If It Bleeds, It Leads
By Amanda M. Lee
Text copyright © 2012 Amanda M. Lee
All Rights Reserved
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Author’s Note
One
Church camp is my version of hell on Earth.
Not literal fire and brimstone, mind you, but pretty much the most uncomfortable situation you can imagine.
In case you weren't already aware, I was one of those kids you'd inevitably want to smack across the face within a few minutes of meeting me.
I was mouthy, opinionated and bossy. Oh, and I had a tendency to lie when it suited my purpose, too.
While that didn't garner me a lot of friends as a kid, I was less likely to be kidnapped by pedophile perverts -- so it was a glass half full situation.
When I was 14, in an effort to get me to "see the light," and frankly to get me to stop smoking "the pot" (that's what my mother called it, anyway) my parents shipped me off to a weeklong church camp in the sticks.
The camp was supposed to be a way for me to make friends and learn discipline through Bible classes, swimming and tetherball. Yeah, I never understood the function of a ball on a string either. For the record, I didn't do either that summer -- make friends or learn discipline, that is. Big surprise, huh?
On the first night at church camp -- which was out in the middle of nowhere mind you -- all of the camp leaders gathered everyone on the baseball field and promptly informed them that they had to burn their rock ‘n’ roll paraphernalia in big metal garbage cans because it was "the devil's music."
I had no intention of doing that, so I gently declined. Of course, when I say gently it might not be as gentle as, say, you would decline -- but the fact that I only used one expletive is the definition of gentle for me.
The first way they tried to change my mind was through peer pressure. That didn't work, of course. I'm not someone who cares what other people think about me. In fact, I actually thrive off the dislike of others sometimes.
The second thing they tried to do was reason with me. That didn't work either. The one word no one would ever use to describe me was reasonable.
As a last result, they locked me in the chapel overnight to think about things.
You want to know what I thought about? It wasn't about burning my Motley Crue denim jacket, that's for sure. Fire was involved in my ultimate plan, though; I was just trying to figure out how to ignite the chapel without killing myself. If I took a few of the camp leaders out with the fire -- hey, it was justifiable homicide. They were ruining my buzz.
The next morning, the portly pastor and his paisley shorts -- who insisted we call him Pastor Lenny (blech) -- entered the church to gauge my "new and improved" attitude. It wasn't pretty.
Despite my use of, shall we say colorful metaphors, I was let out to have breakfast and attend classes, but when nightfall came I was given the same option of burning my rock paraphernalia or sleeping in the church. I opted for the church. If these freaks thought they were going to break me down, they had another thing coming. I was not going to drink the Kool-Aid.
The next day the same thing happened all over again. At this point, I was demanding to call my parents (yes, I wanted my mommy and daddy at that point) and was being told that wasn't an option. While my parents wanted me to learn some discipline, I seriously doubted this is what they signed up for.
I started to hatch my escape plan. Just call me Batman.
On the third day, there was a decided "buzz" in the air (and not the good kind) where the camp leaders were concerned. I watched them for cues as to what was going to happen, but they weren't letting on.
All of a sudden, the camp’s short little yellow bus (no, the irony isn't lost on me) came barreling through the volleyball pit and the bus driver was nearly in a panic.
"Get in!"
No one did.
"Get in," he commanded again. I couldn’t help but notice the sweat stain spreading down his back. Gross. I didn’t want to go anywhere near him.
"Why?" I really didn't want to have anything else to do with these people. I was hoping everyone else would get in and leave me behind at this point. You know, the bitchy inherit the camp sort of thing?
Pastor Lenny had arrived in the middle of the melee when I wasn't watching and I was surprised to see he was almost smiling -- despite the undercurrent of panic that was currently making its way through the crowd.
"What is it?" he asked the bus driver, with all the appeal of a breathless teenager in drama class.
"It was just on the news," the bus driver answered. "Christianity has been outlawed. They're coming for us."
Now, I can admit that, at 14, I wasn't what you would consider massively intelligent. Heck, at 27 you still couldn't say I was massively intelligent, but I realized something wasn't right about this situation right from the beginning.
"Who outlawed it?"
Everyone ignored me.
"We have to hide," the pastor said, making eye contact with a few of the camp counselors.
It was then that I realized that we were in the midst of a very elaborate skit.
"Who outlawed it?" I wasn't going to be deterred this time.
"Everyone on the bus!"
Apparently, I was going to be deterred.
Everyone was herded on the bus -- despite my very loud proclamations to the contrary.
"Just leave me here. They won't want me; I can guarantee it."
Pastor Lenny glared at me. I got the distinct impression that if crucifixion was still an option I would be looking at an extremely uncomfortable future. Then again, anything was better than spending time with these nuts.
"I can buy you time," I promised, unleashing my best "I'm a good girl" smile. "You should take advantage of my sacrifice. Just go, leave me."
The pastor grabbed my arm and roughly dragged me onto the bus, forcing me into the front seat next to him -- unfortunately with no way out. I felt like Sally Field in that movie where they took her child prisoner in Iraq or Iran, or wherever it was.
Over the 15-minute ride to wherever we were going -- I was personally thinking hell at that point -- I stewed about the situation I found myself in. I knew that something funny was going on (not funny ha ha, but funny weird) -- but in my limited political experience at the time I had no idea why someone would lie about Christianity being outlawed.
When the bus finally stopped, it was at a ramshackle barn in the middle of nowhere. I had no idea why anyone would erect a barn without a house anywhere in sight -- but here we were.
The church counselors led everyone inside and forced them up into the loft above the barn. Everyone was admonished to pray quietly for our survival and salvation. I decided that was a waste of time and instead plotted how to get down the loft ladder and out of the barn without anyone noticing. Or at least how to light up the joint I had hidden in my pocket discreetly.
Pastor Lenny was whispering in the corner with one of the counselors. He stood up suddenly, mustered as much false bravado as possible, and said, "I'm going to stand guard outside. Everyone remember, God will protect you if you truly believ
e."
I was hoping God would smite the hell out of him some time soon -- but I had a feeling I was the only one.
I looked around at the assembly of teenagers in the barn and realized pretty quickly that I was the only one who wasn't upset -- well at least about something that didn't resemble an herbal supplement. That struck me as odd -- especially since the acting by the adults in this situation had been abysmal.
I was about to make my feelings on the situation known when there was a scuffle down below. The pastor was locked in combat with a man in blue jeans who was wearing a red bandana tied around his face like he was a bank robber in an old western -- I kid you not.
The "bandit" then proceeded to shoot the pastor at point blank range -- causing everyone in the loft to scream and cluster together in terror. Everyone, that is, but me.
I'd played enough cops and robbers during my youth to know the sound and smell of a cap gun. The fact that no one else realized it was aggravating to me. What a bunch of sheep.
The "bandit" looked up and made eye contact, tipping his hat in a way I was sure was meant to be sinister. It just came across as cartoonish.
"Dude, you need a mustache to twirl." I never did know when to keep my mouth shut.
For his part, the pastor was playing his "death" to the hilt, falling on a bale of hay dramatically and jerking a few times before lying still.
I could have approached this situation in two ways: I could go along with the skit or I could blow them out of the water. Can you guess which way I went?
I sat down at the edge of the loft, hooked my legs over the edge, reached into the pocket of my flannel shirt and extracted the joint I'd been saving since I'd been sent to crackpot camp. I lit the joint, inhaled for a few seconds, and then made my presence profoundly known when I exhaled.
"I love the smell of cap guns in the morning."
Needless to say, things fell apart after that. The pastor got up from the ground (Hallelujah, it's a miracle!) and confiscated my herb. We were all taken back to the camp and I was locked in the chapel again to think about what I'd done.
Personally, I was pretty proud about what I'd done but no one else seemed to share in my take on the day's events. Instead, they were all commenting on what a wonderful exercise it was about liberalism and how they were trying to take God away from everybody – starting with the schools.
During my exile in the chapel that night, I formed a plan. There was no way I was going to spend another night in this cesspool.
The next morning, Pastor Lenny came in and asked me what I thought about the previous day.
"I think you're crazy." I saw no reason to lie.
"You think that I'm crazy when you're the one walking around with marijuana in your pocket?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, you're bat shit crazy," I corrected myself.
Instead of going to breakfast that morning, I excused myself to shower first. In reality, when I was sure everyone was in the mess hall, I grabbed my bags (which had never been unpacked) and took off into the surrounding woods.
I knew roughly what area I was in. I stowed my bags in a place I figured I could find again -- extracted the final joint I had hidden in a shoe in the bag -- and set off walking. I figured if I could just find a gas station then I could call my parents -- or even my boyfriend, Jake -- and this whole nightmare would be over.
Here's the thing about pot, though. You should never smoke it and then go for a hike. Even if you have a good sense of direction -- which I don't -- you could get easily turned around and that's exactly what happened to me.
I spent the next six hours wandering in the woods -- never reaching a road or finding my way back to the camp. It wasn't until dark was almost upon me that I heard a strange noise -- it was a helicopter.
I could continue with this long and sordid story -- but it's really unnecessary. Suffice it to say, my jaunt into the woods had created some sort of media sensation in Michigan -- with everyone out looking for me. I'd been oblivious to the hoopla.
When the cops did find me, however, they had some stern words about what I'd done and how not everything was always about me.
"Young lady, you're going to find that your place in this world is actually very small and one day you're going to realize that you're no the center of everyone's world," the cop who dropped me off at my house told me as I departed his cruiser.
Why that story had just popped into my head a full 13 years later is anyone's guess -- but I think it had something to do with the sheriff's deputy yelling at me to keep away from his crime scene.
"That's a dead body ma'am," he yelled. "You need to maintain your distance."
"I just want to see."
"Well, ma'am, I don't care what you want. It's really not about you, is it?" Why does everyone keep telling me that?
What was funny about this situation was that I hadn't actually been sent out on a story to see this dead body – I’d just shown up to work and it was in the parking lot at the building where I worked.
My name is Avery Shaw and for the last five years I'd been working as a reporter for the Macomb Monitor in Macomb County, Michigan. In the years since my parents thought I needed to learn about discipline as a teenager, I'd actually embraced a lack of discipline as my own personal mantra.
As far as dead bodies go -- I'd seen my fair share.
As I approached the crime scene, I could see my friend and co-worker Marvin Potts trying to slip under the police tape behind the obnoxious officer who was fixated on me so he could get a closer look at the body. I had no idea who it was, but I could just see a perfectly manicured pink fingernail poking out from beneath the sheet. It was obviously a woman.
"Who is it?"
The deputy pointed to an area just over my right shoulder instead of answering me.
"What?"
"Ma'am, if you could please move over there . . . "
"Just tell me who it is."
"Yeah, tell her who it is." Marvin joined the conversation, while quickly lifting up the sheet to get a glimpse of who was underneath it. I couldn't be sure, but I was fairly certain it was our editorial secretary, Darby.
"Is that Darby?"
Marvin swallowed hard, nodding grimly as he dropped the sheet back over Darby's body and stepped away. Marvin is fascinated and terrified by death all at the same time.
The deputy had just caught sight of him and was making his way over to Marvin with a purpose. I think that purpose involved beating him with his nightstick. Do cops still carry those things around?
Marvin quickly slipped back over to the other side of the police tape, trying to hide himself amongst the throng of workers who had came out to see the fuss. I'm not sure his method of hiding was actually working, especially since he stood out like a sore thumb in his polyester black pants, white shirt and suspenders, but the deputy gave up his futile pursuit and returned his gaze to me.
I steadfastly ignored him.
I was trying to access my brain for information on Darby. If I remembered correctly, Darby's only transgression in life – that I knew of, at least -- had been narrowly surviving the latest round of layoffs to the detriment of another editorial secretary who felt she should stay and Darby should leave.
No one else in the building agreed.
I noticed that when Marvin dropped the sheet back over Darby's pallid features that he hadn't done so properly and a lock of her mousy brown hair was now poking out from beneath the sheet.
I felt a profound sense of sadness as I regarded her body. Usually I'm pretty ambivalent at a crime scene, but this is someone I actually knew.
I tucked a piece of my own bright blonde, shoulder length hair behind my ear (sunshine blonde according to the bottle I touched my roots up with monthly) and wondered what it would be like to be dead.
Well crap. Who needs that?
I turned to make my way around the crime scene and into the building when I ran into the last person I wanted to see this early in the morning -- especially since I'd be
en half asleep when I applied my makeup. Macomb County's finest, Jake Farrell, the county sheriff.
"What are you doing here?"
Jake and I had a tortured history. As kids we played ‘Star Wars’ and ‘G.I. Joe’ in the woods behind my house. As teenagers we played doctor in the backseat of his car. As adults we flirted occasionally and yelled a lot. Lately, we were in a holding pattern with neither one of us willing to make the first move to try an actual relationship or be the first one to put the kibosh on any future attempts.
A few weeks ago I'd almost been killed when a former department of public works employee had flew off the deep end. Jake had been there for me through the ordeal -- but once everything had been settled, he disappeared faster than the Millennium Falcon on the Kessel Run.
Jake smiled at me uncertainly when his gaze finally met mine. He took in my new ‘Star Wars’ Abbey Road shirt and I could see him shake his head slightly in amusement. For his part, his jet-black hair was in its usual messy bird’s nest. Jake was the youngest sheriff in Macomb County history. He was two years older than me in age, but 10 in maturity. Did I mention that he was hot? Hey, there may be a dead body in the parking lot but the man could stop traffic when he smiled.
"I heard there was a dead body in the Monitor's parking lot," he said, his dark brown eyes flashing impatiently. "I wanted to make sure it wasn't you."
"Why would you think it's me?"
"I don't know, maybe it's your bright and sunny personality?" I knew sarcasm when I heard it. Problem was, he was right. Darby had never ticked anyone off -- while I had never met anyone that I didn't like to tick off. It was an interesting dichotomy.
I glared at Jake, who was clearly enjoying my discomfort.
"Well, as you can see it's not me."
"Do you know her?"
"Yeah, she's an editorial secretary."
"Meaning she does what?"
"Basically just busy work. Obituaries, photo assignments, briefs. No real writing."
"So you're saying that she probably didn't do a story that someone didn't like?"
I was surprised. "You think this is work-related?"
"Well, she was shot at work."
2 If It Bleeds, It Leads Page 1
