by Dave Balcom
I ran into Fritz, and he was documenting the night with his Nikon. “How you doin’?” I asked.
“Oh, I think this is great! I never dreamed of a time when the community would come visit on a production deadline. I’m a little sorry for Randy and the reporters... and I figure it’ll be just about perfect if the police report finding her body about ten minutes before deadline.”
I leaned into his ear, “You are a sick and twisted man, Crawford.” I hesitated, “I have Max Hennessey monitoring the police frequencies all night to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
He started laughing, and then looked at me. “Seriously?”
I nodded. “I too believe in Murphy’s Law.”
As Jay Knight put the final scores into the final sports page to complete the edition, Doug, Cecily, Andy Knewal and I started herding folks out to the press room which was another wing behind the newspaper office.
When everyone was established in a position outside the “OSHA lines” painted on the floor, Doug climbed up on a ladder and watched as the pressmen put the final plates on the press.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he cried over the talking noise. The room hushed to hear, “This is a night to remember in the storied annals of the Sentinel-Standard, a newspaper that proudly calls itself a ‘community newspaper.’ That sobriquet has never meant as much to me as it has this night. A year ago tragedy struck our community, a dark, silent tragedy that left our town shocked and dismayed. We found ourselves questioning long-held beliefs about our place, our safety, and our future. We mourn the ongoing torture of the Czarnopias family, but even as we do, we strive to keep Lake City thriving. We take heart from the fortitude on display by this stricken family, our schools, and our churches.
“This year has taught us much about who we really are, and while we will continue to pray for Suzanne and her family, we know we are strong, and this special newspaper edition and the ensuing activities are designed to allow the entire community to revel in this strength and to share our faith in family and friends.”
He turned to the pressroom manager standing at the controls, “Roger?”
“Yessir?”
“Run it!”
And with that the press started turning, and the crew moved to make sure all the ink fountains were adjusted even as the first smudged and dirty editions started moving through the folder onto the conveyor where they were removed into recycle receptacles.
The press was cranked up slightly and water fountains were adjusted. The papers coming off the folder cleaned up and you could read the Daily Sentinel flag and see the picture of Suzanne above the fold, and still the papers were being scooped and recycled.
The press cranked up again, and now pressmen were intercepting papers as they came off the folder and turning to the pages their units were printing as they rushed to the units where they made final, fine-tuned adjustments even as the press speed cycled up again. They ran back to the folder to see the results of their tweaking, hurrying back if necessary to make another adjustment, but even as the press sped up again they were moving slower until one by one they gave the manager the thumbs-up signal. With a twist of his wrist he increased the speed of the press in a continual ramping up until the thump-thump-thump of the folder was turned into a trip hammer-like chattering that split the ear and the needle at the press counter indicated eighteen thousand copies an hour. Now papers were flying off the folder where the “printer’s devil” scooped them up and started handing them out to the crowd with a warning, “Be careful, the ink ain’t dry yet!”
But nobody seemed to mind as they looked at the freshly-minted, latest chapter in the history of life in Lake City, New York. Then they gave a spontaneous cheer and started finding their way outside and away from the ear-splitting noise.
I walked out the back door into the parking lot. I found my car and drove home. I had never been more proud of my choice in professions.
22
On Tuesday, it was business as usual in the newsroom. The last touches to the front page coverage of the citywide ecumenical service at the football stadium were done and the paper had been released to production.
Randy was going through mail and stopped abruptly to bring an envelope that had already found its way into one of the plastic envelopes the crime scene techs had left with him.
He was in my office holding the envelope up to show me, “We’ve got another one.”
I reached for the phone and dialed Max Hennessey’s direct line. He said he’d be there in minutes, and he was. Alice, the forensics tech, was just seconds behind him.
“Well, he didn’t mail it,” Hennessey said as he examined the envelope through the plastic. “There’s no stamp or postal imprint. He must have dumped it in the after-hours box outside the front door.”
He already knew our process with that box. It was emptied each morning by the business office staff, and then batched with the mail that came from the post office later for distribution within the building.
“It’s addressed to the editor,” I noted. “Looks like another letter, so it got put in that pile. The bowling scores and news items got sent straight to the clerk or were picked up by the sports guys when they arrived.”
“So this envelope could have been handled by what, three, four people?” Hennessey asked with some wonder in his voice. “How can we prevent that?”
I shook my head. “I don’t see that it matters. The letters and envelopes never have prints or other clues besides ours.”
He shook his head too. “So far, Jim. So far. You never know when they’re going to slip up, but they always do... well the ones we catch always do.”
Alice took the envelope out of the plastic bag and sliced it open along the bottom. She removed the letter with her tweezers, and spread it out on my credenza for us to read:
“Dear Mr. Editor,
“You’re making hay on my story, making yourself out to be the uniting force of this fair community, but you never mention me! Have you forgotten about me? Or do you feel safe now that you’ve hedged your bet on little Sara by putting another bun in the oven?
“I don’t think your newspaper really cares about finding our Suzanne. Would it be more diligent and cooperative with me if we were looking for something sweeter and younger?
“I’ve warned you, but you don’t seem to heed the warning. You want to know the Who, but you’re supposed to wonder at the Y. Are you willing to learn the Who by sacrificing another Her?
“All the beautiful praying and singing and murals on the walls won’t bring a Her back. If you want to know the Who, you have to figure out the Y.
“You are warned.
“-Y”
“What’s all that ‘bun in the oven’ bullshit?” Randy asked.
Max looked closely at me for a second, but I had no clue.
Alice interrupted the quiet, “I’ll take this to the lab; you’ll have your copy in a couple of hours, Jim.”
Max sat down, and Randy looked a question at me but I only shook my head. “I’m going back to my work,” he said. “See ya, Max.”
Max was gazing out the window, and raised two fingers over his head in a distracted salute.
I sat in my chair and looked at nothing; we were both lost in our thoughts until he said, “You and Sandy been trying?”
“Not so much as you’d notice. We aren’t avoiding, but we haven’t pushed things in that direction; we always thought two would be perfect.”
“But you haven’t heard anything from her?”
“Not a peep...”
“Well, I’m gonna go back to my office and requisition a surveillance camera be installed on your front door so we can see who’s dropping shit off in your box.”
I roused myself. “You’ll probably want to talk with Doug about that, and he’ll want to talk to his lawyers... there are some real First Amendment issues that go along with that kind of surveillance and you can brace yourself for a lot of ‘slippery slope’ talk.”
“Really
?”
“We tend to be touchy about anything that might interfere with the free flow of information, even if it benefits us in the short term.”
“You people can’t all be nuts. I’ll talk to Doug.”
After he left, I returned to my regular Tuesday duties, an editorial summarizing the community spirit witnessed the past weekend seemed appropriate, and I had made some notes over coffee earlier...
It was just four o’clock when I couldn’t take it any longer and closed down for the day. I told Randy and Louise that I was out for the day, and headed for home, my head full of questions and fear.
I walked into the house with my questions bubbling out of my brain and onto my tongue only to find Sandy up on a ladder hanging ribbons and balloons, paper storks and pink and blue booties from the ceiling; I could see this only as preparation for announcing the news to me.
“When, how... That’s great, honey,” I said as I grabbed her into a fierce hug. “It’s only... When did you find out?”
“Whoa, boy!” She exclaimed, “You seem to be less than enthralled. I thought you’d be super happy!”
I took a step backwards and sat on the hassock that fronted the couch. “I am delighted that you’re pregnant. I’m full of questions and joy; I really am, honey...”
“There’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere.”
I nodded. “We got another letter from the maniac today, dropped in the news box at the front door again...”
“Oh,” she said with almost a sob. “I’m so sorry this stuff keeps hammering you. I know the pressure and disappointment is huge. I was just so excited about the baby, I didn’t think of anything but surprising you with the news.”
“Well, that’s only fair. A baby is something really important in a world where we too often become bogged down on things that aren’t nearly so big. Tell me about your doctor visit, is everything okay? Normal? You know, when did you find out?”
“I saw the doctor on Friday, and he called me yesterday.”
“Yesterday? You didn’t say anything last night?”
She smiled like the famous cat, “Pretty good poker face, right?”
I couldn’t help it; I was just stunned. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted to surprise you,” she waved her hand at the decorations, “I got Sara situated with Celeste for the night, and I’ve invited your DU buddies and Randy, Fritz, Andy and Cecily over for hors d’oeuvres ...” Her face started to crumple. “Jim, you aren’t happy?”
I reached out for her hands, and pulled her to me. “Of course, this is the kind of news you want to share. Did you call your folks?”
She nodded in the crook between my neck and shoulder. “That’s great,” I said softly. “When are the folks coming here?”
“Six, I figured you’d be home by then, and then we could have an evening by ourselves, you know, to celebrate...”
I pushed her up to look into her eyes. “That’s a great plan. What can I do to help?”
She looked at me with a question that stayed in her eyes for a double count. “You play pretty good poker yourself, Stanton.”
I shook my head slowly. “No, I’ve got nothing to hide. I love a party, you know that. What can I do to help ?”
“Go clean up and change; everything’s ready but the stuff to put into the oven when people start arriving.”
I jumped up and pulled her to standing in front of me. I put my arms around her, my chin on her head. “I love you, Mrs. Stanton. Nobody has ever loved a woman more than I love you; you can be sure of that.”
She hugged me back. I disengaged and headed up the stairs for a quick shower and a change. I looked at my watch; it was 5:30.
The party was going nicely. Everyone had a cocktail or soft drink in hand, standing around the kitchen island where Sandy had her buffet set up, when Bart Ward tapped his glass for quiet.
“I propose a toast!” He announced in his best bass voice. “To the Stanton family as it grows and nurtures!”
“Hear! Hear!” chorused the group.
Randy Patterson raised his glass. “I also have a toast. I would like to thank the lucky stars that brought Jim and Sandy and their little ones to Lake City. We are all richer for their presence.”
Again the glasses were raised and voices cheered.
I separated myself from the group and reached out to Sandy and held her hand, “Folks, thank you. This is certainly a nice way to kick off the next nine months of cravings, yearnings, celibacy... well, most of you know what I’m talking about...”
They laughed politely, and I continued. “But in a serious thought, we really do want to thank all of you for your presence tonight, and the warmth and friendliness you’ve shown us since we arrived. We are really glad to be here.”
Sandy started cajoling people to have another bite to eat, and I went looking for glasses to fill, but the group was starting to make goodbyes until only Randy and Fritz remained.
“This is really a great idea, Jim,” Randy said as Sandy walked Cecily and her husband to the front door. “But I can’t help but wonder how the letter we got today...
“Whoa!” I shushed him with my hands just as Sandy walked back into the kitchen.
“What about the letter?”
“Oh, nothing,” Randy said shaking his head, “just shop talk, something I always promise myself I won’t do at a party, but then I go and shoot my mouth off...”
Sandy didn’t back off a bit. “You mean the maniac’s latest, don’t you.”
Randy gave me a quick glance, and then shook his head, “I didn’t want to bring that up in front of you, with the baby and everything...”
My heart sank, and he caught the look. Sandy caught it too, and her focus moved straight to me. “Jim, what’s in that letter that brought you straight home today?”
“Oh, Sandy, we can talk about it later...”
“No, we can’t,” she said using her classroom voice. “It’s on Randy’s mind, and Fritz is trying to sink into the floor and you came rushing home... it’s another threat against me or Sara, isn’t it?”
I walked around the end of the island and sat down. “Sandy, let it go. We can talk about it later, please.”
“I don’t want to wait until later.”
I shrugged. “The writer chided me about hedging my bets in case he gets to Sara by having ‘another bun in the oven.’”
She looked at me and her jaw dropped, she looked stunned and shocked at the same time. She started to waver and reached out to put a hand on the counter to steady herself. I launched myself out of the chair to grab her before she fainted.
She had gone limp, and I lowered her to the floor. The guys were frozen in place, and after a few seconds sitting, Sandy looked up at me with tears in her eyes. “We’ve got to find out who that is; we have to.”
I nodded and she started to pull herself up. “I’m sorry, fellas, that just hit me out of the blue. I think I need to go sit down for a while. I’m really sorry; I’m not the swooning type, really.”
“Jim, I’m so sorry,” Randy said in a whisper. “I am such a bullshit ass.”
“Forget it. I just didn’t tell her every thing before ’cause she was so excited about this party; I should have warned you that she didn’t know.”
Fritz came to life. “I know my Anne would have liked to be here tonight, but couldn’t because of work... but I’m going to ask her to come by in the morning; you think that’d be okay?”
I looked at the photographer and felt a rush of gratitude. “I think that would be terrific. Have her call later and make a date; I know Sandy would value the visit.”
“Uh, I think we’d better go, Randy.” He looked at me, “Randy’s driving, but I think we’ve done enough damage tonight.”
Randy had walked into the living room and I followed to find him sitting next to Sandy on the couch, holding both of her hands and whispering to her bowed head.
I turned back to the kitchen, “Let’s give him a minute more.”
But as I spoke, he came out of the living room and started for the back door. “Thanks, Jim; you’ve got a strong partner in there. I’m sorry I spilled it as I did, but she just gave me a pep talk... that’s quite a woman.”
I could only nod as they left the house.
23
I was working with Jay Knight on the layout of his lead sports page when Doug walked into the newsroom like a man on a mission, “Jim? I need you in my office.”
He turned and walked away. I returned my attention to Jay’s layout and resumed my thought.
“Jim!” Doug called from the hall. “Now.”
The whole newsroom came to attention, and I nodded to Doug; “Right away.”
He turned and headed for his office; I asked Jay if he was okay, and he said he was. “You better go find out what’s eatin’ him.”
I shrugged. “Guess so.”
His office door was open so I walked in. “Close it behind you,” he said from his desk.
“What’s up?” I asked as I closed the door.
“All kinds of shit. Here, look at this,” he said shoving a letter across his desk to me as I sat in a chair facing him.
The letter was on the Lake City Chamber of Commerce letterhead, addressed to Doug. I turned to the bottom of the letter and saw it was signed simply “The Board.”
I started to read the letter,
“Dear Member,
“After nearly a year of concern over the stigma that your newspaper’s coverage of the Suzanne Czarnopias tragedy has created for the community of Lake City, we feel it necessary to share with you our ongoing concerns in a formal letter of protest.
“We believe that your newspaper’s continued sensationalized coverage of this story, culminating as it did this past weekend with a morbid exhibition designed to tear at the fabric of this community, presents a continued threat to the business community we represent.
“While we doubt there is anything you can do to undo the damage your news play has created, we do expect you to shut this kind of scandal mongering down immediately and return our newspaper to the reliable and trusted coverage we have enjoyed up until now.
