The Doomsday Brunette

by John Zakour

  “Oh my Gates, how did he get that?”

  “Curious indeed,” HARV mumbled.

  I had to admit that I was growing to appreciate Bill Gibbon’s impeccable timing for breaking news. The other networks had finally gotten some news of their own, thanks to my high-concept brouhaha with W that afternoon. But while they were fighting amongst themselves for viewers with the same news and visuals, Gibbon was coming through with another bombshell exclusive. The guy sure knew how to play to the crowd.

  “It also appears that the New Frisco police department is ignoring this very important information. Truthfully, they seem to be almost totally unaware of its very existence. Whether that’s due to questionable investigative skills or simple ineptitude is still unclear.”

  “This is not going to go over very well with Tony,” I said.

  “Funny you should mention Captain Rickey,” HARV intoned.

  I hung my head. “He’s on the line isn’t he?”

  HARV nodded. “You want to take the call now or should I stall him while you practice your apology.”

  “Put him on,” I said with a sigh.

  Tony’s face appeared on the screen and, as I could have guessed, he wasn’t very happy. His face was tired, his hair disheveled and his posture was of a man who had definitely seen better days. His eyes, however, were furious. And I suddenly felt very sorry for my part in this fiasco.

  “Tony…”

  “Did you know about this?”

  “I can explain…”

  “Did you or did you not know about the symbols Foraa wrote before she died?”

  “Define, ‘know about.’”

  “You willfully withheld evidence from me.”

  “I didn’t know what the symbols meant,” I said. “I was going to tell you about it. I just wanted to figure it out.”

  “You mean, you wanted to make sure it didn’t incriminate your client.”

  “Tony…”

  “I played straight with you, Zach. I gave you full access to our information and this is how you repay me? You withhold evidence and you make me and my entire department look like fools.”

  The words were especially painful coming from Tony. I hadn’t acted maliciously, but that didn’t matter now.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Did you leak this information to Gibbon?”

  “What? No! Of course not.”

  “How else would he know it?”

  “Why would I give him the information?”

  “Probably to help your client in some way,” Tony replied. “That seems to be the only thing you’re interested in.”

  “I’ll make it up to you Tony. I promise.”

  “Don’t do me any favors, Zach,” he said. “You’ve done enough already. As of this nano, our deal is off. You get no more information on the investigation. You won’t hear anything from my department until we're ready to make an arrest. And for your sake you better hope it's not Ona that we arrest. Until then, you don’t talk to me. You don’t talk to my detectives. You don’t talk to any of the investigators. You don't talk to anybody who knows anybody connected to my department. You are cut off from all information. You got that?”

  “Yeah,” I said, hanging my head. “I got it.”

  “Good. And be thankful that I don’t arrest you for this, Zach. I could and I should. I won’t. But that’s the last favor I do for you.”

  He terminated the call and the screen went blank. I sat back in my chair and held my head in my hands.

  “Wow, I don't think I've ever seen Captain Rickey that mad at you,” HARV said.

  “Yep,” I agreed. “I've reached a new high in lows.” I shook my head. “I really don't know why I didn't tell Tony and his men about it sooner.”

  “I warned you,” HARV said.

  “Yeah, you did,” I replied. “Gates, who’d have thought that the high point of this day for me would be eating Electra’s cooking.”

  “What do we do now?”

  I slapped my hands on the desk and got to my feet.

  “We’re going to pay a visit to Bill Gibbon.”

  “Now?”

  “You and I discovered those sigils when we first got to the scene, HARV. We even destroyed it when we moved her hand.”

  “What do you mean ‘we?’”

  “No one else should know about it,” I said. “No one else should know any of the things Gibbon has been reporting.”

  “He’s talking to someone on the inside?”

  “Up until now, it could have been anyone. The coroner, one of Tony’s investigators. But knowing about the sigils…”

  “You think Gibbon’s source might be the killer.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” I said. “Either way, he’s going to talk to us tonight.”

  34

  HARV did some digging and found that Gibbon had a thing for young blonde women so, when I got to the ETN studio, I had HARV throw a voluptuous blonde hologram over me and presented myself to security as Gibbon’s nightly bonus from the network brass for a job well done. (Yes, I dressed up as a woman. But I didn’t enjoy it so it doesn’t count). In any event, I made it into Gibbon’s dressing room with very little fuss (and even less dignity).

  “Couldn’t you have projected a dress that was a little longer,” I whispered to HARV, as I waited. “I feel like my butt’s hanging out of this.”

  “You wanted to get noticed, didn’t you?” HARV replied. “Besides it’s not even your butt.”

  “It’s the principle of the thing. I’m not a tramp.”

  “Oh, that’s right, you’re just posing as a prostitute to get by security. I’m sorry if I missed that fine distinction.”

  Gibbon walked through the door just then with a truly gleeful look on his face. Can’t say that I blame him. Over the past two days he had become the biggest name in trash-journalism and, as far as he knew, he was about to reap a very curvaceous reward. I almost felt sorry for the guy.

  “Well, well, well, what have we here?” he said lasciviously, as he turned down the lights. “Nice dress, or should I say, lack thereof.”

  “I told you the dress was appropriate,” HARV whispered.

  “Congratulations. You're a highly advanced super computer and you know how to attract a low-life.”

  Gibbon was shorter than I had imagined and at least fifteen years older than he appeared to be on screen. But he had the kind of charm that comes from self-confidence (bordering on egotism), and at this particular nano, as he took off his coat and came toward me, he wouldn’t have been more full of himself if he’d eaten his own clone.

  “I assume the brass booked you for the whole night, doll,” he said, sitting next to me on the couch, “but I’m back on camera in twenty minutes, so we’ll have to start with something quick and painless.”

  He slid his left hand toward my thigh as he sat next to me and that was about all I could take. I grabbed his hand at the wrist and twisted it. He yelped in pain like a baby seal.

  “Fine, we’ll make it quick,” I said as he dropped to his knees. “It’s your call on whether or not it’s painless.”

  “What the…What’s going on?” he asked, clearly confused by the husky tone of my voice. “Who are you?”

  “Just a lonely soul in this world. Looking for love and a little information.”

  “You’re no prostitute.”

  “Nice of you to notice,” I said. “But I’m no saint either so don’t make me get rough here.”

  “My wallet’s on the table.”

  I twisted his wrist a little more and his grimace grew more pained.

  “I’m not a thief and I’m insulted by that assumption,” I said, twisting his arm again. “Now, apologize.”

  “Ow. Sorry.”

  “Good.”

  I pulled him up and tossed him onto the couch as I stood and barred his path to the doorway. He rubbed his wrist gently.

  “Where are you getting your information on the Foraa Thompson murder?”

  “Is that w
hat you’re after?” he asked, slowly getting up from the couch. “Who sent you? The World Show? Rapid News? The Nano Gossip Net?”

  I grabbed him by the shirt collar and pulled him toward me.

  “Do I look like a journalist to you?”

  “A weather-girl, maybe, but your breasts need to be bigger.”

  I pushed him hard back down to the couch.

  “I’m losing patience here, Gibbon, and I’ll warn, I didn’t have much when I arrived. Now, where are you getting your information on the Thompson murder?”

  He leaned over and touched a button on the tabletop console.

  “I’m calling security.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Bring them in. Let’s create a scandal.”

  “You think my having a hooker in my dressing room will create a scandal?” he said with a laugh. “Honey, you don’t get out much, do you?”

  “Oh, I think I know a thing or two about scandals,” I said.

  I snapped my fingers and my hologram disguise instantly changed from voluptuous blonde bombshell to rotund, ugly battle-axe (same outfit though, which I thought was a nice touch on HARV’s part).

  “Oh my gates,” Gibbon said, his face going a little pale.

  “Or maybe we can go multi-generational.

  I snapped my fingers again and my form changed to that of an emaciated, aged woman?

  “Or ecclesiastical.”

  I snapped again and the dress was replaced by a nun’s habit.

  “Or we can go with plain old weird.

  I snapped my fingers again and took on the form of a goat (in the hooker dress).

  “It’s your choice.”

  Gibbon moved his hand away from the computer console.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” he said.

  “Baaah, baaah, Mr. Gibbon,” I bleated loudly. “Please don’t make me butt you there again.”

  “Gates, please stop.”

  I grabbed him by the shirt and lifted him up into my holographic-goat face.

  “Then tell me, what’s your source of information?”

  We heard a knock at the door and Gibbon turned toward it out of fright.

  “Bill,” the woman’s voice was young, but professional, “they need you to do teasers for the overnight, so we need you back in a little early.”

  Gibbon’s face grew panicked as he stared at the door then turned to me, then turned back to the door.

  “I’ll…be right there,” he called out, in a strained, forced-casual voice.

  “Not if you don’t tell me what I want to know,” I whispered.

  “Bill?” the woman said, and we heard the knob rattle from the other side. “Are you all right in there?”

  “Please,” Gibbon whispered. “This is the biggest story of my career.”

  “And it’s about to be pushed off the front page by news of your torrid affair with a talking goat. Who knew that you had such a penchant for animals.”

  Gibbon’s face turned a whiter shade of pale and he was at a curious loss for words. “What? No, I didn’t. I mean, I never touched the animal we just talked.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Bill?” The knob rattled again.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “Give me a minute. I’m not decent.”

  “You can say that again,” I said, in a tone slightly louder than a whisper.

  “What was that?” came the voice on the other side.

  “Nothing,” Gibbon said.

  “DOS, Bill, are you snorting your eye make-up again? I thought management discussed that with you.”

  “I’m not snorting anything.”

  And I let loose with a long (goat-like) snort.

  “That’s it, Bill. Open this door or I’m getting security.”

  “No, don’t!”

  Gibbon made a move toward the door but I grabbed him tighter, spun him around and bent his right arm back painfully behind him. The scuffle did not go unheard.

  “That’s it,” said the voice. “Security!”

  “Oh DOS,” Gibbon whispered.

  “Time’s running out, Bill. Who’s feeding you the information?”

  Gibbon arched forward at the waist and he began flailing with his left arm, frantically struggling to break free.

  “Never. Never, DOS it,” he shouted. “Do you know what my ratings are now? I can’t. I can’t. My contract’s up for renewal next year.”

  He kicked back at me as his knees buckled and he hit me hard in the shin.

  “Ow.”

  I kicked his legs out from under him and we fell to the floor with me kneeling on his back, still twisting his arm.

  “I won’t go back,” he yelled. “I can be the king now. The king of all media!”

  He was still flailing with his free hand and kicking his feet behind me, fast approaching the delirious-zone of an emotional breakdown. I stuck my free arm behind his neck and pinned him solidly to the floor with my weight. He was crying now and still shouting.

  “I’m the king. I’m the king!”

  “I thought you were going to keep a low profile,” HARV asked.

  I heard pounding on the door and voices calling from the hallway but I couldn’t understand the words over the shrill of Gibbon’s wails. I pulled harder on his right arm, bending it close to breaking in an effort to shut him up. His hand was balled into a fist but his fingers unwrapped when the next wave of pain hit. He screamed, I glanced at his palm and I froze.

  “Oh DOS,” I whispered.

  The dressing room door burst open and two security guards, an ETN producer and at least two network management types stumbled into the room to find a delirious Bill Gibbon, screaming “I’m the king” while laying on the floor beneath a goat in a dress (and thus was born one of the great showbiz legends of our time).

  But I didn’t care because I was still looking at the palm of Gibbon’s right hand. The skin had been burned, singed like flesh beneath a branding iron. Not deep enough to leave a permanent scar, but enough for me to notice the very distinctive shape. I recognized it in an instant and Gibbon didn’t need to say another word.

  The grinning ape insignia branded into the palm of his hand told me everything I needed to know.

  35

  One hour later, the cold night wind was hitting my face like the slap of a scorned woman. Half a dozen searchlights cut the thick, gray mist around me like billion-candle ethereal lasers and the hard pavement of thirty-third street, ninety-seven stories below my perch on the crumbling building ledge, beckoned like an asphalt abyss.

  I could hear the roar of the fighter planes, hidden in the folds of the mist, as they circled just overhead. Every so often I’d glimpse the steel-gray edge of a wing or charcoal tip of a fuselage, closer than I thought imaginable. Then it would vanish again in the clouds, like the rolling thunder of a March storm and leave me clinging to the building as it shuddered in the vociferation of the jet wake.

  Opie was two stories above me and climbing. His powerful fingers and toes were actually tearing hand and foot holds into the building’s outer shell. His jerky movements belied his desperation, while his quick glances toward me and at the circling planes revealed his fear.

  “It doesn’t have to be this way, Opie,” I called, hoping that he could hear me above the din.

  “Of course it does,” he shouted, turning his head downward to look at me. “It always ends this way.”

  Opie was wild now. His fur rippled in the wind like a wheat field awaiting a tornado, which was appropriate really, because I could see by the look in his eyes that a storm was coming. His look was crazed, frenetic and filled with fear.

  His foot slid off the mist-slicked building shell and he stumbled, suspended in the air for a nano only by the gripping fingers of his left hand. I saw then that he was holding something in his right that looked like a small doll.

  “HARV, go in tight on the right hand,” I whispered.

  HARV activated the lens in my left eye and zoomed in on Opie’s furry fist. Sure enough
, he was holding a doll, a dark-haired, faux-leather clad, little female-shaped doll with grayish skin.

  “It appears to be a Foraa doll,” HARV said.

  “Great. As if we didn’t have enough symbolism already.”

  Opie regained his balance and continued climbing, moving quickly toward the lightning rod spire of the tower.

  “At least tell me why you did it, Opie,” I shouted. “Tell me why.”

  He reached the overhang just below the base of the massive lightning rod, and swung himself up and over it with a mighty, hairy-armed heave.

  “I don’t know,” he yelled.

  He leapt and grabbed a handhold on the sloping, gray metal base of the spire. From there it was just a hop and a skip to the gray, spear-like lightning rod atop the building itself.

  “Do you want to follow him?” HARV asked.

  I shook my head. “There’s no point. He’s passed the base of the old TV tower already.”

  “The dirigible mast,” HARV said.

  “What?”

  “It was originally designed as a mooring mast for dirigibles. It didn’t really work, though because the winds at this height make mooring something as unwieldy as a blimp very difficult.”

  “That would be very interesting in its appropriate time and place, HARV. Here and now, it’s just annoying.”

  “Got it.”

  “Good. Track Opie with the telephoto and project my voice enough for him to hear.”

  Opie grabbed the base of the lightning rod and then stood at the building’s pinnacle, defiantly waving the doll in the air as the gray planes continued to circle and roar.

  “Top of the world, Ma,” he shouted toward the night sky.

  “I need to ask this Opie,” I yelled. “I need to know. Did you kill Foraa?”

  “What?” his eyes were wide with confusion. “Why would I do that?”

  “Then why did you talk to Gibbon?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked away as though ashamed.

  “You gave him information that you shouldn’t have known,” I said. “How did you know about the symbols beneath her hand?”

  “I…I don’t know.” He rubbed his forehead with the doll, confused.