it seemed to be shaking nonstop ever since she sat down in front of her computer. But only now was she ready to face her callers.

  The most persistent contacts were from her editor and her mother. Phone calls and texts that seemed to get more insistent and irritated when Debbie didn't reply. She knew she'd held them off long enough. She'd save the hardest call for last.

  Debbie dialed Sam first.

  "Where have you been? I've been trying to reach you for hours. I even called the police department to see if you were okay."

  "I'm done," Debbie said.

  "What?"

  "I'm done. I wrote a post about today. It's ready to go. I just need you to edit it. If you think it's good enough, can you post it? If it isn't ready, I'll work on it tomorrow. Oh, and I've got photos. You pick the ones you like. I've uploaded them into our shared folder so you can choose."

  "Forget about the piece for a moment. How are you?"

  Debbie inhaled then exhaled loudly. "I don't know. The only thing I know is that I needed some time alone. I didn't want to talk to anyone. I just wanted to process my thoughts. I needed to write. I didn't want to contaminate what was in my head, the sights, the sounds, the story in my head. I needed to write it all down before I started talking."

  Debbie paused. "I just needed to be left alone."

  Sam was quiet. "I'll take a look. Maybe you should take a few days off. The print magazine with your story about Jarrett will be available tomorrow. Would be a good time for you to take a short break."

  "Maybe," Debbie said as she heard a set of keys landing in the bowl just inside the front door. Her mother's footsteps sounded angry. "Look, I gotta go," Debbie said just as her mom appeared in the doorway.

  Beth's eyes were blazing with anger as she strode up to her daughter.

  Debbie put down her phone on the cabinet, her arms going limp along her body as her shoulders sagged.

  Beth stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Debbie, saying nothing. It was only then that tears tumbled from the reporter's eyes.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Day After

  "Tough break for Detective Flannery," the mechanic said to Debbie when she arrived to pick up her car. Beth had given her daughter a ride to the garage. The repairs had been finished, and Debbie could finally reclaim her wheels.

  It was the day after Flannery had been shot. It had been the top story on all the local TV news stations. Reporters from every channel had been stationed outside the hospital, hoping to get a glimpse of the detective, but had to settle for statements from the police chief who paid a visit.

  "I think he saved my life," Debbie said.

  The mechanic stapled together the service summary as well as the invoice. Then he tugged a medal out from under his shirt, rubbed it, and then slipped it back under his collar. "We all need a guardian angel. But I feel sorry for yours."

  Debbie mustered a half smile.

  "I hope the next time I see you, it's for an oil change," he said as he handed Debbie the keys to the Civic and pointed her to the lot.

  After driving a newer model rental car, she noticed all of the things that her Civic lacked. And it looked tired, a little beat up. A little defeated. As Debbie adjusted the driver's seat to fit her frame instead of the mechanic's, her cell phone rang. She checked the number. Her stomach tightened, and it felt as if someone had wrapped a hand tightly around her heart and squeezed it with as much might as could be mustered.

  "Hello, Christian," was her shaky opening.

  "Hey, ace," he replied. "I wasn't sure you'd answer."

  "Why?"

  "Well, one, because it's me. Two, because it looks like you're a one-woman news machine in St. Louis. Your story about the bait car and the shootout. That's some fine work."

  "Just lucky. Right place, right time. Or wrong place, wrong time, depending on how you look at it," Debbie said.

  "Same ol' Deb," Christian replied. "When are you going to just admit that you're a good reporter? You can dig up facts and can wordsmith it into a riveting piece. Your article is making the rounds in the newsroom here. Everyone is surprised what you've been able to produce in such a sleepy mid-sized town."

  "Thanks, I think," Debbie replied, miffed at the gratuitous jab at St. Louis. Sure, it wasn't D.C., New York, or L.A., but it was her hometown.

  "How's your mom?" Christian asked.

  "Surprisingly good," Debbie answered. "She hasn't taken much of any time off work. She's so stubborn."

  "Like mother, like daughter," Christian said. "Cabezona."

  Debbie laughed. "I haven't been called pigheaded in a while."

  "So," Christian said before clearing his throat, "you coming back?"

  Debbie shut her eyes.

  "Look, I'm running late for a meeting," Debbie said. And she was. Chase had left her a message the night before, after he'd read the online version of her bait car story. He'd asked her to stop by his office the next day.

  "No problem, I just wanted to compliment your work," Christian said before he hung up the phone.

  Debbie gripped the steering wheel and put her car into drive. She had work to do.

  The greeting was awkward.

  Chase extended his hand to Debbie, but a handshake seemed too formal. After all, they had gone to dinner together and were past the meet-and-greet stage of a relationship. But a hug didn't feel right either; too familiar for the reporter and lawyer who were still not completely sure whether the other could be trusted.

  "You've been busy," Chase said after Debbie took his hand. He gestured toward a conference room. "Stakeouts, shootings, and a steady stream of stories."

  Debbie shrugged. "I swear to you that my life is mostly a collection of boring bits. Things will quiet down soon, you'll see."

  "I'm not so sure," Chase answered. "You kinda remind me of someone who keeps accidentally stomping on nests of red wasps hidden in ground ivy. You should be careful. You've been able to outrun your threats so far. But you may be outnumbered soon."

  "How can I stop when I don't even know what I'm doing?" Debbie replied. "I just ping from crime to random crime. The only thread that seems to tie it all together is St. Louis."

  "Sometimes we try to create connections in things that aren't connected," Chase cautioned. "How often do people try to come up with a story that explains happy or tragic events by stringing together random actions and concluding there was a larger theme that ends with a statement that 'it was me
ant to be'? Maybe you're trying too hard to piece together something that isn't a puzzle. Maybe each act of violence is just arbitrary and capricious."

  "I've considered that, too," Debbie admitted. "Perhaps I'm trying to manufacture a logical explanation for an illogical world."

  "That would be understandable. And maybe there is something more going on. I don't know. But I do know one thing."

  "What's that?"

  "You're an outsider," Chase observed. "In the dangerous neighborhoods you're exploring, it is going to be awfully hard for anyone to want to stick their neck out for you."

  "Don't you think I know that?" Debbie said.

  Chase shrugged. "You seem rather hardheaded to me."

  "Funny, that's the second time today I've been called stubborn," Debbie said, recalling her brief conversation with Christian. Damn him, she thought. Christian was the last person she wanted to think about right now.

  "You said in your message last night that you had some information for me," Debbie said, switching the subject.

  "Yes," Chase said. "I guess you could more accurately call it a proposition."

  "I'm listening," Debbie said.

  "My young client Joshua Lucas is a good kid," Chase said.

  "A so-called good kid who killed another good kid driving a stolen car," Debbie reminded him.

  "And what about all of those privileged kids who do stupid things and get away with it? Drinking and driving. Buying and using illegal drugs, then getting behind the wheel, killing someone. Affluenza. It doesn't make any of it right, but if your family doesn't have money or power, the law will do everything it can to crush you."

  Debbie frowned. "You don't think I know what you're talking about? I've seen how privilege can act as a get-out-of-jail-free card. Or, at the very least, get a lighter sentence. But all I can do is tell stories about them. I can't fix them."

  "I disagree," Chase replied. "I called you last night after I read the Flannery blog post. But then I got my copy of River City magazine this morning. I read the piece you wrote on Jarrett. I think your story will make a difference for that young man. I think you also have the power to make a difference for Joshua."

  "How so?"

  "What if I were to let you interview Joshua's grandfather?"

  "I can't guarantee that the story would be sympathetic. I can only write what I learn," Debbie said. "It isn't my job to convict or acquit. Plus, it's complicated because I'm a witness."

  "I know that. But you're already following the story. You're part of the story. Joshua's grandfather wasn't at the scene of the accident. He doesn't have any information that is directly relevant to the alleged crime. But he can tell you a bit about Joshua."

  "Even if Joshua's grandfather sits down with me, I can't guarantee that it would turn into a story."

  "I understand," Chase said. "But it could be string that you'd be able to use in your final story on the outcome of this case."

  "Okay, let me know where I can find him," Debbie said.

  Jarrett rushed down the front steps of his grandmother's house before Debbie's car had come to a stop at the curb.

  After putting her Civic into park, Debbie rolled down the passenger window. "It looks like somebody is excited to see the story."

  Ada, who had just stepped out onto the porch, called back. "He's been pacing in front of the living room window ever since you called to ask if you could come over."

  "Jarrett, the magazines are here on the front passenger seat. Could you grab them and bring them in?"

  Jarrett, who'd been standing next to the car with his hands thrust into his hoodie pockets, tried to feign an indifferent shrug. But there was a smile on his face. "Sure," he said.

  "Why don't you come on inside," Ada said to Debbie. "I just finished frying some bacon for BLTs. My neighbor's growing some tasty tomatoes in her backyard. She always gives me her extras."

  "You know you're not going to have to work too hard to persuade me to eat," Debbie said as she headed up the walk. "I'm just glad that I was able to find you both here."

  Ada held the door open for her grandson and the reporter.

  "Well, you see, there's been some going-ons since we last talked," Ada explained. "And I see you've been getting into trouble, too."

  Debbie shook her head. "I'm fine. Now, Detective Flannery isn't so good."

  "My nephew says he'll recover," Ada volunteered.

  Switching the subject, Debbie asked, "What are these going-ons you mentioned?"

  "Oh, nothing necessarily bad," Ada said as she led the way back to the kitchen, where Jarrett was already sitting with one of the magazines open. "The lady at Teen Alliance, um, Mrs. Owens, and the mom of Chase Laclede met with my daughter and son-in-law. Seems Mrs. Laclede wanted to pay for Jarrett to go to some sort of class to study for that college test."

  Jarrett interjected, "The ACT."

  Ada nodded. "The ACT. Now, Jarrett's a smart boy so I don't know why he needs to take an expensive class."

  "I understand," Debbie said. "It does seem counterintuitive, but those classes can give Jarrett some tips and tricks for how to improve his score a bit. And every little bit can mean more money is knocked off tuition. I also took classes."

  Ada gestured for Debbie to sit down in a chair at the kitchen table. Then she placed a sandwich in front of her guest, along with a glass of sweet tea. "Doesn't seem very fair to the kids who can't afford those classes."

  Debbie nodded. "I know. It isn't."

  Ada wiped her hands on a kitchen towel then reached for a magazine. "Anyway, since Jarrett's taking these classes, he needs a ride out to the county. And his daddy decided it was time for him to start doing some more driving. So Jarrett comes over here and borrows my car. He complained it is a granny car, but you know what they say about beggars."

  Debbie laughed.

  "Anyway, he can drive to his classes. And part of the deal is that he then usually picks me up some groceries at the store on his way home."

  "That's a nice trade," Debbie said.

  "Yeah, I guess. But I worry about him driving by himself. But his parents are thinking more and more of Jarrett being off to college. They're trying to give him more independence so that living on his own doesn't come as such a shock."

  Debbie looked at the young man who was engrossed in the story. He seemed too young to be driving on the crazy highways of St. Louis. "I've never really thought about how hard it must be to give kids a set of keys." Taking a bite of her sandwich, Debbie added, "Now, I know you can't wait to read the story. I'll eat. You read."

  The kitchen fell into a comfortable silence. Ada and Jarrett each had their head bent over their own copy of the story. Debbie sipped her tea and savored the taste of beefy heirloom tomatoes, crispy bacon, cold iceberg lettuce, and mayo on white bread. She looked out the kitchen window and into the tidy backyard, circled with a four-foot chain-link fence. She could see the raised garden bed of Ada's neighbor, popping with all sorts of fresh goodness. I wish people could see this part of my city, Debbie thought to herself, rather than always being bombarded with the scary headlines that say St. Louis is the most dangerous city in the nation.

  It was only when she was aware that two sets of eyes were looking at her that Debbie pulled her daydreaming gaze away from the backyard.

  Jarrett wore a bashful smile. Ada dabbed at the corner of her eyes with the same kitchen towel she'd used earlier.

  "I don't know that we deserve all that fine writing," Ada said. "I really don't know what to say."

  Debbie waved her hand to bat away praise. It was something she didn't handle well. "I had the easy part. I just write what I see."

  "You see things, Miss Debbie, that a lot of people don't," Jarrett said.

  "I wouldn't be so sure about that, Jarrett. I feel like I'm in the middle of something but I can't quite make it out."

  Ada shook her head. "Maybe you just need to be patient. It'll come."

  "Perhaps," Debbie said. "I'm not really known for my pa
tience. But while I'm here, I wanted to get your thoughts. I'm going to see the grandfather of Joshua Lucas in just a bit. Chase Laclede set it up. What do you think I should ask him?"

  "That poor man," Ada said. "I knew his wife. She did a lot for this community. They deserved a grandson like Jarrett. But they got Joshua."

  Ada fell silent. "I don't know what you should ask him. As the preacher said at the funeral, we got babies killing babies. Just be gentle with the grandfather. He's an old man. And he tried. But when you get older, when you have kids, you realize how little control you have over separate human beings," she said as she reached out and touched Jarrett's hand, "even if they're your kids, or grandkids."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Broken

  The bungalow had seen better days. The pale yellow trim was peeling away from the wooden windowsills. Mesh screens that had once kept mosquitoes out of the home were torn, flapping when the occasional breeze found its way through the narrow spaces between the tightly packed brick houses. A rusty air conditioner hung out of a side window, coughing and rattling.

  Debbie knocked on the front door. After a few moments, she heard shuffling on the other side.

  The door opened wide rather than just a crack. An old man, his shoulders stooped and his head bent, peered at Debbie. He seemed too defeated to be cautious.

  "Ronald Lucas? I'm sorry to bother you," Debbie began as she introduced herself. "I think Chase Laclede called you. My name is Debbie Bradley. I'm the writer who'd like to talk to you about your grandson."

  "I just sat down to have some dinner. You can come on in. Call me Ron, please," the old man said as he opened the screen door to let her in.

  The front room was tidy. A gold sofa with brown sunflowers faced a large television. Vanna White rotated blocks with letters on the screen. A microwave dinner, still in its black plastic container, the clear film peeled back, sat on an orange metal tray. A fork on top of a hand towel was next to the makeshift meal.