by Paul Sating
21
Monica exhaled. "Well, that was intense."
With Marshall gone, Janis felt emboldened to be a little less political, a little more direct. For her, there were competing interests. She needed Marshall more than Monica, so he had to be handled carefully, a delicate balance that required tact. With Monica, she had more allowance. Janis could bully her boss if need be. But there were lines. There were always lines to not cross. Yet everyone was an important, if not key, player in the story. They all had a role to play.
Caution. These events and their fallout required caution.
Prudence didn't make champions. "Stop being such a pussy, Monica. Stand up to him next time, will you?"
"But I—I did. You saw what happened. You were here."
"So, who's talking?" Branson looked at the three women, but Janis felt his concentrated gaze fall heavy on her. Underneath the table, she hid her clenched fist. "That's got to get nipped, Monica."
The slightest strands of Monica's loose hair fluttered. "I—I know. None of you are though, right?"
"I'm not," Janis answered.
Branson dismissed Monica with a simple, "Please."
"Angelique?" Monica asked and waited. When she didn't get a response she repeated the call, this time with something nearing assertiveness. "Angelique?"
"What?" She finally answered, deadpan, her eyes never leaving Janis.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
But she knew. Angelique was her first and best friend in Memphis. Angelique knew things, deep and sensitive things. So well versed in Janis' life, Angelique knew where vulnerabilities mated with delicate fear. And Angelique was a helper, a fixer. This scrutiny wouldn't end in Monica's office.
She'd have to be careful to protect her friend from herself, if nothing else.
Tension hung in the air between them. The windows overlooking Memphis, teased the promise of freedom. This small group was a team. And a team moved at a collective pace, not that of its quickest member. Bothered by Marshall's earlier behavior, slowing progress to address Angelique's neediness grated.
Janis wanted to concentrate on Marshall. On the evidence. On the possible twists and turns. Not on Angelique.
Marshall had pressure to find the Memphis murderer, scrambling, probably more than he ever had, to provide answers and guidance now that information had been leaked. Politics did that. Just the reminder Janis didn't need. This was a team in name only. One she didn't belong on. She was different. She was The Times' insurance policy, protecting them against culpability.
She almost shook her head. If it wasn't for the six eyeballs on her, her internal scowl might have slipped out.
Poor Marshall.
The more people who learned what was happening, the more the pressure would weigh down on him. It was ridiculous, really. How long did they expect to keep everything under wraps even if everyone played by the rules?
Three suspects. That was something.
Swirling. Movement. Encouraging chaos.
Everything might be easier now.
Except Angelique. The woman with the unwavering eyes. Paranoid, inquisitive, and perceptive Angelique. Those very qualities that frustrated Janis also made Angelique a great journalist. How many times over the past few years had she strove to be more like her friend, never quite reaching the pinnacle? How many times did I wish I was more like her in a lot of ways?
Angelique's lips thinned. "We'll talk. Later."
Janis bit back her reply and waited for Monica to redirect the conversation.
The rest of the meeting was aimless and ineffective, so they broke it up before long. But when Janis reached her cubicle, tucked in the corner of the vast empire of writers, she found her concentration lacking.
The mugshots. Oh, those mugshots.
Her hand lingered near the computer mouse. Untouched. She should be writing, or at least recording an audio journal. Thoughts jumbled, agitated, an eddy of pictures, sounds, sights, from past and present.
Was she losing her mind?
Maybe Angelique was right after all. Did she need to rededicate herself to therapy? She hadn't been dedicated by any definition of the word. Not even remotely so, regardless of what she told the one person who cared most about her. Was that why her brain felt jumbled and scattered? How long would she be able to ride the excuse of an overwhelmingly sensitive workload?
Invasive, reminders of the hard work required to be sitting idle at this desk, in this moment, working on what might be the biggest story in Memphis' history. Years of social obligations she wanted no part of, favors done for dozens of people she'd rather not socialize with, and midnight conversations and cry sessions she tolerated all to play the political game.
All so she could be here. Right where I need to be. The reminder cut raw.
Her hand trembled above the mouse, as if struggling to deny her mind its desire to return to the story. Her vision blurred, prickles of light dotting her vision. Another migraine. Exhausted, Janis was unsure how much longer she could hold it together. This was what she'd wanted, what she'd worked for, but it was starting to feel like more than what she'd signed on to do.
Keeping the balance.
Keeping it all together.
All for the story.
Everything, for this story.
Janis spun her chair to face the corner of her temporary home, her only refuge on the entire floor where she could hide her tears.
Those mugshots.
She wasn't ready to see them.
So unprepared to see ... him.
22
The alpha.
The omega.
With no beginning and no end.
Eternal.
The circle, empty, yet whole.
Traversed, one found themselves back where they began their journey.
All points, connected yet seemingly arbitrary, ripe with details.
If one were but to simply look.
Not a soul would, though. They would gouge their eyes out before they stared fate in the eyes.
23
It was only thirty feet away, but the grandfather clock might as well have been on another continent, it was so displaced from her reality. Janis' focus was on that tiny two-inch by two-inch digital screen, the thick black bar turning the letters of the word DELETE to white. With one action she could undo a lot of damage, preventing possible catastrophic consequences.
Careful, girl, careful, she reminded herself.
Without another thought, Janis pressed the button, erasing the file. Breath returned.
It was a long night, a miserable night. While the rest of Memphis rested, she sat in her bed trying to distract herself with a good romance novel, and failing. The tumult in her brain refused to allow her a moment's enjoyment of farcical fantasy. Too many other things to think about. Too many possibilities. Plans that needed to be executed. Sleep was a barrier to progress. And even if she saw beyond her bad reasoning, it didn't matter. Her brain refused to shut off.
So, she got up and got to work.
Rest was a luxury lost the moment Marshall showed them the mugshots of the three suspects Memphis PD were tracking. Janis hadn't told anyone, not even Angelique, but she knew one of the men. It took everything not to reveal her excitement, to not react with an office full of inquisitive people, including a cop. One of her better acting jobs, among which there were many.
Awake all night, tossing and turning, the vision of that picture in her shaking hand and battling to understand what to do next, it was a battle without a winner. In that moment, with the picture of that middle-aged man staring back at her in the despondent way only mugshots can bring out, Janis was sure of one thing. Surrounded by her best friend, peers, and a sexy detective, silence was her ally. Beyond that, there was nothing.
But time did what time always did, diluting reality, and weakening assuredness. Janis was no longer as positive as she had been just yesterday. The man in the mugshot looked different. When Marshall visited the office,
teasing her with his presence and subtle comments, she hadn't been thinking clearly. Befuddled and stretched by conflicting emotions, she didn't consider the man's journey, the trauma he must have experienced all those years ago. Upset, she hadn't recognized the hopelessness in his eyes.
Marshall, such a devious man, had distracted her, forcing her to scramble for recovery, yet tempted at the ways she could pay him back, most of which included a few bottles of wine and lubricant.
What she would give to be able to talk to Angelique about all of this, including the illicit thoughts about Marshall, the recognition of a suspect, and the fact that he resembled the man who was stalking her. Someone needed to hear it or she would end up going to the one person in the world she didn't want to talk to about this. The last thing her mother needed to know was how she felt about a man or who she'd just seen in a mugshot.
Janis nodded, a dark expression spreading across her face. She would give anything to shove that mugshot in her mother's face.
Years had passed since it was taken. It was a strange dichotomy, to look into the eyes of a stranger and remember your past.
Janis shook her head. Maybe she was starting to jump at shadows, grasping for something, anything, to cling on to. She didn't have to like it because it meant she might be losing control again. After all this work, the tears, introspection, sessions in therapy ... was this the circle she was doomed to repeat? Ending up back where she'd started?
Janis leaned back in her cheap desk chair, the joint gave a little at the critical angle, popping and almost spilling her to the floor.
"Fuck!" Janis instinctively extended her legs, spreading them wide to counteract the balance. When she was safe from the self-inflicted humility, Janis rolled herself back to the computer. The document was a jumbled mess of notes. Indecipherable.
There was so much going on in the story and, with its sensitive nature, she wanted to be careful about what she included in her notes, even though no one would likely ever see this document. Staring at the collection of ramblings made her head spin.
Janis turned off the monitor and stood up, not wanting to look at the manifestation of her disorganized brain any longer. Her home was a mess of disorder and lethargy, squeezing in. A white plastic clothes basket sat on the far end of the couch, overflowing with crumpled laundry that would have to be dried again if she wanted to avoid having to iron for the next month. Ironing, housework, none of it a priority. So much dust had collected on the television's dead screen it looked more gray than black from the accumulation of microscopic bugs.
As the writer of the biggest story in Memphis' history since the days Elvis walked its streets, responsibility demanded that dust mites and laundry wait.
Janis ran back over her mental notes as she dressed. It was time to put on a show, to hide her turmoil and anxiety, to ward off bloodsuckers like Branson and to open a door for less official conversations with Marshall.
Ever since the detective's visits a few days ago, she invested dozens of hours digging into the history of the men who were now suspects. She wanted to see what the Memphis PD had on them, especially the man she wouldn't name. Her findings were inconsistent and inconclusive. The police had access to information she could only dream about. Unless she started playing the game, each day and potentially every single hour meant she was falling further behind them.
There was information she did have, though. Hank Reynolds, Roman Byars, and Rick Watford, or "Teddy" on the streets, were interesting characters, each in their own way.
Teddy didn't have much of a story. He'd been picked up a few times, mostly for petty crimes. Not one with a violent streak, he was notorious in the homeless camps around the city because of his humorous disposition. Apparently, his fellow community members liked having him around.
The other two were men who made the chase interesting. In the days since she'd seen Marshall there might be new information, but what she was able to dig up on her own told a violent story. The combined rap sheet was impressive. Armed robbery, battery, assault, all sorts of viciousness.
Tales uncovered.
Janis rubbed her forehead, still trying to understand the implications.
Hank Reynolds was particularly violent and might be an interesting lead. But her attention weighed more heavily on Roman Byars, for reasons she wasn't ready to explore. He was notable not because his history compared to Reynolds'—it didn't—but because it appeared, by the dates of his supposed violations, that he'd suddenly opted for a life of crime when he hit his midlife crisis.
It didn't make sense and she refused to think of the man in the mugshot as someone who would ever break the law.
Not the man behind those eyes.
Roman Byars following her outside paper that night might have been a manifestation of a man losing control of his life on the downward side of the mountain. Hard times never got easier and lost time was never recovered. Chasing thrills while he was still able to? Forgetting who he was and that he had responsibilities?
They were linked, she was sure of it, especially after seeing Byars' mug shot. The image that refused to fade. In a million years, did she believe she'd see him unveiled.
"Shit!"
She was late. Last night she sent Monica a draft of her story. They were to meet first thing to go over it and Janis wanted to see what her temporary boss thought. They were about to go public with the first installment and this was a chance to prove her mettle, first validation, evidence that she was legitimately back in the game.
And once the wheels started turning, there was no way anyone would deny her. All of Memphis would know her name.
***
Janis sat, stunned. The wide conference table, cluttered with Monica's mess, served as more than a physical barrier between them, it was a shield to protect against humiliation.
I'm not good enough?
Not based on the feedback she'd just received.
Monica picked up the thin stack of paper and tapped all four sides on the tabletop, making sure the edges were smooth and lined up. Nervous energy, Janis figured. It wasn't easy telling people that they were lousy writers, especially for someone like Monica. That didn't matter; Monica's opinion or feelings weren't a priority, proving her wrong was.
"I'm just a little worried about some language," Monica nervously tapped the stack of papers again. "Please, don't be upset. It's a fine piece."
"What's wrong with it?"
Monica bit her lip. "It—it's a—a bit harsh on the victims," she finally managed to express an opinion. "Someone might take it as victim blaming. I don't, just to be clear, but some of the readership may. We obviously want to stay away from that now that the two victim's names are out. But don't worry, it'll be fine. We'll do some editing, nothing out of the ordinary, and it'll be good to go."
It needed edits? Hardly. Monica truly believed her staff could improve the piece? "Well, I like it just as it is, Monica. It's a damn good story and there isn't any victim blaming, though it would've been easy enough to do with the way those women acted."
Monica held up a finger, still biting her lip. It was like she was trying to hold herself back from saying something she might regret. "Janis, I'm sorry you feel that way, I am, but there were portions that have the potential to get us in hot water with the families. And I'd rather avoid it altogether, out of decency and not wanting any courtroom visits in the near future."
"So, my writing isn't decent?"
Monica's face quivered. "No—no, and not at all. I definitely didn't mean to imply that. Listen, Janis, it's a fine piece. Don't worry." Monica paused, briefly glancing away, toward the office door. Hoping someone would rescue her? When she looked back at Janis her eyes held the sadness in them. "Can I ask you a question? Are you feeling okay?"
"Yeah, why?"
"You just seemed different," Monica said. "I was thinking you were under the weather. If you need a couple extra days, it's okay. You didn't have to come back so quickly. I'd understand."
"I'm fine."
"Okay. Okay." Monica's shoulders slumped before she got up and moved to her desk, setting the papers down to the side and aimlessly arranging things on her crowded desktop. This meeting was obviously finished, and she was being dismissed. Before she stood to leave, Monica looked back up, "We'll run the revised story tomorrow," she said, her voice holding a hint of displeasure. "Stay close to Marshall in case anything breaks. He's already read the final version piece and is okay with it, with my changes. Nothing to worry about in that respect. Great job."
Words are empty. Meaningless. This didn't feel like a great job and it definitely didn't feel great to be dismissed like this. Janis got up as quickly as she could without exposing her humiliation, which began burning her cheeks, announcing her failure to the world …
… and barely made it out of the office before the tears came.
24
Janis stalked back and forth across her mother's crowded kitchen. Boxes cluttered even the floor here. Pam didn't interrupt. And it was a good thing she didn't.
Janis tried to ignore all the cluttered countertop. It wasn't easy; her mother had the worst habit of holding onto any piece of junk she found at farmers' markets and garage sales, a staple of Southern living. Without regard for tackiness or even the fact that she didn't have the space in the house to display these horrors, Pam continued accumulating junk. On a typical visit, her mother's penchant for hording disgusted Janis, but today her mother's obsession didn't register as even interesting.
"How could you tell her about the box, Mom?"
Pam shook her head as if denying the accusation. Janis was sure that her mother would play dumb. But the expression quickly passed and Pam resumed her stoic posture.
