The First Victim

by Ridley Pearson

  The more he thought about it all, the sharper the pain behind his eyes, the drier his tongue. He had work to do. If he got this next shipment in without incidence, he felt reasonably confident he could wrestle control back from SPD and contain the damage. The success of the next shipment was everything.

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  Stevie McNeal sat up straight in her anchor chair facing the three robotic cameras, a barrage of lights pouring color and heat down onto her.

  At Boldt’s request, she prepared herself to lie, to use her anchor chair for her own good, to willfully manipulate her trusting public in an effort to rescue her Little Sister. It was professional suicide if it ever came out, but she felt bound to pursue anything that increased Melissa’s chances. Anything.

  She would break from the prepared text of the news hour and read from her own cards. There would be hell to pay, especially if the station managers ever found out she had known in advance that the information was inaccurate, a construct of a police department desperate for a break. In the next few seconds she was going to put her entire career on the line. She wouldn’t find work in a fourth-tier city if this ever came out.

  Her director’s voice came through the earpiece she wore. ‘‘You okay, Stevie?’’

  She raised her hand to signal him, though she did not open her eyes, her full concentration on Melissa and putting her needs first. Surprisingly, she thought of her father, alone and unloved in some veteran’s hospital, courtesy of the federal government. Melissa had mentioned his poor health. Stevie blamed her father for her years in New York, for feeding her to a skirt-chasing producer whose idea of educating the fresh recruits was getting their clothes off. She hadn’t spoken to her father since her departure from New York—her ending the affair had also ended her network career. But faced with compromising her career, she suddenly thought of him and how she would be 281

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  letting him down, would be damaging the McNeal name, and she realized he still held power over her, even off wherever he was, battling whatever it was. She could break the communication but not the connection. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .

  She opened her eyes. The floor director’s finger pointed ominously at her. She felt cold despite the glare of lights. Good evening. You’re live, with News Four at Five. I’m Stevie McNeal.

  She broke from the prepared text.

  Local health authorities announced just moments ago that the flu-like virus that may have been responsible for the deaths of several illegal aliens including three found dead in a shipping container last month is a far more serious threat to local health than previously imagined.

  Corwin stood up from behind the console in the soundproofed booth and waved frantically at her, pointing to the thin pink sheet of text he held in his hand, the yellow copy of which lay before her on the anchor desk, and the text to which scrolled on the prompting screen below the camera lens. She saw him only peripherally, her attention primarily directed to the cards but divided between the cards and the camera with the red light, his angry voice carrying through her flesh-colored earpiece and attempting to distract her as she continued to read her cards. But Stevie McNeal was a pro: She never broke her cadence.

  News Four at Five has learned that this contagion, which pro- duces flu-like symptoms of high fever, congestion and can result in bronchial infection, stomach cramps and diarrhea, is also believed responsible for the deaths of the Jane Doe and three other corpses found improperly buried at Hilltop Cemetery in the past week. There are unconfirmed rumors that the virus is spreading rapidly through the detainee population at the INS facility at Fort Nolan.

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  Health officials, responding to the public’s needs, have estab- lished a free inoculation program at New Care Health Clinic across from Harborview Medical Center. Any persons having confirmed direct contact with anyone known to be carrying this virus are strongly encouraged to seek immunization and/or a series of specially created antibiotics at New Care between the hours of twelve and one P.M. and eight and ten P.M, daily, until further notice or the limited supply runs out. Health care offi- cials stress the severity of the problem, the systemic nature of the contagion and the importance of this preventive treatment program. For further information, interested viewers can call this toll-free number twenty-four hours a day. She read the 888 number that Boldt had provided her, a number that ran directly to the fifth floor of the Public Safety building and had both caller-ID and trap-and-trace functions enabled.

  ‘‘In other news . . .’’ She returned to the top of the prepared broadcast. As she read from her sheet the TelePrompTer scrolled backward and caught up with her. Corwin would have to edit during the first break and cut a story or shorten weather or sports to accommodate Stevie’s unexpected announcement. He would never drop an ad—the station had its priorities set.

  An amazing sense of relief pulsed through her. Any effort to save Melissa was worth the price. Boldt’s trap was properly set. She had joined forces with the police and they with her, and she thought that if anything, this was a lesson for both sides. She wondered if she had a year to keep her anchor chair, or a week, or a day. Truthfully, she didn’t care. If Melissa came home because of this one sixty-second manipulation of the truth . . .

  Then, in what she considered a moment of brilliance, as she finished reading the lead story and the camera bearing the red light switched to Billy-Bob Cutler, she stood from her anchor chair, stripped off the microphone and earpiece, distracting but not interrupting her co-anchor, and marched off the set. When she turned not toward her dressing room and the bathroom there but toward the studio exit, the floor director rushed away from the set and caught up.

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  ‘‘Ms. McNeal?’’ she hissed, stopping Stevie and turning her.

  ‘‘Anything wrong?’’

  Jimmy Corwin’s lean frame appeared through the door to the control booth and froze, understanding her intentions from the expression on her face. Surprisingly, he spoke calmly. ‘‘If this story is sound, then why not include it in the script?’’ Corwin was a newsman. Corwin knew before making a single phone call. ‘‘Who’s your contact on this?’’

  Stevie met eyes with him. ‘‘Billy-Bob will have to take my remaining segments. He’ll do fine.’’

  ‘‘Mr. Cutler? The whole broadcast?’’ the floor director inquired. Corwin said, ‘‘Tell me this story is going to check out. What the hell is going on here?’’

  She liked Corwin. She hated to do this to him—to the station. She took a deep breath and said, ‘‘Ihave a bus to catch.’’

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  ‘‘Ineed you. Pronto. She split the station early. I’m in trouble here.’’ Coughlie had paged Rodriguez to call him back, taking a huge risk by using his cellphone but seeing no way around it. The call had been returned nearly instantly. He heard the barroom noise in the background and knew that Rodriguez was in some happy hour haunt watching News Four at Five. They both had made a regular diet of it.

  He followed the BMW toward downtown, wondering what she was up to. First the story about a flu vaccine, then the sudden departure. He knew how Rodriguez would react to that lead story. He had to involve the man in McNeal’s surveillance in order to keep him from going to that health clinic. Coming from her mouth
as it had, the story had sounded plausible, even legitimate, but for a variety of reasons Coughlie was deeply suspicious: The INS would have been told if Fort Nolan’s population was at any kind of health risk. It was a glitch in her story that he couldn’t see past. Fearing some kind of trap, some kind of sting, he needed to keep Rodriguez clear of the clinic. The guy had been pretty damn sick for the last several weeks, had buried women who had died with similar symptoms and had repeatedly complained about his health. Coughlie feared that the man would take the bait. If Rodriguez had any love, it was for any kind of medication. Rodriguez said, ‘‘Forget it. No can do. Got me an appointment.’’

  The big man sniffled snot back into the back of his throat. It sounded grotesque.

  ‘‘This health clinic? Forget about it. It’s a trap.’’

  ‘‘I’m busy.’’

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  ‘‘It’s a trap. The cops tricked her into this. Listen, I’m following her right at this very moment,’’ Coughlie said. ‘‘Ineed help with this.’’

  ‘‘Busy.’’

  ‘‘Listen to me—’’

  Rodriguez interrupted, ‘‘Try me later.’’ The line clicked.

  ‘‘Hello?’’ Coughlie said into the receiver, astonished the man would hang up on him. A first. ‘‘Hey!’’ he shouted. He held out the cellphone and stared at it, placed it back to his ear and repeated,

  ‘‘Hey!’’ Nothing.

  McNeal parked the BMW.

  Coughlie pulled over, fearing he might have to follow her on foot. McNeal approached a bus stop and stood there waiting. A bus stop? She had mentioned to him that one of Melissa’s surveillance videos had shown a bus. Rodriguez regularly used the bus to reach the sweatshop. Brian Coughlie went numb with the thought. He tried the pager again. But this time, his cellphone never rang with the return call.

  A city bus pulled to a stop. People shoved for position. Stevie McNeal climbed aboard.

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  AsSteviesatacrossfromthereardoorofthecitybuswatchingthe landscape parade past, she reminded herself of the big man with the hooded sweatshirt, consulting a color printout—a freeze-frame—

  from the video. She tracked the exact second the bus arrived and departed each of its stops, looking for an elapsed time of twenty-two minutes and seventeen seconds as recorded on the digital video. Believing she was onto something, she wanted to test her theory before taking up SPD’s time with it. Adding to her excitement was the realization that she might have lost her tail—as unintentional as it was—by leaving the station through a back exit during a time she was anticipated to be on-air. She assumed, quite rightly, that if there was any time her guards ran for a bite to eat, or took a break, it was during the two-hour period that N4@ 5 typically occupied. As much as she appreciated the reassurance of their presence she preferred her independence, especially on the eve of what she believed was to be a major discovery. This way she could savor the moment of delivering news of her discovery to Boldt or LaMoia—or better yet, both at the same time. If she found the sweatshop, or even the general neighborhood where the man had left the bus route, she would be doing something positive to help Melissa, not just sitting back and being a target of these people. Playing the victim was not her idea of taking part. Her eye constantly referenced the printout she held in her lap, the eerie dark image of the big man a blur at the bus door, but the stairstep pattern of the skyline seen through the bus windows distinct, if not distinctive. Looking outside again, she intentionally blurred her eyes to recapture the vague image on the printout. Still nothing; the 287

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  background offered not a hint of the footage Melissa had shot. Melissa needed her and she was not delivering.

  The bus pulled to yet another stop. Fremont Bridge—the same place she had turned around her last time out. She checked the printout and glanced up, her eyes stinging, her head ringing with defeat and grief. If only Melissa knew how much she cared, how much she loved her; if only she had taken the time to be with her, to involve her in her life—maybe even then things would be different, she would feel differently somehow, but she had not done these things. She deeply regretted it now.

  Stevie had little time to think about such things. She looked up as Brian Coughlie climbed onto the bus.

  t

  He moved down the aisle deliberately, self-confident and strong, looking directly at her and never taking his eyes off her, and for an instant a spike of fear raced through her. Where the hell had he come from? What the hell did he want?

  The seat next to her was vacant. She would have gladly had it occupied by the smelliest street person at that moment, although the determination in Coughlie’s eyes indicated nothing would stop him from taking that seat. The bus rolling, Coughlie sat down next to her and looked straight ahead.

  ‘‘Icaught your act,’’ he said, still looking toward the front of the bus. ‘‘A Watchman,’’ he explained. ‘‘Nifty little gadget. Ikeep one with me everywhere Igo now. Addicted to the news, Iguess you could say.’’

  ‘‘What a coincidence,’’ Stevie said, ‘‘both of us on the same bus and all.’’

  ‘‘In your dreams,’’ he replied. ‘‘SPD dropped the ball when you took off from the station. Not my boys. No sir. Right there is the difference between local and federal, I’m telling you. Be glad we’re on your side.’’

  ‘‘You’ve been following me,’’ she said with disgust.

  ‘‘Hell, you’ve so many people watching your ass you might as

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  well be leading a parade. You’re a regular majorette!’’ His arrogance disturbed her—a different man from the one previously seeking partnership. The bus bounced. All the passengers’ heads rose and fell in unison. Stevie’s teeth chattered, but that had nothing to do with the bus’s jerky movements.

  ‘‘Tell me about that little stunt of yours.’’

  ‘‘Stunt?’’ Her legs shook she was so nervous.

  ‘‘Your idea or Boldt’s? This flu thing . . . It’s a simple enough question.’’ He waited for her, but she couldn’t find a defendable answer, couldn’t find her voice at all. ‘‘You reported this flu was spreading out at Fo-No—Fort Nolan. who gave you that? Who’s your source on that? Or did you make it up? Does the news simply make things up? This is my turf we’re talking about here.’’ His crimson face took on a greenish purple under the tube lights. ‘‘I’ll catch hell for this. You know that? Health inspectors. ACLU. You buried us with that piece.’’ He pursed his lips and edged forward on the seat. ‘‘This story is bullshit.’’

  ‘‘The CDC issued—’’

  ‘‘Oh, that’s bullshit! We’d have seen it before anyone else! Don’t you get it? It’s our detention facility we’re talking about. We’d have been the first notified. Our population would have been the first immunized. Did they use you?’’ he asked incredulously. ‘‘Or are you part of it?’’

  They met eyes. His were bloodshot and half-blind with anger. She wanted off that bus. It stopped, but she didn’t look up. ‘‘Whatever it takes to save her,’’ she said.

  ‘‘It was Boldt’s idea,’’ Coughlie said.

  ‘‘I’m telling you: The CDC issued a health bulletin.’’

  ‘‘And I’m telling you, it’s not possible. They used you.’’ He looked around. ‘‘And what’s this about? You don’t mind me saying so, you and a city bus have got nothing in common
. Is it the videos?’’

  ‘‘The police found a bus ticket,’’ she lied. ‘‘It was worth a gamble.’’

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  ‘‘If they’d found a bus ticket, it would be them riding the bus, not you. What’s going on with you? Why are you lying to me?’’

  ‘‘Why are you having me followed? Protection? From what? From whom? Or do you want me to do your work for you? A federal agency keeping a reporter under surveillance—’’

  ‘‘A witness.’’

  ‘‘No, Brian. Not me. You want to deal with all this, or are you going to call off your people?’’

  ‘‘You’re making a mistake—a big mistake.’’

  ‘‘It’s mine to make,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Yes, it is,’’ he answered. His smile turned her stomach. ‘‘So have it your way. But remember: Some mistakes are costly.’’

  The bus pulled to another stop. Coughlie stood and disembarked. He didn’t look back.

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  Awoman detective from vice named Laura Stowle was dressed in nursing whites to play the role of clinic receptionist. LaMoia commented on how a tightly packed white uniform had irresistible effects upon him, and how, based on this rare opportunity to see Stowle’s darkly handsome face and ‘‘well-rounded personality’’ in such a tantalizing costume, he needed to ask her out. Boldt told him to keep it in his pants.

  The clinic had gone along with the substitution because the receptionist required no medical training and until a doctor or paramedic became involved in the process there was no legal expectation of privacy.

  ‘‘The only problem with Stowle in this assignment, Sarge, is that even with her hair pulled back, she’s a little too cute, a little too much like a soap opera star instead of the minimum wage ethnic receptionist we’ve all come to expect.’’