The Scavenger's Daughter: A Tyler West Mystery

by Mike McIntyre

“We gonna eat?”

  “I’ll pick you up at noon. We’ll hit Rubios—after we get you a bike helmet.”

  The Santa Ana was still blowing, so I taught the gang the knockdown shot.

  “A knockdown shot is a low, boring shot that pierces the wind like an arrow,” I said.

  “You be good at this shot, Jared,” Waymon said, “cuz you boring.”

  “That right?” Jared said. “Well, next week, Ty’s teachin’ us the ugly shot, and you be good at that.”

  The kids busted up laughing.

  I scowled at Jared.

  “I know, I know,” he said, “let my clubs do the talking.”

  He dragged a ball onto the mat with a four iron. He choked down on the club and played the ball back in his stance, with his hands slightly forward and his weight on his left side. He made a smooth, effortless swing, and the ball screamed through the air, never rising more than ten feet off the ground, only stopping when it tattooed the fence at the other end of the park. Each of his next four shots smacked the fence within a few yards of where the first hit.

  “Ooooooo,” said Lakeisha Griffin, who has had a crush on Jared since third grade.

  My phone rang. I was surprised by the name on the screen.

  “Don?” I said.

  “You’re off suspension,” came the gruff greeting from Sun Executive Editor Donald Street. “Do you own a tux?”

  “Sure, but when did the newsroom go formal?”

  “Just bring it, smart ass.”

  CHAPTER 5

  I grabbed my tuxedo from home and headed for the Sun’s building, on the waterfront at the foot of Broadway.

  When urban blight struck downtown in the 1960s, the paper stayed put while other businesses fled to Mission Valley. It had more to do with modest purse strings than civic duty. As a result, the Sun now sits on some of the finest real estate in the new dazzling downtown. Employees on the west and south sides of the high-rise look out on the San Diego Bay, Coronado Island and the Pacific Ocean. Those on the north and east gaze at Balboa Park, and on clear winter days, the snowcapped peaks of the Laguna Mountains.

  Too bad a dwindling number enjoyed those views. Like many metro dailies, the Sun was hemorrhaging money. The newsroom had suffered four rounds of layoffs. There were rumors that old lady Rampling planned to stop publishing and sell the building.

  I stepped off the elevator on the seventeenth floor. I gathered two weeks’ worth of mail and messages and headed for my desk near the sports department.

  The good-natured ribbing, catcalls and whistles started immediately.

  I motioned for silence. “You’re all a bunch of worthless degenerates,” I said. “And I’ve missed you terribly.”

  “Welcome back, Ty,” said Karen Babcock, the sports editor. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your old beat back. And if you don’t, you’ll always have a place with me here in sports. As a copyboy.”

  “Thanks, Karen. Good to know I’ve got a safety net.”

  “Hey, if you want in on the latest Quit, Fired or Died pool, there are a few spots left,” she said, holding up a grid-lined sheet of paper.

  Quit, Fired or Died was the sports department’s version of the traditional office ghoul pool. Instead of celebrities, bettors picked the NFL head coach to be the next to quit, get sacked or croak. Ten dollars per coach, winner takes all.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “The latest pool has a twist in my honor. Ten bucks buys the day I quit, get fired or die.”

  Karen flashed amazement. “And still San Diego’s numero uno investigative reporter, Mr…Tyler…”

  “West!”

  I jerked my head toward the source of the bark. Across the newsroom, Don Street stood in the doorway of his glass office, waving me over. He didn’t look pleased.

  I tossed a crumpled ten-dollar bill on Karen’s desk.

  “Put me down for today.”

  I entered the editor’s office. Don slumped in the chair behind his desk. I stood, holding my tux.

  I started to speak, but Don cut me off with a raised hand. He was somewhere north of sixty, equal parts weary and wise. Real old school—loosened tie, wrinkled dress shirt—a survivor. He wasn’t all bad. Not by half. And we both knew I owed him my job.

  I was a communications major for two years at San Diego State before I dropped out to play pro golf. I thought it might help me deal with the media on the tour. I never figured to work the other side of the notebook.

  When I lost my swing and quit the tour, I was too ashamed to go home to San Diego. I looked up a friend living in Washington, D.C., a sportswriter for the Journal. He got me an interview with the Metro editor, who hired me as a news aide. I sorted mail and answered phones. It was humbling, but nothing like shanking a ball in the water before millions on national TV.

  I caught the news bug and was promoted to reporter within a month. I covered education in the Maryland bureau. I soon moved up to the Metro desk, where I covered cops and courts.

  After war broke out in the Balkans, I begged the Journal to send me to Bosnia. When the paper refused, I quit and traveled to Sarajevo on my own dime. My freelance pieces on the displaced victims of ethnic cleansing caught Don’s attention. He hired me as the Sun’s investigative reporter over the reservations of Elizabeth Rampling, who deemed me too young and inexperienced.

  “So Mrs. Rampling wants to bust your balls a little,” Don said.

  “She can kiss them, too, if she likes,” I said. “Whatever happened to the wall between the publisher’s office and the newsroom?”

  “You tore it down when you got too close to that billboard vandal and cost us our biggest advertiser.”

  Last month I uncovered the identity of an anonymous citizen waging war on the gambling industry by defacing casino billboards around San Diego County. He called himself the Billboard Bandit.

  There are a dozen Indian casinos in the region. The Bandit argued they led to bankruptcies and broken families. He was an ex-gambler with a truck full of extension ladders, ropes, harnesses and cans of spray paint. He struck at night, painting anti-gaming slogans on signs from the Mexican border to Camp Pendleton. He tagged eighty-seven billboards without getting caught. Some called him a folk hero, others a common criminal.

  When I found him, the Bandit offered to take me on a ride-along, so long as I kept his identity secret. One night, I watched him deface five signs. He hit the Harrah’s billboard across from the Western sub-station of the San Diego Police Department at 2 a.m., when he knew cops would be out patrolling for drunk drivers.

  I’d been warned to avoid even the appearance of helping him. But I crossed the line. Livid casino owners pulled their ads from the paper, and I was suspended.

  “What did our lawyers tell you?” Don said. “Don’t hold the ladder.”

  “He was falling,” I said.

  “Doesn’t matter. You became an accomplice.”

  I started to protest.

  “You just listen,” Don said. “Readers expect reporters to stay on this side of the cell bars. So here’s how it’s going to work…Missy Carlisle is out sick.”

  The reason for my tuxedo was suddenly clear.

  “Come on, Don, the society beat?”

  “You’re on tonight’s museum gala.”

  I frowned.

  “Don’t look so glum. Missy returns Monday.”

  “So I’m back on investigations Monday then?”

  “Obituaries,” Don said. “Then weather roundups. The basics. Think of it as that journalism degree you never got.”

  “How long’s my probation,” I said.

  “Look, you’re catching a break here. I convinced Mrs. Rampling she couldn’t fire her only Pulitzer winner.”

  “How long?”

  “Three months.”

  I stewed.

  “Ty, you’re the best reporter I’ve ever had, but you’ve tipped over one too many sacred cows. You need to lay low for a while.”

  I tried to think of something smart to say, bu
t Don beat me to it.

  “Don’t throw away another career.”

  CHAPTER 6

  San Diego’s powerful, rich and famous were expected to turn out for the opening gala of the San Diego Museum of Medieval History, the most important museum to open in the nation in more than a decade.

  The black-tie affair was scheduled to start at seven o’clock. I arrived early to scout the place. My job was to write who wore what, distinguishing Versace from Valentino. I had reached my journalistic low.

  The new Spanish Colonial-style building stood at the center of Balboa Park, one of the finest city parks in America and the city’s cultural heart. The Museum of Man, the Old Globe Theatre and the Reuben H. Fleet Science Center were nearby. But the Museum of Medieval History figured to eclipse them in popularity.

  The debut exhibit was titled “Torture Instruments of the Dark Ages.” It was targeted at the generation raised on video games and MTV. The museum needed a big opening. Once it secured a strong financial footing, it could exhibit weightier examples of medieval artifacts.

  The L-shaped east wing of the building was filled with barbaric tools of pain. Many of the devices were authentic, others replicas. Several of the pieces, including a garrote and a set of chain flails, had been used on unfortunate victims of the Spanish Inquisition, launched in 1478.

  Black curtains and burning candles added a tone of menace to the hall.

  I strolled down the gruesome gauntlet of punishment. Workers hurried to finish installing the exhibit before guests arrived. A few of the glass exhibit cases had yet to be closed.

  I reached into a glass case and picked up a metal implement that looked like a cross between a piece of fruit and a corkscrew. The brass body was etched with a picture of Satan. When I twisted the ornate screw handle, four sections of the bulbous device extended out, each tipped by a sharp prong.

  “Put that down!”

  Merrill Addison, the museum’s director, was fast approaching. He had a correct bearing, gliding toward me in his tuxedo, the heels of his black patent leather shoes tapping across the marble floor. He wore a look of extreme agitation. He had taken a big gamble leaving the New York Museum of Medieval Art to accept the director’s post in San Diego, and I was adding to his opening night jitters.

  “I take it this isn’t a replica,” I said.

  “Hardly,” Addison scoffed. “Sixteenth century, of Venetian origin. It’s insured for three-point-five million. Considerably more than you’re worth, I should imagine, Mr. West. Now, please, put it back.”

  “Three and a half million bucks,” I marveled, gently setting the object down on the purple velvet pillow inside the case. “A steep price for such a crude gadget. And it looks so harmless.”

  Addison’s thin lips hinted at a smile. “I can assure you that the heretics of the Spanish Inquisition didn’t think so,” he said. “Many begged for a quick and merciful death when they felt the business end of the Pear.”

  “The Pear, how quaint,” I said. “How does it work?”

  “It doesn’t, not anymore, of course. But when it was employed during the Inquisition, it was inserted into one of the three human orifices, then expanded.” He paused. “Well, you get the picture.”

  “Not a pretty one,” I said. “Say, if it’s okay, I’d like to borrow this after the exhibit. I know a publisher I’d like to introduce it to.”

  Addison clucked. “Mr. West, I realize that a gala might not be Pulitzer territory, but please try to approach this occasion with the gravitas it deserves. This museum will vault San Diego to the fore of the world’s great cultural destinations. Now, I’ll leave you to your work. Try not to break anything.”

  I saw Sun photographer Melina Koric enter the museum. Mel and I go way back. All the way to Bosnia.

  I met her in a refugee camp during the war. She was sixteen when she fled Sarajevo, after Serb soldiers slit the throats of her father and brother, and raped and shot her mother. As Mel ran from the city, she slipped on blood from her countrymen in the cobblestone streets.

  When a feature article I wrote on Bosnian refugees highlighted her story, Mel received offers from Americans who wanted to sponsor her immigration to the U.S. She settled on a family in Nebraska, where she underwent therapy, perfected her English, attended her high school prom and won a journalism scholarship to the University of Missouri.

  We kept in touch, and after her graduation, I arranged an interview for her at the Sun. Not that she needed any help from me. Her brilliant photo portfolio would have won her a job at any number of publications. Perhaps because she has seen so much horror, she has an unflinching eye, and her pictures capture the raw truth of any story. We have worked together on my biggest assignments.

  Mel is married to Hector Rodriguez, a local FBI agent. They have a five-year-old daughter named Satka. Mel and Hector are my closest friends.

  I noticed that Mel carried her camera bag over a black, formal gown.

  “Don’t tell me Mrs. Rampling has you on probation, too?” I said.

  “No, I volunteered for this story.”

  “Ah, loyalty,” I said. “Thanks, Mel.”

  “Wrong,” Mel kidded. “I heard there was music. Hope you can dance, Ty.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Mel and I circulated among the arriving guests.

  The pop star Adore swept in, entourage in tow. She had a new CD out called Verge. The lesbian singer had recently given birth to a boy by artificial insemination. She was a frequent target of the Christian right, but remained number one with teen girls.

  Tiffany Samples talked to the esteemed brain surgeon Dr. Aaron Lindblatt. Samples is the widow of Roy Samples, founder of the mega home improvement chain HomeMart. Before she married Samples, she was a Penthouse Pet of the Month. Dr. Lindblatt stared down her dress, ignoring his date, a piece of blond eye candy hanging on his arm.

  “The A-list has arrived,” Mel said.

  “More like the double-D list,” I said, looking at Samples.

  “Those can’t be real.”

  “HomeMart dividends,” I said.

  Reggie Wilkinson, Pro Bowl running back for the San Diego Chargers, had arrived with his posse in a black Hummer, the ultimate FUV, or Fuck U Vehicle. The Chargers lost the first two games of the season while Wilkinson held out for a new $17 million contract. He was in need of some positive publicity. He hammed it up for photographers, posing with his neck on the chopping block, while radio shock jocks Riff and Raff pretended to behead him with a sword and ax.

  Television producer Dick Cameron studied the display of thumbscrews while his assistant took notes. Cameron was planning a new reality TV show called The Torture Chamber.

  The gala was like a costume party. Hired actors circled the room, dressed as medieval executioners and Dominican friars.

  Mayor James Stanton arrived fashionably late. He was in his second term and favored to win next year’s Governor’s race. The Republicans were already talking of running him for President.

  Stanton was in the hip pocket of developers. I came close to nailing him in my corruption series, but he’s slippery and well insulated. Just as well. He’ll have farther to fall when I finally get the dirt on him.

  I caught up to him as he drained a champagne glass and balanced it on the armrest of a spiked interrogation chair. “Mr. Mayor,” I said, “looking for new office furniture?”

  “Why, if it isn’t Tyler West, enterprising society reporter,” he said. “And they say there are no second acts in American lives.”

  “I’m anxiously waiting for the curtain to close on your last act,” I said.

  Fawning citizens circled Stanton. Cameras clicked. The mayor shook my hand and leaned in close. “Listen, you little shit,” he hissed. “Liz Rampling is a close friend of mine. I bet she can be persuaded to assign you to a more painful beat.”

  “She already has,” I said, pumping Stanton’s hand. “If you’re elected Governor, she’s sending me to Sacramento to cover you.”

&nbs
p; The mayor turned beet red. He smiled through clenched teeth, waved at the cameras and cut through the crowd for the bar.

  “Nice interview, Ty. Too bad you’ll never get any of it in the Sun.”

  I turned and saw Rudy Bell, editor of the San Diego Wire, a new online publication.

  “Rudy,” I said.

  “Why not come work for us?” he said.

  “The blogosphere? I thought you guys just sit at home in your underwear and make stuff up.”

  “We had two million hits last month. How many people read your stories?”

  “I still like the feel of newsprint on my hands.”

  “Face it, you’re a dinosaur jockey.” Rudy handed me his card. “Call me when you’re ready to join the twenty-first century.”

  I joined an impromptu tour Addison was leading. Guests sipped champagne as the director gave the colorful history behind each of the ghastly contrivances in the collection. There were theatrical shudders and oh-my-God glances as we filed past the head crusher, the breast ripper and the Judas Cradle.

  We followed Addison into a gallery annex off the main hall.

  “And, finally, the infamous Iron Maiden of Nuremberg,” he said.

  The crowd gasped and murmured. Addison had saved the best for last.

  “She was employed throughout the 1500s in the dungeon of the old Nuremberg Castle,” he added.

  The massive instrument of death stood alone in the middle of the room. It was an iron statue with movable parts, cast in the image of a hulking woman. Her head was the size of an engine block. Her arms were as thick as skyscraper beams. Her torso included two heavy hinged doors that opened out. Her inside was lined with spikes and knives. She was big enough to hold any man.

  Addison approached the iron contraption and pointed to her rotund, peaceful face. She appeared to be asleep.

  “If you’ll look here, you’ll notice that her closed eyes are actually two buttons,” he said. “The buttons trigger two spring-loaded reactions. Pressing the left button prompts the Maiden to open her powerful arms and seize her victim, drawing him into her. A press of the right button slams her doors, thus impaling and slicing her victim with the spikes and knives protruding from her cavity wall.”