Edited for Death

by Michele Drier

  Grumbling that she knows this was a murder, Clarice puts a lot of body English into her short walk back to her desk, where she whips out her notebook and starts typing.

  I’m stuck at my desk later than usual tonight so am still in my office when Clarice makes her routine nightly cops calls.

  Something is going on. I can hear Clarice’s voice rising, a sure sign of adrenaline ahead. I’m braced when her head appears around the door and she says, “Oh boy, the Rural Area Fire Department dispatcher just blew it! He told me that he thinks they found a body. There’s lots of cops and sheriff’s cars headed out there. I’m on my way!”

  She’s out the door before I can say anything. I know it’s going to be a long night. If there is a body, this can end up on page one.

  For the next hour, I keep myself busy while I watch the clock and wait for the phone. Finally, I dial Clarice’s cell, and a deep male voice answers.

  “Who’s this?” I demand.

  “This is Lt. Schultz of the Monroe police. Who are you?” the voice demands back.

  Oops. What is this all about? I introduce myself and ask for Clarice.

  “She’s talking to the fire guys right now,” Schultz says in a don’t-mess-with- me cop tone. “I left my phone in my car and asked to use hers. I’ll have her call you.” The line goes dead.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The ten minutes before Clarice calls back are long. I can’t keep my mind together enough to edit stories. When the phone finally rings, I jolt.

  “Where are you? Why are you letting the cops use your cell phone?” I demand.

  “Hey, Amy, and how are you?” Clarice’s voice is cheery, not a good sign. ”Schultz asked to use my phone and I know you’re always preaching good, open communication, so I let him. They’re not using land lines right now so they can’t be traced over the scanner.”

  “Well, where are you and Schultz?”

  “We’re at the scene. They did discover a body and it sure looks like the missing guy. It’s about 60 or 70 yards off Granite Road, you know, the county road that leads down to the levees. It’s pretty moist out here. The body is in a patch of weeds—can’t tell what kind in the dark but they’re tall—and it’s lying face down in some shallow water.”

  “How in the hell do you know that? What did you do, see the body? Isn’t the scene taped?” I’m clenching my hand, getting a fist ready to punch something.

  “It’s taped … now.” The blonde’s voice is subdued. “Funny thing, it wasn’t taped when I got here. There weren’t even any homicide guys here when I got here. The tip from Rural Fire was real good. I walked out into the field to ask the guys on the scene what they’d found and, well, they’re standing over the body of an old guy dressed in a security guard’s uniform.”

  Oh Lord, I think. I’m going to have to remake a portion of page one.

  “OK Clarice, you win. This will go page one, but, BUT it’s not the lead story and you need to get your butt back here NOW and write it. I’ll need about 12 inches.”

  “Well, that may be a problem.” Clarice’s voice suddenly sounds tinny, like she’s using a can and string. “I can do the 12 inches, but I can’t get back right now.”

  “What are you talking about?” I’m almost yelling. It’s been a long day. My patience is as stretched as control-top pantyhose. “If you’re not back here in the next half hour, and it isn’t written 45 minutes after that, I won’t be able to hold page one.”

  Clarice’s voice scratches and then takes hold. “It seems as though I got here too early,” she admits. “My car is inside the tape and the cops won’t let me out. They’re checking tire tracks now.”

  I can’t even come up with a response.

  When she parked her car on the shoulder of the road, it ended up in the middle of the crime scene. How the hell does Clarice manage to get herself into these situations?

  “Oh God, hitch a ride with the fire guys, ask one of the uniforms to bring you back. I don’t care how you do it, but I better hear from you in a few minutes and you better be telling me you’re on your way back to the office.” I poked the phone off and massaged my right temple where an incipient headache was trying to stake a claim.

  I’m on automatic as I call the news editor and tell her to leave a hole for Clarice’s story. I even offer to write a headline so that she can work on the remake.

  Clarice blows in 15 minutes late, but in her solid way turns out a concise, readable story with a little time to spare. Once everything is buttoned up, I offer to buy her a drink and vent some of my peevishness over a glass of wine.

  “You know, Clarice, this could become a big problem for the paper and for you.”

  “I know, I know,” Clarice nods her agreement. “Already the cops think sometimes I’m too aggressive, and I don’t want them to shut off the information.”

  “That’s part of it, but have you considered that you may end up being called as a witness?” I take a swig of wine. “Or that some of your stuff, maybe your cell phone or your shoes, could get tagged as evidence? And what about your notes? What happens if the DA’s office wants all your notes or subpoenas you? Should the Press go to bat for you, pay attorney’s fees?” I set my glass down on the bar a little too hard and the wine sloshes.

  Clarice’s blond hair hasn’t gotten any more attractive during the chase, and a half hour of running her hands through it as she writes doesn’t help. What began as a short, spiky do is now a series of clumps and wisps falling in her eyes. She blows a few strands away and says, “You’re right. I know you’re right. In another life I maybe should have been a cop. But I really don’t want to. I love what I do and I want to do it well.”

  I touch her shoulder as we walk out of the bar. “Good work today, Clar, I really mean it. I don’t want you to go off and be a cop, I want you to stay with journalism. You’re too good to lose. I plan to be reading you in the New York Times some day.”

  She looks at me with a wicked grin.

  “You will, Amy, you will,” she says and opens her car door.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  My favorite part of the job has always been the adrenaline.

  I began in journalism on the cops beat. It’s a place where there’s always news and I loved it. It’s how I met my first husband, Vinnie-the-cop. His family called him that; I took it up through osmosis.

  I was learning the ropes, getting more and more story assignments when I got pregnant with Heather, our daughter. When I went back to work, Vinnie insisted that I take a different, less dangerous assignment, so I starting covering local politics. Safe as milk until a disgruntled city sanitation worker holed up in the mayor’s office as I was interviewing His Honor.

  SWAT was called, no shots were fired, everybody walked away, but Vinnie was upset.

  “Goddamn it Amy, you’re supposed to be safe!” he roared at me. “I’m the one with the dangerous job.”

  “Hey, my job isn’t supposed to be dangerous,” I yelled back. “That was only a fluke. You know that. Jeez, nowadays you can be doing the most innocent thing and get shot by some jerk-off going postal. What about all those people who are just waiting in line to buy stamps when an idiot comes in! What about the school shootings? Those crazies use AK-47s to mow down kids on a school playground.”

  “I know, I know. I just want to keep you and Heather safe,” he yelled back.

  “Well, we can’t stay locked up in the house forever. I’m a big girl. I have a career that I love. I take precautions. You can’t just wrap us up in cotton wool. And you can’t just dictate to me!”

  We fought for a couple of months until I finally caved in and said I’d ask for a features beat. I loved Vinnie, Heather was my soul, but reporting and writing were my breath.

  Less than a year later, I was back at the San Fernando Valley Globe, covering local government again. Vinnie was a good cop, a careful cop, but he let the hysteria of a high-speed chase get him involved in a gun battle. The bad guy—who’d killed two innocent kids in a dru
g deal gone bad, then taken off in a stolen car—was dead. But so was Vinnie.

  My widow’s pension wasn’t enough to support us and I couldn’t just stay home and be a mom. Too many ghosts were in my head. I needed something big, something challenging, to keep them buried.

  The San Fernando Valley Globe helped with this. I was back into politics and one assignment was a local rally for a councilman looking to make a state-wide run. I was chatting with a campaign staffer when a good-looking man came up and joined us. The staffer’s eyebrows rose, but he introduced me anyway.

  “Amy, this is Brandon Colby. He’s a lobbyist in Sacramento Brandon, this is Amy Hobbes. She’s with the Globe.”

  This Brandon guy was smooth. This Brandon guy was pretty. This Brandon guy was going to be dangerous.

  I spent the next year putting a gag on my intuition. When Brandon called, my knees quivered. His voice turned my brain to jelly. My body was taking over and to hell with reason. I found myself one May afternoon in Monroe standing in front of 150 strangers saying “I do.”

  Heather was in middle school, I was playing political hostess, Brandon was moving up in his firm. I didn’t miss the news business as much as I thought I would. Maybe being a mom, and surviving the devastation of Vinnie’s death had burned through the adrenaline.

  My life was on a different track than I’d planned, but it was secure and safe. Until the day Brandon came home and announced he’d taken a different job. It was bigger and better and paid more. He’d be working at the national level. It was in Chicago. And Heather and I wouldn’t be joining him. He was moving with his pregnant girlfriend, a staffer in the Illinois legislature.

  It took two weeks before I got out of bed and went down to the Monroe Press to talk to Calvin O’Keefe.

  When I wake up every morning still in Monroe, I blame the asshole car thief who started Vinnie on a high-speed chase.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Jim Dodson calls me directly when Janice Boxer’s autopsy results come back.

  “We’re probably going to need your help on this one,” he says. The sheriff’s voice is country with an urban overlay.

  “Our initial thought was that Janice had just driven off that road. It was funny, because she was up and down those roads, day in and day out. Hell, I’d even seen her put her own snow chains on.”

  “What kind of help do you need,” I ask warily. “What was the report?” It’s an iffy proposition working closely with the cops. I want to maintain good relations with them but there are times when I’m left out of the information loop.

  “Janice Boxer was dead before her car went off the road. We still don’t know what the killer used but her skull was smashed She’d been hit in the head a couple of times before she was put in the car. She wasn’t wearing a seat belt and her head went into the windshield so the coroner had to pick through a bunch of bone and glass to get to the hits that actually killed her.” In my imagination I can hear the man sigh.

  I’m silent for a minute. Monroe was small by big city standards and I’ve never known anybody besides Vinnie who was murdered. I’m not a close friend of Janice Boxer’s but she’d been helpful and friendly when I was looking for a house and understanding when I backed out of the deal after rethinking winter snow.

  Janice laughed—not her perky real-estate lady’s laugh, a real I-get-you chuckle—and told me that she’d had the same fears. She worked for a large corporation in San Jose before she moved to the foothills and began selling real estate.

  It took time to acclimate to mountain living.

  Dodson’s voice brings me back. “Are you still there?”

  “It’s different when you know the victim,” I say. “You know we’ll have to get all sides—interview her family, friends, co-workers. Maybe talk to some people she did business with.”

  “I know, and that’s what I’m counting on.” This time I can hear a slight sigh.

  He’s convincing, but I need to stand my ground. “Hey, we’re not going to do your work for you. You know that the only information we’ll give you is what we print.”

  “I know that. I’m not asking you to do the investigation. Completely off the record and for background that can’t get used or repeated, we’re going to be looking at the perpetrator coming from the Bay Area. We’re a tiny department. I don’t have the bodies to send to San Francisco or San Jose for interviews. If you do a story on the murder maybe one of the big papers will pick it up. Somebody with some information might read it and call their local police. Then we can ask for mutual aid from those big departments. If I call them, they won’t be interested. We use all the state-wide stuff; computer identity and AFIS, DNA lab if we ever have any reason. The daily grunt work, door-to-door, follow-up on tips and interviewing witnesses we’re on our own. We’ll be better off with more people asking questions.”

  What Dodson is saying makes sense. AFIS, the automated fingerprint identification system, only compares prints on file. DNA testing only works if you have samples. That’s high-tech forensics. This is just boring repetition, knocking on strange doors. Cops—hell, all law enforcement, including the FBI—will call a press conference when they run out of leads.

  I’m sold. “OK. Send me the details with information on her family or background. I’ll tell Clarice. Thanks for the call.”

  That frisson, the hair on my neck doing a stand-up dance, gives me an all-over shiver. Of what? Fear? Anticipation? Anger? Maybe recognition that Clarice’s suspicions hold water.

  I hang up and sit for a moment, staring out into the newsroom. Clarice isn’t due in to work for another hour. I use the time wisely.

  I have my nails done.

  Over the years, I’ve learned that you get your information where you can. I started going to the trendiest nail salon in town when I married Brandon. It was a local who’s who of Monroe’s movers and shakers and a crash course into the place. Now I still get gossip and story ideas, but just spending an hour with a bunch of young women speaking Vietnamese is a respite. I don’t understand anything and don’t have to say anything, just let the voices roll over me.

  I use the window of time to sort out how I want to tell Clarice about the murder. Marshalltown had only one murder in the last decade. A local meth-head knifed his dealer and dropped the body down a mineshaft. The tweaker was picked up two days later trying to pawn the dealer’s watch.

  With two murders in a few days, I’ll have to work with Clarice to handle this assignment carefully. I don’t want to be accused of over-blowing this and start a frenzy about some serial killer loose in the foothills.

  When Clarice gets to work, the fax from Marshalltown and a “See Me” note are taped to her computer screen, the only sure-fire way I know to get instant reaction from a reporter. And I’m not wrong.

  Clarice drops her purse, cell phone, pager and keys in a pile, rips the notes off her screen and is breathless when she comes through my door, colliding with another staffer on his way out.

  “Now are you happy? I told you there was a lot more going on there! What’s Dodson hiding? What didn’t he tell us?”

  “Damn it, Clarice, slow down, stop.” I wave my fingers to help the almost-dry polish. “This is going to turn out fine, but we can’t go stomping around in his turf. He called me, was very nice on the phone, asked for our help in publicizing the murder. I really got the feeling that he’s one of those we can work with.”

  I recap my conversation with Dodson. I tell Clarice about the Bay Area connection because she needs to know the audience. Clarice is making notes.

  “OK. I’ll start with Boxer’s background, the background of the recent boom in the real estate market in the foothills, the background on San Juan County and the sheriff’s department,” she says, busy with her squiggles. “Can you get the intern, what’s-her-name, to do routine cops calls?”

  Even after a couple of years, I’m still amazed at Clarice’s cluelessness about basic office etiquette. “Her name is Shana. I’ll see if she has time,” I
say.

  Clarice looks up at me as she’s dialing the San Juan County road department. She’s picked up the hint of sarcasm but doesn’t let it stop her.

  “Thanks,” and into the phone, “This is Clarice Stams from the Monroe Press. I need some statistics on car accidents and deaths.”

  I walk over to the tiny cubicle that the intern gets to call her own and ask her to make the cops calls. This time her pretty, young face lights up. Meeting announcements are the scut work of the newsroom and she’s discovered that she likes cops. Come to think if it, they probably like her as well.

  Clarice is also calling the San Juan County coroner’s office for how often they run across violent death and the state real estate licensing board to see if being killed while showing a property is considered an occupational hazard.

  She writes a straightforward story on Boxer’s murder, laying out the facts and quoting San Juan County Sheriff Jim Dodson, “We’re all distressed that this happened to Janice Boxer,” he said. “She was an asset to our community and her death is still under investigation.”

  Clarice and I will start early tomorrow and head to Marshalltown with a photographer. She’ll visit the cabin and the spot where Janice’s car went off the road. She’ll interview Janice’s co-workers. She’ll interview Sheriff Dodson and get his picture. She’ll find a picture of Janice to run with the story. And she’s clear that she can follow this story as long as she doesn’t let her other work slack off. I may have looked like a pushover with Shana today, but I won’t let Clarice bull her way across the staff.

  I’ll meet Royce Calvert, get more background on the family and the hotel. I’m going to need to know a hell of a lot more before I think about tackling a project like a book. I may be just living in a dream world, grasping at straws to help get me out of Monroe but it’s a relatively safe form of self-medication.