Scott Nicholson Library, Vol. 4 (Boxed Set)

by Scott Nicholson

  “Excuse me, gentlemen.” I left them to their meals while I flipped open my phone and spoke into it. “Hello, this is Howard.”

  “Yo, Chief.”

  “Moretz?”

  “Hope I didn’t interrupt anything. I wouldn’t call on a weekend unless it was important.”

  The other reporters never called on weekends. For that matter, I could never find them when I needed them. Our Monday edition was usually soft because we tried to round up everything that morning.

  Not only was it the start of the week, and therefore sources were likely to be late getting to the office, but Monday was a favorite for holidays, sick days, and vacations. The chances of getting a return phone call were almost as bad then as on Friday afternoon.

  “I appreciate your calling, John. What’s up?”

  “You may have heard about the head-on collision last night.”

  “Yeah.” I said it as if I slept with a scanner by my bed, but in truth, I enjoyed my down time as much as anybody. I just didn’t have as much of it as my reporters did, so I cherished it more. Or so I told myself. Farmville, e-mail, and that novel I’d been tinkering with for a decade were such pressing responsibilities.

  “One of them died and the other is probably getting sized for a toe tag this very minute.”

  “Damn. Where are you?”

  “The hospital. I drove in to check on their conditions.”

  The waitress came over and refilled the mayor’s coffee cup. She frowned at me and tapped her order pad. She had a faint, middle-aged mustache that grew more prominent when her face creased. I ducked back to the phone. “How did you get past the front desk? With these new federal privacy regulations, they’re not supposed to give out any patient information.”

  “They will if you’re a family member.”

  I didn’t know whether to kick him for risking the Picayune’s reputation or put him in for a raise. “Did you get bedside?”

  “Close enough. I overheard the doctor talking to one of the real relatives. Massive head trauma.”

  I wondered how we would reveal the information without acknowledging we’d violated integrity standards. Wait a sec. What was I thinking, “integrity”? This was a newspaper, for Christ’s sake.

  “Okay, get the names and basics and we’ll go front page with it. Too bad we didn’t get crash scene photos.”

  “Chief,” he said, as if he were talking to a moron. Or, since morons no longer existed in this politically correct era, to a person of intellectual difference.

  “You got art?”

  “I was there within 15 minutes.”

  I wondered if Moretz had a scanner at home. I’d tried to get the other reporters to carry portable scanners that were the size of walkie-talkies, but they’d balked. They considered it to be a version of house arrest. “You’ve got a knack for this kind of thing,” I said.

  “I was driving down N.C. 16 when I saw two blue-light specials heading east. An ambulance right on the tails of the cop cars. So I figured it was pretty big.”

  “A Jeep, right? They throw bodies like hot popcorn.” The mayor and Long had abandoned their breakfast and were glued to my end of the conversation.

  “Yep, and they had the Jaws of Life out for the pickup. Opened the truck like a can of tuna and pulled the pieces out. I got rescue pics, not much blood but the suggestion of major carnage.”

  “Sweet.” I wanted to head to the office and start work on the package, but I didn’t see any advantage since we were 48 hours from the next edition. “Too bad we can’t keep the update off the radio.”

  “I’ll tell the front desk that the family wishes to keep conditions confidential until we’ve notified all next of kin. That might buy us a couple of days if we’re lucky.”

  “Damn, Moretz, are you sure you weren’t an editor in a previous life? Or maybe a Russian spy?”

  “If you want to outsmart a rat, you have to spread a little cheese.”

  I didn’t know what that odd little aphorism said about the state of the media. “All right, I’ll look for about 20 inches on it.”

  “You got it, boss.” Moretz hung up and I tucked my cell phone back in its warm pocket.

  Long pointed his greasy fork at me. “You know something, don’t you?”

  I calculated whether stroking an advertiser was worth the risk of his spreading the details before we could publish the exclusive. Hell, he wasn’t that big of an advertiser. And, like any advertiser, he would come running with the checkbook if the public was talking about us.

  “Just some leads,” I said. “We won’t have anything solid until Monday.”

  I almost dared him to listen to the radio for more details, but that would have been risky. Long had an account at the local AM station, and they let him in the studio for occasional interviews.

  All the Picayune could offer was free column space, but then he would have to write a column. You have to really dislike someone to impose a sentence of involuntary and uncompensated writing on them.

  Mayor Wilbanks grinned as if he were game to the inside joke, or maybe he had heartburn from the sausage gravy. Either way, I’d lost my appetite in my excitement.

  “Sorry, guys, I’d better head to the office. News never sleeps, you know.” Which was a weird thing to be saying just after breakfast, but they both nodded as if I’d just delivered stone tablets from Mount Sinai.

  Saturday in the Picayune office was like down time at a mortuary. The place was dark and dusty, and the air pump was shut down. Nobody had any business there, with the possible exception of a gassed-up Fred Lance dragging in with high school results.

  I enjoyed the peace and quiet. I had time to prep the basic layout of the Monday edition, check my e-mail and phone messages, and zoom a few of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition teasers.

  I’m not a keyboard drooler, I just feel it’s an important part of our First Amendment rights. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

  I was cruising a site based on keywords that can’t be printed in a general-audience publication when the entryway lights flicked on. I clicked up an innocuous Web page, something that would pass muster even with the prudish overlords, and pretended to be busy with paperwork.

  Moretz passed my glass window and flashed me two fingers, which would have counted for a peace sign a few decades ago but might mean scissors-cuts-paper these days. He sat at his computer and bent over the keyboard as if it owed him sexual pleasure. Not that I’m speaking from personal experience or anything.

  I went through a couple of letters to the editor. Ruby Wallace had mailed her latest government conspiracy piece, so convoluted that you couldn’t tell whether she was for or against the current administration, only that aliens were probably involved somehow, because she had seen them posing with Clinton on the cover of The Weekly World News.

  By now, everybody knew that Clinton must have been under the influence of celestial powers, otherwise the stock market wouldn’t have soared so high during his terms in office, only to bottom out once he headed for the lecture circuit and eight-figure book deals. In the World According To Wallace, “big government is the enemy of J. Christ,” and beware to any who doubted.

  Luckily, the paper had a policy of requiring a two-week cooling-off period between letters, so I tucked Rudy into my “Hold” file and pushed on.

  Moretz came to my office door and stood like a military courier. Ordinarily, I like my reporters to keep the lines of communication open, because they tended to be lone wolves in a job that served the common flock and frowned upon individual expression.

  But Moretz was starting to bug me a bit. It wasn’t that he wanted approval or even acknowledgement from me; I got the feeling that he served a higher purpose, one unseen by those of us who wanted a decent paycheck and maybe an occasional promotion.

  “Word up, Moretz?” I said, in corny, outdated slang.

  “Word is definitely up,” he said, peering at me beneath those Antonio Banderas eyebrows. “I’ve go
t your crash story in, plus a possible sex offense case.”

  “Sex offense?” I glanced at my computer screen, wondering if I’d deleted the history of site visits.

  “Get this—a Sycamore Shade man was just busted for statutory rape and exploitation of a minor.”

  “Great, but that’s not too unusual. We get one of those every few months.”

  “With video?”

  “What are talking about, Moretzy?”

  “The guy filmed himself with a juvenile. More than once, according to the warrant. The cops seized seven hours worth of tapes.”

  “Jesus Hemingway Christ, you’re not telling me we have us an amateur porno ring?”

  Moretz grinned as if he’d swallowed the cat that ate the canary. “The guy apparently is a major pervert. Better yet, you might recognize the name—Wilbanks.”

  “Wilbanks? The mayor?”

  “His son.”

  “No way. I just ate breakfast with the mayor, and he didn’t have a care in the world, except maybe getting reelected next year.”

  “That was then, and this is now. The warrant’s twenty minutes old.”

  I’d grown to admire Moretz’s newshound attitude in our short time together, and had planned to have him lead a workplace seminar on how to tap sources. I figured Baker and Westmoreland could learn a thing or two, or at least use their resentment as temporary motivation.

  Now I was actually viewing Moretz as a threat to my job. All I had over the other staff members, besides my receding hairline, was the ability to do page layout, and I fully believed any monkey could be trained to operate the software. “How did you hook up? That kind of bust doesn’t come in over the scanner.”

  “I was talking with the sheriff about the car crash when he dished the scoop. I think he likes me.”

  Moretz wasn’t all that likeable, but he did radiate a certain kind of disturbed charisma.

  “Wilbanks,” I said, still in disbelief. They say journalism makes you a cynic, and politics ups the ante and calls your bluff. But Wilbanks was such a cheerful, imp-faced fellow, the sort who could play Santa Claus if given a cotton beard.

  I couldn’t picture his offspring being anything less than civic-minded and square. Then again, they said a preacher’s daughter never waited until marriage, and I’d known at least one who’d lived down to that reputation.

  “I’ve got it nailed,” Moretz said. “The only question is whether I’ll get access to the videos that were seized. They should be considered public record if they’re described on the warrant.”

  “We can’t publish anything like that.”

  Moretz cocked a Banderas eyebrow and said, “It’s not for the paper.”

  “Oh. Okay. How many inches can you give me?”

  “Fifteen, and probably a mug shot. I’ll try to round up a backstory, maybe interview one of the girls’ moms.”

  A vic family interview. A gold mine for any media outlet. Facts were facts, but nothing spoke to the public like an outraged person who didn’t have a clue. Just look at the popularity of so-called “reality shows.”

  We needed the frame to tell us what part was the entertainment. The real point was, “Give me your pain and your tears.”

  I clicked through the stories that the other writers had filed. Humane Society rummage sale, local Democratic Party fundraiser, arrival of Girl Scout cookies. Without Moretz, the paper would be oatmeal without the sugar.

  The mayor, perversion, and self-righteous indignation issued from every pulpit and public agency in the community ensured an ongoing story with lots of angles.

  And so it went. Every few days, it seemed a new atrocity occurred. On Thursday, Moretz filed a story on a case of autoerotic asphyxiation that the cops weren’t sure was so “auto,” but were merely calling a “suspicious death” for now.

  Though we didn’t report suicides, there were only so many terms you can use to couch “accidental hanging,” and we could report the sheriff’s quote that the death was “under investigation.”

  It’s the kind of copy where you avoid titillation and prurience at all costs, knowing most of the audience will strain their necks reading between the lines and talking about the things they know they shouldn’t talk about. Makes for cheap thrills and higher circ.

  On Saturday, two drowned teenagers were found in the Unegama River. The speculation was the first was swept away and the second died trying to save the first, though no one was willing to say which victim was which.

  In such a circumstance, there was only one thing to do: declare both of them heroes who no doubt died valiantly and nobly trying to save each other.

  And once the toxicologist’s report came back with no drugs or alcohol involved, then the story was golden and gallons of memorial ink flowed. Moretz was on the scene both for the body search and the subsequent mourning ceremonies at the high school.

  Other crime increased as well. Smash-and-grabs, lock bumping, shoplifting. The crime report had crept from page two into a jump to page eight each week. Though crime stats peaked, arrests were down, and Moretz bled a few great interviews with the sheriff, complete with a hangdog mug shot that simultaneously glowered from the page at any would-be perps and reassured voters that everything possible was being done and that, possibly, mistakes had been made and procedures would be reviewed and officers would be held accountable.

  We were riding the mayor’s case with every issue, and our editorial section expanded to three pages because of all the outraged letters from readers. The mayor was under pressure to resign because of his allegedly perverted son, but so far he’d resisted, issuing a statement that he couldn’t abandon the office while crime was rampant.

  We even ran a special series on our little crime wave, with the church page full of rants about the breakdown of the traditional family and some sidebars comparing our death rates to those of surrounding counties.

  The parent company had to upgrade the press because we were rolling out twice as many copies. Ad sales were booming. The publisher, a walrus-faced guy who had married into the company, emerged from his corner office like a bear emerging from hibernation and promptly bought a new Porsche.

  4.

  Just when things couldn’t get any better, Moretz brought in the Rebel Clipper’s first corpse. No one knew it was the first victim of a serial killer, of course, and the Clipper moniker came later, after a certain grooming implement was linked to the crime.

  The body was found under a canoe at the state park, near the dock where rangers rent boats by the hour for tourists who want to skim the lake. The corpse was female, early 20’s, partially nude. Raccoons had nibbled at some of the soft bits. Apparently someone had beaten her with the business end of a paddle.

  Moretz captured the horror in all its pixilated glory. He must have gotten there shortly after the 9-1-1 call, before the wall of yellow tape shut the public off from its Constitutional right to be nosy.

  In a stroke of luck, he’d been out on assignment in that end of the county, covering a storm-water violation where a farmer had dug in the creek without a permit, turning the water brown and annoying the summer tourists who demanded a pristine view from the safety of their motor vehicles.

  “An early Hanukkah present, Chief,” said the e-mail that accompanied the attached story file. Moretz knew I was a lapsed Catholic masquerading as a Taoist. At that moment, though, I would have become a Satanist if the Big Red Dude would keep me supplied with front-page dynamite.

  We had to downplay the gruesome details, of course, which was a blow to my ego because the sensational nature of the story brought reporters from several of the regional dailies. They had no such shackles, and somehow the fact that they were delivering news to tens of thousands of people made them less responsible than the Picayune, which purported to care about its community.

  The cynic in me, which runs about half an inch beneath the surface no matter where you scratch, would call it the cheeseburgerization of media, the sizzle without the steak, the ratin
gs rush.

  The murder was big enough that I visited the scene myself, but there was little left to see besides a few investigators working the scene. The park was state property, so the SBI had a couple of agents complicating things.

  The lake was ringed by forest, creating a wonderful spot to kill someone, even if I did say so myself. Simply slash-and-hack, gouge, or strangle, and then you could either row along the shoreline into one of the little coves, hop on a mountain bike and head down one of the rugged trails, or simply slip into the dense woods and hoof it to the highway three miles south.

  It was cold and the regional reporters only hung around long enough to get a useless quote before heading for the warmth of the local bar. One of them stuck around, though, buried in a coffee-stained trench coat.

  Her name was Kelsey Kavanaugh, clearly a name fit for an on-air television reporter, except she wasn’t cute enough. Her face was like a block of wood that had received a few half-hearted hatchet blows.

  I’d met her at a press association awards banquet, back when I’d earned a third place for a feature on literacy. My story was about an eighty-three-year-old woman who’d learned to read and had finally gotten her community-college degree. It was the kind of feature that tugged heartstrings and helped us all overlook the unfair, patriarchal society that had so long prevented her from getting an education.

  Kavanaugh had nabbed both a first and a second in spot news, which usually meant crime or disaster coverage. We’d sat at the same lunch table and she’d spoken of her ambition to work for Fox News.

  Ambition is ugly in anyone, especially a reporter. Or maybe I was just jealous, because she might just pull it off.

  Kavanaugh was smoking a cigarette well away from the scene, tapping a little composition book against her sturdy hip.

  “So, Howard, you got some action in the sticks,” she said.

  “People are people everywhere. And a certain percentage is psycho.”

  One thick eyebrow lifted. “You think this is a psycho?”