The Unprintable Big Clock Chronicle

by Unknown

  “No, I don't,” he replied.

  I pulled my gaze from my monitor, and slanted it at him. “Okay, I know you're fairly new so maybe you haven't gotten around to noticing this yet, but the police force in town is basically incompetent—on pretty much every level.”

  “That seems harsh.”

  There's something about Ian you should know: he always has to disagree with me. It's maddening, if you want to know the truth. Whether it's in the form of quiet skepticism or editorial feedback, it seems like he usually has something contrary to say. He often acts much “older and wiser,” even though he's only thirty-three.

  “Wait, I take that back,” I amended. “I shouldn't say they're incompetent, because I don't know that for a fact.” I realized that I should give them the benefit of the doubt. “Maybe they're just lazy.”

  He barked a laugh at that and continued on to the fax machine, shaking his head.

  “Hey, I'm sure it's not just in Big Clock,” I offered. “Probably there are lots of police forces out there who basically don't do much. Except swagger around in their uniforms, give parking tickets, and get free food at all of the local establishments.”

  “Your inclination to make pronouncements without any real data is...charming,” Ian remarked.

  “Thanks!” I said sweetly. Though I admit: I was being overly cynical. But I tended to exaggerate and over generalize when I was making a point. “Like take that jewelry store robbery in October. There was a lot of 'person of interest' BS that never went anywhere. I'm surprised the police 'profilers' didn't come out of the woodwork to do their number,” I added, and then felt compelled to do a brief impression of a profiler. “ 'Our man is most likely someone who enjoys money and understands that selling jewels may get him money. He likely lives alone, or with people, and looks like everyone else. He probably has difficulty forming relationships, except sometimes, when he doesn't.' ”

  In spite of himself, I could tell, Ian smirked. Then he said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, Rocket, but I’m not sure how great of a detective you would make.”

  “Why do say that?” I said, surprised.

  “Ah, many reasons,” he replied vaguely.

  When he didn’t elaborate, I insisted, “Well, I can't promise I could solve the case—definitively—but I'm sure with some thought and some tenacity, I could come up with more leads than the Big Clock police do. And a lot faster.”

  “I'm sure,” Ian replied dismissively and walked into his office.

  Suddenly I had an idea. “Care to make it interesting...?” I called out.

  At first he ignored me. Then I heard him say, “Meaning what exactly?”

  “If I can do what I said—well, a wager is what I'm proposing.”

  “Okay, Nancy Drew, it's been fun. Now why don't we get back to our work?”

  I forgot to tell you that Ian could also be very condescending. I sometimes wondered if the unfortunate trait played any part in his impending divorce.

  “Seriously,” I persisted. “If I can prove what I said and uncover something here—like a real investigative journalist—then I will be rewarded in return.”

  “Please don't bother asking for a raise,” he said flatly. “We're on a shoestring budget as it is.”

  “No, not money. I want a recommendation from you to Wells-Web once I finish my degree. And also that office with the window.”

  “Oh, Rocket—not this again.”

  “Why not!” I yelped. “It's been sitting empty since Tanya left.” The office in question had a picture-perfect view of the town square—which beat my current view of dry wall and tack holes.

  “Fine for the recommendation,” Ian agreed finally, which was a relief. I was dying to work for Wells-Web, a diversified media empire that currently ran some of the most respected news and commentary sites in the country. Their elite roster of writers included journalists, scholars, published scientists, and even mathematicians. It probably went without saying that I wasn't nearly qualified yet. Ian had worked for Wells-Web at one point, so I figured he still had to have a contact or two and that his personal endorsement would carry weight.

  “But just remember, if you're going to look into this incident, you can't do or say anything that would jeopardize this paper or its reputation.”

  “Of course not,” I agreed.

  “You have to be a consummate professional.”

  “Always.”

  “Be ethical, be discreet,” he rattled on. “Oh—and this project of yours can in no way interfere with your regular work here.”

  “Fine. No problem.”

  “One more thing. A wager has two sides, remember?”

  “Um...oh yeah...okay, what do you want if I fail to come up with any solid leads?”

  Ian replied, “You'll agree to match twenty percent of Gary's advertising sales for the month.” Since advertising sales could be done any time, the task wouldn't interfere with my daily work at the paper, and would obviously only benefit the paper.

  Begrudgingly I agreed. Ian still hadn't promised to give me the vacant office, but just then the bell over the front door rang and Monica Fong, the Chronicle features writer, entered. It seemed like time to quit while I was ahead.

  Except—was I ahead? Damn, what had I gotten myself into? Shooting my mouth off at the coffee maker might prove costly. And if I had to spend my nights cold-calling for advertising sales, it would significantly dampen my Christmas spirit.

  I just couldn't let that happen. It was one of those times I had to believe in myself, because I simply had no other choice.

  Chapter 2

  Our morning staff meeting began once advertising sales rep, Gary Netland, blessed us with his tardy presence. “Hey all,” he said, shaking snowflakes off his fluffy brown and gray hair. “Give me two secs.” He wiped off his mirrored sunglasses on the way to his desk, while Ian, Monica, and I waited at the round table in the center of the room.

  “Hi, Gary,” Ian said. “Pour yourself some coffee and come join us.”

  “No prob, be right over.”

  I sat, tapping my pencil on the chipped edge of the wooden table, casually eying my fellow colleagues. Since we were a small staff, a quick lap around the table will give you an efficient picture. There was Ian Beller, of course, our boss and on a good day, our mentor. Ian was about six feet tall with light brown hair; so far he seemed to have four basic expressions: focused, impatient, inscrutable, and vaguely amused.

  He was still new to the Chronicle, having replaced our previous editor just four months earlier. I had to give him credit for being painstakingly logical and, as implied by the diploma from Northwestern hanging above his desk, the man was intelligent. He was originally from the Midwest, but his parents were military, so he had lived all over the country. An accomplished skier, Ian had apparently been an Olympic hopeful back in the day, but had never quite made it.

  To the left of Ian was Monica Fong, with her usual gargantuan breakfast spread in front of her. She arranged paper napkins all around, using one as a coaster for her large plastic thermos, and stuffed tufts of powdered croissant into her mouth with one hand, while smearing cream cheese on a bagel with the other. For such a precise, exacting, grammatically correct writer, she was a surprisingly messy eater.

  But as always, I envied her hair, which was shiny black and perfectly straight. My own brown hair was usually up in a ponytail, because it had a “natural wave” that looked different from one day to the next and I could do nothing with it. I was once told by a hairdresser that with a simple blow-dryer, rolling brush, hot rollers, mousse and styling gel it would be gorgeous—so as I said, I could do nothing with it.

  When I had first come to work at the Chronicle, I had hoped to become friends with Monica, because we were close in age and most of the people I knew from Westcott College lived in the city. But there was some kind of disconnect between us. She seemed like a decent enough person, but our conversations never flowed smoothly.

  Finally our sales rep,
Gary, moseyed over and sat to Ian's right. Gary was in his mid to late forties and had a generally rumpled appearance, from his thick untamed hair to his saggy khakis and loose fitting shirts. He exuded a casual comfort in his own skin. I presumed it came from an innately schmoozy nature and years of cultivating contacts.

  Not present but still vital to the staff, were our sports and leisure writer, Bart, who was disabled and generally worked from home, and our web group. The Chronicle's website was maintained by the same Minneapolis-based team who handled Mr. Fredriksen's other publication, Culture & Performance.

  “All right,” Ian began. “First off, Monica, you did a great job with that story about the fire in Jenkins Market. Very thorough.”

  Monica Fong smiled proudly, her chubby cheeks indented with dimples.

  “Let's do a follow up piece for the next edition, interview the neighboring store owners for their observations on the fallout,” Ian continued, and Monica quickly unearthed a spiral notebook from beneath some sticky napkins. Ian added a few more ideas, to which Monica nodded profusely and appeared to jot down every word he said.

  Then she said, “I also had an idea for another piece.”

  Ian raised his eyebrows with interest. “Really, what's that?”

  I should back up and tell you that Monica was obviously Ian's favorite on the staff. To her credit, she was very diligent and responsible about deadlines. But it was hard to picture her ever developing a real following with a writing style that was so stiffly informative. When Monica wrote a feature, it was like she went into straight-A student mode and was writing a scientific term paper.

  “I was reading a biographical article about Joe Slock, you know the man who was arrested last year for bigamy, fraud, tax evasion, and a host of other charges.” Nobody asked for clarification, because the news story had made national headlines, for its intrigue factor alone. Apparently this Joe Slock had been living two separate identities in two different states, which included not only wives and children, but also two separate companies that he owned. The story made headlines because it called into question how someone with a fake name and fraudulent social security number had been able to accomplish all of the seemingly legitimate transactions that Slock had—with banks, Realtors, and stockholders in his companies.

  Big stories had a way of taking on lives of their own, and in this case, the story became not about why Joe Slock had done any of this, but how. It seemed the question that was constantly raised by newscasters was how Slock and his alter-ego had “slipped through the cracks” for so long.

  Monica continued, “I decided that I would like to write a piece about the viability of business owners leading, in effect, double lives, and the tax implications it would have. I will of course thoroughly research the topic before I commit to a thesis one way or another.”

  Ian paused, as if mulling, absorbing. Then he slowly nodded. “It's an interesting idea. Although I'm afraid it would sound too much like academic conjecture if we're only talking about one concrete example. If there is one or more similar cases, it could warrant an investigative piece. I wouldn't want us to write what amounts to a celebrity piece for Joe Slock. But, I like the idea of a 'bigger picture.' Keep me posted.”

  Monica scribbled frantically in her spiral notebook.

  Gary Netland's cell phone rang then, breaking the flow of the meeting with a loud instrumental version of “Funky Town.” He let out a half-hearted chuckle. “Sorry, she never leaves me alone,” he said and turned the sound off. Gary's remark didn't pertain to the caller; he always referred to his cell phone as “she.”

  Then Ian shifted focus to me. “Rocket, I made a few notes on your spotlight piece.” Several weeks ago Ian had asked me to start a monthly “Movie Spotlight Corner.” The review he had marked up now was only my second effort. He slid the copy across the table to me, the dreaded red ink mocking me as it careened closer. To add insult to injury, Ian's handwriting was terrible, so I would have to squint to find out exactly how I'd flopped. “Overall it's good,” he added, “but you need to be less acerbic. Like I said, I made some notes.”

  Monica Fong's bag rustled loudly as she pulled out her next course. I tried to wait until she was done, but finally just spoke over her noisy crinkling.

  “But it's a film review,” I replied, confused. “It's not supposed to be objective.”

  “I understand that. Like I said, overall it's good. Giving your opinion is fine, but you need to tone down the subjectivity.”

  “But—”

  Ian cut me off. “Rocket, the word 'hack' should be nowhere in there. Just for one example of what I mean.” I couldn't recall if I'd called the director or the screenwriter a “hack.” Or had it been the leading actor? “Language like that is too alienating,” Ian explained. “Especially in this economy, with this current job market. It's going to touch a nerve with too many people.”

  His voice turned didactic then, almost condescending, as he informed me, “Offending our readership is counter productive. To entertain is fine, to offend is not. You're going to need to learn the difference if you want to continue the film reviews.”

  With that, he opened his laptop, turned it so we could all see, and started blathering about our online traffic. Meanwhile, my cheeks burned with embarrassment.

  I felt chastised. Even though Ian's tone had been even-keeled and professional, his words still stung. Maybe part of it was realizing that he was right. Inwardly, I had to admit I got carried away sometimes when I was writing. Sometimes I was so caught up in making a point or trying to be amusing, I was hyperbolic, maybe too sarcastic. Ian calling me out on it reminded me that I still had much to learn. I was beginning to wonder how much graduate coursework pertained to real life field experience. (And I suppose I should have read his notes before trying to argue.)

  The meeting wrapped up shortly after, with Ian praising Gary because our online subscription numbers were up. These days, The Big Clock Chronicle was something of an anachronism: our printed newspaper outsold our online version by more than 50%. Apparently most of our revenue came from advertisers and daily sales straight off the newsstand.

  In keeping with the times, Fredriksen and Ian were trying to transition the Chronicle better to the Internet and mobile markets, and the various changes that Ian implemented following one of Fredriksen's visits were usually toward that end. Obviously, the more online exposure the Chronicle had, the more we could charge for advertisements on our site.

  As Ian rose from his chair, and the rest of us followed, Gary's cell rang again. “God, she's merciless, huh?” Gary announced with amusement and glanced at the number. “Oh, I've got to take this.” As he answered the call, he shot a glance back at us and held two fingers up, which was Gary's way of saying that he'd be back in “two secs.” Then he stepped outside.

  On my way to my desk, I heard Monica say, “Ian, I forgot to mention that I will provide you with a comprehensive bibliography and a detailed list of my source material when I submit my formal prospectus.”

  I couldn't help rolling my eyes. (The only one who might have seen me was the spindly spider who lived in the corner above my desk, the one I had unoriginally named “Charlotte.”)

  “Thanks, Monica,” Ian said. “But really, you don't need to bother with a prospectus. If you want, you can just shoot me a draft and we'll go from there.”

  Once I was face to face with my computer, I found my eyes drifting down to the Sunday edition of the Ledger that was folded next to my keyboard. Finally I reached for it and reread the blurb about the Metropolax Company, amid the brief section entitled: “Weekly Recap of the Greater Minneapolis Area.”

  BIG CLOCK, MN. Police reported possible robbery at Metropolax Company on December 10th. The call came from a Metropolax employee who arrived for work and found the supply room door open. “It's normally locked,” Jennifer Agnor said, “That's when I noticed the lock looked like it had been smashed. When I went in, a few of the shelves didn't look right. Things were definitely
missing.” Allegedly among those things were an electronic paper cutter, a computer monitor, two boxes of white paper, and an old laptop. Metropolax Co., est. 2001, sells pillows and seat cushions. Receptionist Agnor is an aspiring actress who has been employed by the company since October. At this time, no other employee could be reached for comment.

  Pillows and seat cushions… I considered what might be valuable inside a supply room of a company that sold pillows and seat cushions. Prototypes with drugs hidden in the stuffing? Or maybe stolen gems, sewn into the embroidery? Sure, in fiction, maybe. But the article didn’t mention anything about cushions missing. Only office supplies. And an old laptop, I noted.

  Absently, I rapped my fingers on the desk. How great would it be if I could win the wager I had made with Ian? I thought. If I could actually investigate the robbery myself and come up with some leads, then I would not only have that recommendation, but also gain my boss's hard-won respect. Not to mention, take that office with the window. “I need that office...” I murmured to myself, then flashed a cursory look up in the corner. “No offense, Charlotte.”

  Just then, Gary came back inside, stomping snow off his boots as he wrapped up his phone call. “Okay, great, Lar. That sounds great. Listen, you crunch the numbers and wrap it up in a pretty bow for me? Thanks.” After he disconnected, he casually slipped the phone in his pocket and ducked his head in Ian's office. “Larry Antonsen Automotives is going to do a three month spread with us. Back cover. Big money.”

  “Really?” Ian sounded pleased. But like I mentioned earlier, Ian was never one to jump up and down. “Gary, that's excellent. Great job.”

  “No prob,” Gary replied and then winked at me when he caught my eye on the way to his desk. It wasn't a lecherous wink; it was more of a: hey kid, isn't life grand, pass the bowl of cherries when you get two secs, type of wink. I have to admit, I envied Gary's happy-go-lucky persona, which I could only assume was genuine.