by David Stout
“His top editor is much better than the paper deserves.”
“Thanks. I needed that. His background is all on the business side, so he has no idea of the time and effort involved in covering a major story. And he doesn’t care to know.”
“Damn him anyhow!”
“Goes with the territory.”
“For now,” Karen said.
Ah, yes. Neither was in the mood to chew on that last thought. Will could not be sure how long the publisher would want him around. Come to think of it, there were times when Will wasn’t sure how long he’d put up with things, regardless of what Lyle Glanford wanted.
“As long as you’re there, try to enjoy yourself,” Karen said. “You might like playing reporter again.”
“I’d like it better if I were ten years younger. And single. Besides, I’m rusty.”
“You were a fine reporter. You know damn well you were.”
Will thought that over: She was right; he had been a good reporter. “Bless you. Kiss the kids for me.”
“You sound tired.”
“I’m going to try to pace myself. Fran looks like hell, by the way. It’s touch and go. The nurse said that.”
They talked for a few more minutes. When Will said goodbye, he thanked the Big Power for giving him such a wife.
He had a big breakfast in the coffee shop, stopped at a stationery store to pick up a notepad and a couple of cheap ballpoints, and headed for the police station. He had called the night before and learned that a briefing was scheduled.
Outside the station, several television news vans were parked. Will saw from the letters on the side that two were from stations a long way from Long Creek. For God’s sake, there was a crew from Bessemer. He hoped they wouldn’t recognize him.
In the lobby, there was a white poster with an arrow and the words PRESS CONFERENCE. The arrow pointed to a large windowless room, which was already nearly full. Will stumbled over a thick cord on the floor.
“Watch it, buddy!” a cameraman said.
“You watch it,” Will said.
A microphone on the table squeaked, then tipped over. The noise was magnified electronically as a young policeman tried to adjust it. “Take your seats, please, so we can get started,” the policeman said. “I’d like to introduce the Long Creek police chief, Robert Howe. Chief?”
A glistening blue uniform adorned with gold stars and braid and stuffed with a fiftyish man of big belly and red face marched into the room and sat down in front of the mike.
“As you all know—” The mike shrieked and clicked. “As you know, it’s now five days since the abduction of Jamie Brokaw. Since that time, the Long Creek Police Department, under my command, has conducted an exhaustive search in and around the city. We have been assisted by the Hill County Sheriff’s Department at every stage of this investigation, and I can assure you that there has been total cooperation and coordination between our two agencies. We also have the full cooperation of the FBI, and we are in constant—”
“Excuse me, Chief,” a reporter interrupted. “This is all well and good, this stuff about police coordination, but we’d like to know about the kidnapping investigation.”
Frozen silence. The chief glared at the questioner, a young man (probably from New York or Philadelphia, Will thought) with plenty of guts and brass but not enough wisdom to keep his mouth shut. Small-town police chiefs, Will knew, usually weren’t troubled about maintaining good relations with the press.
“Tell you what,” the chief said. “We can do this my way, or we don’t have to do it at all. What’s it gonna be?”
Dead silence.
“Fine. As I was saying, we have been conducting as thorough an investigation as possible. The FBI has been assisting us, and I would like at this time to introduce Special Agent Gerald Graham from the Pittsburgh office.”
Jerry Graham! Will sat up. This had to be the same Jerry Graham he’d known in Bessemer fifteen years ago. More, even. They’d actually gotten to like each other.
Yes, there he was. That’s Jerry, Will thought.
Special Agent Gerald Graham walked in, still tall and lean, with the clear blue eyes, curly brown hair still thick but graying over the ears. In his charcoal suit and maroon silk tie, he could have passed for a stockbroker.
Will hid behind the shoulder of the man in front of him. For some reason, he didn’t want Graham to spot him right away.
The agent sat down in front of the mike. Will figured the FBI was really running things behind the scenes, that the introduction of the police chief had just been part of a charade.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Graham began. “I will tell you what I can. No more, no less. And I’ll ask that you use some discretion and remember that a little boy’s life may be at stake here.”
May be at stake, Will thought. What’s Jerry saying? What’s he thinking? That the boy is dead?
“Now then, just so you can get your facts as straight as possible, let us recap what’s happened to date.”
Will was certain he detected an underlying contempt in Jerry Graham’s voice. Graham never had been a big fan of the press.
The agent summarized the bare facts of the abduction. As he did, he quickly answered a question that had occurred to Will: Was there any possibility of collusion on the part of the chauffeur who had been driving the boy back to his mother? Or that one of the warring parents had taken the boy?
The answers were no. Will wondered about that but had no reason to think Jerry Graham wasn’t being straightforward.
Then Jerry Graham touched on the initial ransom note, demanding fifty thousand dollars; Will was familiar with that part of the case because he’d checked the wire service before leaving Bessemer.
“We have reason to believe that there was a high degree of planning,” Graham went on. “Naturally, we have been anticipating, hoping, that the kidnappers would follow through on their promise in the initial note—that is, that they would provide instructions for the safe return of Jamie Brokaw.”
Chairs squeaked; throats were cleared. Everybody waited.
“Unfortunately, that has not happened. Instead, just this morning, we received a second note.”
There was a low muffled noise, not unlike that of a dog waking from a nap and shaking itself, as the reporters snapped to attention.
“This later note, also spelled out in newspaper lettering, gave a new ransom demand, in the amount of two hundred fifty thousand dollars,” Graham went on. “This note says that the boy is alive and well, and that instructions will be forthcoming for delivery of the ransom and release of the boy. That’s all I have to tell you. I’ll take questions now.”
Will had been taking notes furiously. A big story was getting bigger, and he was both embarrassed and amused at the butterflies in his stomach. Could he still write a decent story? If he couldn’t, he would be the laughingstock of the office among the young reporters, who were contemptuous of editors anyhow.
Oh, of course he could write a decent story, for God’s sake. He had to: The Bessemer Gazette couldn’t send its executive editor out of town and not get a good story out of him.
“Sir, where was the second letter postmarked?” The reporter was young, sandy-haired, wearing glasses.
“Oh, yes,” the agent said. “I forgot to mention that. It had a Deep Well postmark. Deep Well, as I guess most of you know, is fifty miles or so farther away from Long Creek than the post office where the first message was mailed.”
I should have thought of that question, Will thought. God, what am I doing here?
“And what do you think that means, sir?” the same reporter persisted. He wore a deliberately mismatched coat and tie. He wore ambition on his face.
“Well, we think it could mean that the kidnappers have taken the child out of this area,” Graham said evenly. “That’s part of the reason I’m here, after all. Because the victim has been missing more than twenty-four hours, we presume he might have been moved across state lines.
In this case, into Pennsylvania.”
“Sir, do you think the boy has in fact been moved across state lines? And if he has not been, doesn’t that mean the kidnappers will be tried in state court, assuming they are caught, and that your presence here is in a sense unnecessary?” The questioner was a strikingly lovely young woman with flawless skin and rich black hair—a TV reporter, Will assumed.
Graham looked at her with steel in his eyes. “I have no way of knowing the child’s whereabouts, therefore I have no opinion. Until the boy is found, wherever that may be, I would like to think I can make a contribution.”
The young woman nodded respectfully but was clearly not cowed. Beautiful and tough, Will thought. Network material.
A young man shouted, “Agent Graham, what do you make of this second, much higher ransom demand?”
The agent looked uncomfortable. “I’m not sure what to make of it. It could be that, having succeeded in abducting the boy and eluding capture, the kidnappers are now flushed with success and are thinking, Hey, why not go for a lot more?”
A tall young man stood up. “Isn’t that a problem, sir? Theoretically, the kidnappers could escalate their demands out of sight. Would those demands be met?”
While Graham thought about his reply, Will studied the reporter: midtwenties, long hair in studied disarray, a short-sleeve shirt in winter weather to show off his biceps. For a moment, Will hoped the reporter would apply to the Gazette someday. So Will could turn him down.
“I’m not dealing in theories,” Graham said finally. “Our practice is to place the safe return of the victim above all else. We are waiting for the kidnappers to deliver instructions on the safe return of the boy.”
“Sir, if the boy is farther away, does that make him harder to find?” asked a young man with a high voice.
What a stupid goddamned question, Will thought. I’d rather not ask anything than ask one like that.
Will studied Graham’s expression. Yes, he still puts on the poker face. The academy must teach them that.
“Every kidnapping is different,” Graham said at last. “If the boy is not close by, it does increase the territory we have to search, obviously.”
“So the authorities are actively hunting for the boy even as you wait for more instructions from the kidnappers?” the high voice went on.
“Yes.”
“Would you care to go into more detail?” the high voice pressed.
“No.”
“Sir, do you yourself have children, and, if so, does it affect how you approach this case?”
“Yes. And no.”
There was a rumble of laughter at Graham’s neat put-down.
“Do you think the boy is still alive, and what do you think the chances are of getting him back alive?”
There, Will thought. The bottom-line question, asked in an insensitive way by a young man with a fashionably dirty raincoat and a sneering mouth. But the essential question nonetheless.
“I have no way of knowing. It is our hope, above all else.”
“And are the boy’s parents good for the kind of money the kidnappers want?” the questioner pressed on.
The agent looked annoyed. Will didn’t blame him. No wonder a lot of people think the press sucks, Will thought.
“The boy’s father is a man of means. He is good for that kind of money, as you put it. At this time, I would like to introduce the boy’s parents, who have something to say.”
A startled murmur ran through the room; no one had said anything about the parents appearing.
A man and woman came through the side door, together and yet not together, or at least not together in the way husbands and wives look together. The man’s face seemed stitched tight, so that no quiver of eyelid or lip would betray his emotions. The woman’s face was swollen and red, and she wore dark glasses.
The man pulled out a chair for the woman, who nodded slightly, as though accepting a favor from a courteous stranger. Then the man took a seat on the other side of the microphone, so that the FBI agent was sitting between them. Had they planned it that way? Will wondered.
The FBI man slid the microphone toward the woman.
“My name is Celeste Brokaw, and I am the mother of Jamie Brokaw, who is only five years old.…”
The woman lapsed into choking, racking sobs. An embarrassed silence seemed to fill the room to overflowing, and Will wished he was somewhere else.
“He is only five years old,” the woman repeated. “I don’t want him to be afraid; I don’t want him to be hurt. I don’t want him to be…”
There seemed to be no sound or movement in the entire room, save for the mother’s keening and her heaving shoulders.
Suddenly, the father grabbed the microphone. “All we want is our son back. Can you understand that, whoever you are? You who have him, do you understand? I have the money. You can have it all. Just give me back my son.”
The father slid the mike back to the FBI agent. Then he slumped in his chair, closed his eyes, shook his head as though he couldn’t believe such a thing was happening to him.
Will felt soiled and guilty for having wondered fleetingly whether the kidnapping had been faked—that is, if the boy had been taken in a custody battle. Now, it seemed impossible to believe that the mother could be faking such heartbreak. And a look at the father’s eyes, red-rimmed from tears (or from blinking back tears, depending on the kind of man he was), made it seem certain that he, too, wanted his son back and didn’t know where he was.
And yet, and yet … Will would not rule out the possibility of a staged abduction. He gave himself the same lecture he gave his reporters: He would try not to let his emotions take over.
I wonder why they’re not married anymore, Will thought. Did it matter?
“Agent Graham, are you able to tell anything significant from the notes with the newspaper lettering?”
“You mean other than where they were mailed from? Not yet. Various scientific tests are being done. I’m not sure I could give you information on that, even if I had it. Which I don’t.”
There were a few more routine questions. Then Graham adjourned the session and said that further briefings would be scheduled as needed.
Will lingered near the back of the pack until the room was nearly empty. He caught Graham just before he left the room.
“Jerry? It’s Will Shafer. Remember me?”
“Will? Will!” Graham smiled broadly and shook hands, showing none of the reserve he’d displayed in the press conference. “Gosh, it’s good to see you, Will.”
“Same here, Jerry.”
They told each other the high points of the last decade or so of their lives. Both were still married to the same women, both had a son and a daughter.
Graham said his wife was an art teacher. “And what’s Karen doing, Will?”
“Deep into social work. She has her master’s now. She writes articles for journals, does some counseling.”
“Gosh, that’s great. Say, I read about that old murder case up in Bessemer. The town is still talking about it, I’ll bet.”
“You bet right.”
“But what brings you here, Will?”
Will sighed. “You remember Fran Spicer? Covered city hall, sometimes the Federal Building.”
“Name’s familiar.”
Will told Graham the basics.
“That’s a damn shame,” Graham said. “I knew there was a bad wreck the other night. I never connected.… Anyhow, I’m glad the Gazette has you covering this thing. Off the record, I get sick and tired of dealing with smart-ass young reporters.”
“Off the record, so do I.”
Graham laughed. “Come on, Will. Coffee’s on me.”
The police station was connected to the Long Creek city government building, which had a small cafeteria in the basement. Will and the FBI man took a corner table. While Graham went to get coffee, Will looked around. Scattered among the clerks and political gofers on break were several sullen-faced cops.
“Sugar? No, it sure isn’t. It’s got all the ingredients for bad government and bad policing. Decaying tax base, aging population, entrenched political machine, old-fashioned, pigheaded, out-of-work union people. And it’s all tied together, somehow. You saw the police chief.”
“How is he to deal with?”
“He’s staying out of my way, mostly. That’s the best I can say. Oh, I suppose he does his best.”
Will felt refreshed by the coffee, and seeing someone from the old days took his mind off Fran Spicer. Then he thought again how much he would rather be home, and that made him miss Karen and the children, and that reminded him of the kidnapped boy and his parents.
“What do you think about all this, Jerry?”
Graham put down his coffee. “This is one old friend talking to another. I wouldn’t say this to anyone else.” Graham stared into his cup for a long time. At last, he looked at Will and said quietly, “I pray to God I’m wrong, but I think the boy’s as good as dead.”
“Jesus.”
Graham nodded, and for a moment two fathers shared an understanding of something unspeakably horrible and sad. Then Graham’s eyes changed, and Will knew he was the FBI man again.
“I don’t know how much of this you can use, Will. Maybe file it away for … whenever. The fact that the boy has been gone for this long lessens the chances for a safe return. That’s often how it works. The kidnappers panic and, well…
“Then there’s this ransom thing. That first demand, fifty thousand. Such small potatoes, really, if you’re going to go to the trouble of kidnapping someone. So now, days later, there’s another demand. This time for two hundred fifty thousand. It’s like the kidnappers have suddenly said to them-selves, Oops, we’ve been acting like small-time punks here; let’s grow up and act like big-time criminals.”
