Rip

by Paul Sating

  "Well, we—that not fair," Monica stumbled.

  Marshall held up a hand. "Save it, Monica. You all have a job to do. I'm not going to get in your way. But I don't have to like it." He stopped and drew a deep breath. "I actually want you to keep running the homeless angle."

  "Why?" Janis didn't need more than a single word to convey her displeasure. Her question was barbed.

  If it stung, Marshall didn't show it. "It keeps the attention where we want it, even if it is pissing off the mayor."

  "More to the story?" Angelique, looking exhausted, asked as she sat, carefully setting her full cup of coffee on the table.

  "Let's just say we're looking at other people," Marshall avoided directly answering, "not just the three guys I gave you in the lineup."

  Janis sat up straighter. Since when? The tumult grew. Why did some whore at a television station have as much information, and may be more, as she had? Now this? What happened that made Marshall changed so drastically, so quickly? Why was he hiding things? The urge to confront him boiled, surging through her chest, threatening to burst out. She forced herself to push it down, to maintain control. Keeping her position at the paper secure was critical, requiring sacrifices, something she was aware of even if she needed to remind herself every five seconds.

  With a constricted throat, Janis asked, "Who else?"

  Marshall shook his head slowly. "I'm not ready to divulge that."

  "Can you give us anything?" Monica asked. "Anything we can release?"

  "Yeah, we expanded our net based on some recent evidence and it changed the type of person we're looking at."

  How far behind the story had she fallen? The missed time, cycling through mania to depression, racked up a toll. This was worse than the first day on the job, because this was her story and she, if anyone, should be completely in the know, long before anyone else. It was slipping.

  "Are you saying those three men you showed us, Reynolds, Byars, and Watford, aren't people of interest anymore?" she asked.

  "Reynolds isn't. You can scratch him off your list," Marshall answered.

  "Why? Did he have an alibi?" Angelique asked.

  "No, he's dead."

  Branson, who had been bent over, his face inches away from his notepad, stopped and looked up. "What happened?"

  Marshall's reply was flat, as if he didn't care to share. "Looks like a heart attack," he answered. "Less than a day before Ms. Stride was killed."

  "But you're looking at other suspects now? Different ones?" Janis pushed for more clarity.

  Marshall only glanced at her this time, his gaze on her and then moving around the table. He was hiding something, she determined.

  "We are. That witness from the Stride murder had interesting things to say."

  Branson raised an eyebrow. "Interesting? What do you mean?"

  "If," Marshall said slowly, "and I'm stressing if, the witnesses recalled everything clearly, which we know most don't, especially those who witnessed traumatic events, then we may have someone totally different on our hands."

  "What?" Monica sounded exasperated.

  Angelique groaned.

  Janis gripped her pen tightly.

  "According to their statement, the killer wasn't a big man," Marshall replied. "In fact, the person we're looking for is less than six feet tall and under one hundred and seventy pounds. So that eliminates Watson as well."

  "Leaving just Byars," Janis mumbled, swallowing the dry lump in her throat.

  "Correct," Marshall answered, but wagged a finger. "Just Byars from the original set of suspects. We've been regrouping ever since the witness came forward."

  "That means you're starting over?" Angelique's eyes were huge. "The killer is out there and you don't know who it is and we're back to the beginning?" Her voice rose with each word.

  "We have to be methodical and go with the information we have," Marshall said. "None of this is new, Ms. Kelly." The formal address didn't go unnoticed by everyone at the table. "Listen, I know this is unnerving and makes for a very shitty story right now, but I've got bigger things to worry about than your copy. For example, a possible serial killer and one possible suspect, a man who is someone we want to talk to, but a man who is still, at least at this point, very much innocent–until–proven–guilty. Nothing more. Trust me, if this new lead doesn't pan out, thinking our only option is a guy who might not be who we're looking for, even if we get our hands on him, is not something that helps me sleep at night. I want this bastard as badly as any of you. As badly as the city does. More so, because this is more than just a story to me."

  "That's not fair, Marshall, it is to us too," Monica whined. "Just because we're journalist doesn't mean we aren't human. We're residents of the city too. We live in the neighborhoods; our neighbors are the scared citizens. I've got two women in this office and another twenty out there in those cubicles, many of who match at least some of the demographics of the three victims, and I can't tell them anything that will help them feel safe. This is more than a story to us too. Please try to remember that."

  "You're right, Monica," Marshall apologized. "I'm sorry."

  It wasn't an answer to the question.

  "I saw him," Janis said hurriedly, adding the right mix of vulnerability to her voice. Everyone at the table stopped to look in her direction, expressions of confusion and concern etched on all their faces.

  "What?" Branson asked.

  Monica blinked absently. "Janis?"

  "Girl," Angelique elongated the word to convey her apprehension.

  But none of them were going to stop her. They wanted to push her out so they could resume their power positions. The permanent staff taking back control of the hottest story in the city by pushing out the temp only after she captured the populace's attention? That's what they all wanted, and she wasn't letting that happen. Sometimes risks taken were the only tactic left to the desperate.

  "I said I saw him," Janis defied Angelique. "The man who was outside the paper that night. The one who followed me to my car?"

  "What?" Monica's high-pitched question cut through the room. "When?"

  "Yesterday," Janis answered, feeling assured from the rapt attention she had garnered within seconds. "When Angelique called about the Stride murder. I was following him."

  "Why in the world would you do that?" Monica asked.

  The small group was enraptured. A mix of fascination, curiosity, and fear tainted the atmosphere. "He was stalking me. He's been stalking me," she used the inflammatory word deliberately, knowing it would pain Marshall. "I wanted to find out who he is, what he wants. So I followed him. We ended up in Martyr's Park, but I lost him. It was almost as if he knew I was following him, like he wanted me to follow."

  Marshall leaned forward, setting aside his notepad, giving her his full attention. Janis' heart fluttered, skipped, threatened to quit. "Wait, you're telling me you followed some guy who's been stalking you? How? How did you even find him?"

  Time for the uppercut punch. "He was at my house."

  Monica rocketed out of her chair, pressing her palms against the table and leaning forward. "Janis, why are we just hearing about these things now?"

  Angelique answered, her eyes never leaving Janis. "She forgot something and went back and caught him there."

  "You knew about this and didn't say anything?" Monica turned on Angelique with more heat than Janis had heard at any point over the past months working at the paper.

  But Angelique simply blew her off. "Don't try it, Monica. It's not my place."

  While the ruckus roared on the other side of the table, Marshall leaned close, dropping his voice. He smelled magnificent. "Janis, this is concerning. I'm going to want to talk to you after we're done here."

  Yes, please!

  "For all you know that could have been the killer!" Monica returned her attention to Janis.

  "That's a hell of an assumption, Monica," Branson interjected

  "It was him."

  Marshall's eyes bore in
to her, prying open those deep, secret chambers. "Who? "

  Janis taps her notepad without looking, as if she was pointing out his name to help Marshall understand. "Byars. The guy in your lineup. I'm sure of it."

  Desperate or not, guilt still seeped in at the revelation of his name.

  "Are you serious?" Monica appeared on the verge of breaking into a crying fit, which would only inflame Angelique and draw attention away from what Janis wanted them to focus on.

  "He was at your house yesterday?" Marshall asked.

  None of them needed to know that she wasn't absolutely sure it was Roman Byars, or the man pretending to be him. "Yes, he was doing something around the door," she answered. "I was pulling into the driveway and that's when he took off and I followed him. He went straight to Martyr's Park, and I lost him by the Riverwalk."

  "I'm not buying it," Branson stabbed.

  Angelique glared at Branson. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

  "Stop being naïve," he criticized. "She's got this gig until the story is done. Then what? What does she have to fall back on? She can't get hired at the television stations in town because she's already burned those bridges. Everyone knows that. So what else is there? Her YouTube crap? So what does she do? Where does she go?"

  With each question that sounded more like a statement than an inquiry, Janis felt the piercing of her soul, the most vulnerable part of who she was. What hurt the most was that Branson was absolutely correct. His comments might be unfair, but that didn't mean there wasn't a wealth of truth in them.

  "What are you implying?" Angelique defended her friend.

  "Not implying anything," Branson sneered. "I'm questioning. I'm thinking."

  Angelique popped her head to the side, full of attitude. "What could you possibly be thinking about? Oh, let me guess, a strong, white man can enlighten us on the reasons why a woman does what she does. I can't wait to hear this."

  "Get off your morality horse Angelique. It's not like that." Branson swatted the air.

  "Then what is it?"

  "She's not making shit on her online stuff," Branson reasoned, "and she's been blacklisted in the media circles in Memphis."

  "So?"

  "So," Branson spread out both arms, palms upward, as if he were offering a buffet to Angelique, "that means she's got to take other measures to pay the rent. Maybe even make news where there isn't any."

  "Branson! That's enough!" Monica snapped.

  "Oh, come on Monica, how are you not seeing this?" Branson turned the same level of heat he'd been speaking to Angelique with on Monica, without regard for who she was in his professional life. In typical male form, once their anger was switched on it was difficult to turn off.

  Where Monica couldn't control a situation, Marshall did. He stood, thrusting the chair backward with the back of his knees, "You all can carry on with this, but I have a few unsavory things, like a serial killer on the loose, that I have to deal with, and I need to talk to Janis. Alone." The tone in his voice let it be known that none of this was optional. "Let me remind you, all of this needs to stay under wraps. Got it? No one goes rogue. No one flaps their lips about any of this. I mean it. So if you'll excuse us, Janis we need to talk."

  Janis didn't wait for him to finish his sentence. "Okay." She was finally going to have an opportunity to get in the Marshall's head for a change, whether or not he knew it.

  All she needed was to find a single crack in his armor.

  31

  Even with the paper located near downtown Memphis, the grounds around the building were relatively quiet. Memphis wasn't a city known for its hustle and that lethargy seeped from the rotting front porches of the poorest and the steps of the million dollar homes of its richest citizens, all the way downtown, to nightclub spots.

  That inactive culture assured Janis and Marshall an interruption-free conversation.

  They sat at a picnic table underneath a Willow Oak a few hundred yards from the building. The distance might as well have created a different world, for the privacy they enjoyed. It was exactly what Janis wanted, exactly what she'd hoped for. She had herself, the story, and Marshall's full attention; she couldn't imagine a better reality.

  Marshall sprang onto the picnic table with a smooth leap while she sat a few feet away on the bench. Looking off toward the building, Janis remained on-guard for any encroaching employee, distracting her from the disappointment that he hadn't chosen to sit closer. The few people moving between the building and the parking lot didn't seem interested in them, however. Still, Janis focused on them, easier than getting distracted by the firm physique of the man in slacks and a button up sitting a few feet away.

  "Why didn't you call me about this?" Marshall's voice was softer, kinder than it been just a few minutes ago in Monica's office.

  "It was a blur. Really," Janis answered honestly. She needed to get closer to him and what he knew about the story and that aim required transparency. Some transparency. "I was rushing to get here, forgot something, and turned back home. Then I'm watching some guy jump from my porch; the same guy who followed me to my car that night I stayed late. The same, I think, who happens to be wanted by your department. I'm sorry but I wasn't thinking clearly."

  Marshall stared down between his legs where he had his fingers interlaced, idly moving them in an organized wrestling match. "Obviously not," his head bobbed with the barbed comment. Then he sighed, "Sorry, that was dickish. Listen, you've been on the story for, what, about a month?"

  "A little longer."

  He nodded silently. "Okay, point is, you been intimately involved. You've written a few features about it, and this is the biggest story Memphis has seen in a long time. Maybe ever. You're a popular person right now. People know who you are and that's great. It really is. I don't begrudge you that. But," he tore his gaze away from his fingers wrestling match and put them on her, drilling them into her, "when it comes to my responsibility to citizens, that whole serve and protect stuff, I'm worried."

  Janis tried to disarm him by laughing. "Well, don't be. I can take care of myself. I'm not even sure why I told everyone. I shouldn't have." She hoped the comment sounded as vulnerable as she intended.

  "I'm sure you can, but that doesn't change the fact I don't even put my officers at risk unnecessarily, never mind a civilian," Marshall replied. Somewhere in the distance a siren rose in the air. Marshall stopped, perking up, listening. After a few seconds he dropped his head again. "So, I'd be remiss in my duties if I didn't at least warn you away from getting comfortable."

  "I appreciate it, I do," Janis smiled. She inched down the bench, a little closer, hoping he didn't notice or, if he did, didn't object. "I'm not comfortable in the least, I promise. A little too on-edge, if I'm honest. Can you keep a secret?"

  "Of course."

  Janis felt the concentrated warmth of fresh tears coming. She wasn't going to stifle them this time. He needed to see her real pain. "This story is a huge opportunity for me. My road back from the wasteland that was, that is, my career, has been arduous. It may not make sense to you, but anything I'm doing that appears risky, I'm doing out of necessity. I promise."

  "Necessity creates desperation."

  Marshall always had a comment, a witty response. Janis felt slightly off-put. It's like he'd read the script of life before anyone else. "I can't miss this chance, Marshall. Without this," she trailed off while she thought about how much he needed to hear, "well, I'm not being reckless or flippant, I promise. I recognize I put myself in harm's way, but I needed to. Monica hired me because I can get the story. But that doesn't mean she needs to know how I get it."

  She watched his face carefully for any type of reaction, but Marshall was practiced, experienced at interpersonal communication with the good guys and the bad guys. Impossible to read. "Yeah well, Monica and I go way back and I'll kick your ass, metaphorically speaking, before I let her do that." A tight smirk appeared, reserved, but genuine. "And I can take her, I promise. I used to wrestle in high
school and she's, well, you know."

  Janis' defensive wall slipped. "A woman? Desk jockey? Who knows, she might have a surprise or two for you? Maybe it's just the writer in me, but we're all capable of hiding surprising twists in our stories. For all you know, she could be a fourteenth level black belt."

  "I don't think there's a fourteenth level."

  "I'm joking. I've really got to work on my delivery." She reached out and swatted the side of his calf, carefully registering his reaction.

  "Work on keeping yourself safe first, okay?" he replied, his face light with levity. "And promise me you won't do something crazy like following this Byars guy if he shows up again? Call me instead."

  Instantly, the floating sensation was gone. "Don't use that word, please."

  "What word?"

  "I didn't do anything crazy," Janis said. She slid back down the bench, away from Marshall.

  "Hey, listen, I'm sorry," Marshall apologized. "I didn't mean anything by that."

  But Janis was gone, chasing the rabbit down the hole of self-defense. "What I did, happened because I was in the moment. I reacted to my environment. It's not like I went looking for him. But I promise, if I stumble across Roman Byars again, I'll be cautious."

  "And?" Marshall prodded, that charming warmth returning once again, except this time it failed.

  "And I'll have you on speed dial," she resisted the tug to look into his eyes. "Happy?"

  "Good. I can't have any more deaths on my watch."

  "Are you close enough to say that? That there won't be another murder?"

  Marshall's shoulders sagged. "Don't tell anyone else, okay?" Marshall asked. "If we do find Byars and he turns out to not be the killer, we're going back to square one. And I honestly don't want to entertain that."

  Each time Marshall came around she discovered something new about the case. Was this where the leaks were coming from? That whore at the television station might have got him alone, batting her goddamn eyes, appealing to his basic nature and extracting information from him. If he was looser with information now, what was to say he didn't act the same around other female reporters? Was the key to all this getting him alone and needing a male savior. It was gross, but since when did she have objections to those tactics, especially ones that kept her in front of the story.