by A. C. Fuller
“Thank you, Mr. Bice. You will call me if you hear anything?”
“Of course, and you as well.”
“Of course,” she said, sitting up as straight as she could, struggling to hold back the tears.
Denver Bice closed his cell phone and scanned the parking garage of the Standard Media building through the windshield of his Lincoln. He scooped up the club guard and put it in his pocket as he got out of the car. He opened the door to the back seat and pulled the guards off the rest of his clubs. He buried them in the dumpster in the corner of the garage, then took the elevator to the thirty-third floor.
The corporate offices of The New York Standard were bustling. Employees hurried back and forth, called loved ones, and gathered around televisions. Bice set up a meeting with his VPs for later in the afternoon and sent his assistant home for the day. “Go be with your family,” he said gravely. “Our people downstairs will get the story. I want to make some calls and see what I can do to help.”
As he closed the door to his office, Bice heard the thud of Hollinger’s head. His breath tightened. He saw the body in the shadow of the Marriott and all his muscles contracted at once. It’s not my fault. He didn’t give me a choice. He locked the door, then sat at his desk and focused on an orange spot on the vast art deco carpet. “You can choose to be in control,” he whispered. He took ten deep breaths. His muscles relaxed.
He unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a thirty-eight-caliber Iver Johnson pistol. He stashed the club guard in the drawer, next to a flattened, navy blue NYU hat. He closed the drawer and heard the thud again. It wasn’t my fault.
He ran his index finger up the thin, silver barrel of the pistol. Mac wasn’t my fault. Dad wasn’t my fault. When he closed his eyes he was twelve years old. He saw his father stumbling up the steps of their Connecticut farmhouse, belt in hand, reeking of Scotch. He felt the welts on his back. His chest contracted. It’s not my fault. He took five more deep breaths and his chest relaxed. He saw his father again, lying face down in freezing gray mud on the riverbank behind the house. He felt himself running toward his father’s body, the pistol laying next to it, as blood pooled in the man’s frozen shoe prints. A note stuck out of a muddied pocket. He heard the roar of the river and felt the cold steel on his belly as he stashed the gun under his shirt, hoping to somehow undo his father’s act by hiding the weapon. He heard the crinkle of paper as he read his father’s note. When you hurt someone, you deserve to be punished.
Bice opened his eyes and looked at the gun on his desk. “It wasn’t my fault,” he said.
He picked up the phone, dialed, and left a message. “Chairman Gathert, it’s Denver. Everyone here is safe. I went down to get a first-hand look, but there was nothing I could do. I want you to know that this isn’t going to derail the deal. Let’s meet later this week, once things have settled down.”
He hung up and opened his laptop, clicking on an MP3 recording that he had downloaded from his cell phone. “Hello?” he heard himself say on the recording. As he listened he stared at the gun.
“Bice, you asshole. You evil prick. We finally have a fair fight.” Now it was a young woman’s voice, drunk and happy. “Mac Hollinger is pulling his money from The Standard. He has seeeeeen the error of his ways. It took a year, but I did it. I did it!” He heard laughter and a steady drumbeat in the background. “You bastard.”
“Who is this?” Bice’s voice demanded.
“You’re in trouble. Not you, personally. I would never threaten a man as pathetic as you. But I know about the merger.” For a moment the woman’s voice was silent, the music thumping louder. Then she spoke again. “You and your company are screwed.”
There were a few more seconds of heavy breathing, then the recording ended.
Bice looked down at the gun and back at the laptop. “You made me do it you stupid dyke. It’s your fault.”
He listened to the call twice, closed his laptop, and took five more controlled breaths. His face tightened, then shook, and he smashed his fist on the desk three times. “Stupid! Fucking! Dyke!” Heat coursed through his body.
On the TV, people ran from a wave of dust, screaming.
“None of this is my fault.” He opened the desk drawer and slid the pistol past the club guard and under the NYU hat. “I will never be like him,” he said quietly. “I will never kill myself.”
Part 1
Chapter 1
Thursday, September 5, 2002
Alex Vane rolled out of an unfamiliar bed, naked and confused, his head pulsing in a steady rhythm interrupted only by one thought: Where the hell am I? He rubbed at a pain in his shoulder, turning his head to look. Bite marks. He glanced around the room and saw a rolled-up yoga mat leaning against the wall. An empty sake bottle sat on top of it.
“Oh, right,” he said under his breath.
He stared at the long, slender body in the bed. The woman lay on her stomach, her straight black hair glistening on her pale back. He felt vaguely guilty but told himself it was nothing as he crept out of her bedroom.
He rummaged through her kitchen looking for coffee, but found only tea. None of it was caffeinated. “What kind of girl was I with last night?” he mumbled.
He found an envelope on the kitchen table and scrawled a note:
Greta-
Had a great time. Had to get to work. Call me sometime.
-Alex
He didn’t leave his number.
He returned to the bedroom, pulled on his jeans and polo shirt, then grabbed his laptop bag and walked out into the cold, sunny morning. He stopped on the steps of the brownstone, his head pounding as the light hit his eyes. He was on Tenth Street in the West Village, and as the night came back to him in flashes, he wondered why he felt guilty. He walked in place and stretched his legs. She seemed to have had a good time, he told himself. He’d done nothing wrong. So why did he feel like he had?
He dropped and did thirty push-ups on the porch of the brownstone. The cold, gritty stone felt good under his large hands. From the push-ups, he moved into downward dog, held it for ten seconds, then sprang up. He shook out his arms and legs and did a few circles with his head.
He felt a bit better and knew that a hit of caffeine would bring him all the way back to himself. At the cart on the corner, he bought a cup of coffee and a copy of The New York Standard. He leaned against a ginkgo tree and scanned the front page.
“Damn,” he said to himself. They had trimmed his story by half, but at least it was above the fold.
Trial of Student Killer Begins Today
By Alex Vane
Opening remarks are expected today at the New York County Criminal Court in the murder trial of Eric Santiago, the NYU student accused of murdering Professor John Martin in Washington Square Park on New Year’s Eve, 2001.
Santiago, a 19-year-old biology major, has pled not guilty.
Prosecutors are expected to argue that Santiago encountered Martin at approximately 1 a.m. on January 1, 2002 and administered a lethal dose of fentanyl, a synthetic narcotic.
It remains unclear what motive prosecutors will claim, but sources describe Santiago as “sick” and “cold-blooded.” One officer familiar with the case said, “Motive? What motive? Sickos like Santiago don’t need a motive.”
Martin’s murder, and the revelation that police were investigating a student, gripped New York City earlier this year, but the trial has been delayed with jury selection and motions for over six months.
Alex finished the coffee and stepped back over to the cart to buy an egg sandwich. He threw the roll in the trash and then leaned back against the tree, chewing the egg as he read another story.
Nation Corp. Acquisition of Standard Media Clears Hurdle
September 5, 2002
The proposed merger between Nation Corp. and Standard Media cleared one of its final hurdles Wednesday when federal antitrust regulators concluded their three-month review and gave the deal the green light.
The
merger would combine Nation Corp., the top Internet service and cable provider, with Standard Media, the world’s largest media conglomerate. The combined company—Standard Media/Nation Corp.—will hold dominant positions in many industries, including music, publishing, news, entertainment, cable TV, and high-speed Internet.
“Together, they represent an unprecedented powerhouse in media,” said Bill Dickens, an analyst with Morris Investments. “The best content will now have the best distribution. This deal is a game changer.”
But media critics oppose the deal. According to Sadie Green, executive director of the Media Protection Organization, “If allowed, this deal will create the most powerful company in the world. A company that will put hundreds of small papers out of business and will, eventually, use its power to strangle open access to the Internet. It will make an already gutless media way, way worse.”
According to industry sources, Standard Media CEO Denver Bice is expected to lead the new company after the merger. Formal approval of the deal from the FCC is expected next month.
Alex dropped the paper on a bench and tilted his head back to stare at the yellow leaves above him.
“Hello,” he said to himself. “I’m Alex Vane. Court reporter with Standard Media slash Nation Corp.” He looked down at the paper. “Damn.”
He flipped open his cell phone to check the time, then hailed a taxi heading south on Seventh Avenue.
Chapter 2
The taxi stopped behind a CNN van in front of the downtown courthouse, a twenty-story, marble-faced tower. It looked to Alex like a bland office building, nothing like the stately southern courthouses he had come to expect from reading John Grisham as a teen. When he’d decided to become a reporter, Alex had chosen the courts with an expectation of exciting cases and dramatic courtroom scenes, a fantasy—he realized quickly—that had little to do with the day-to-day grind of the law. He had been covering the court for a year and rarely got a story beyond the metro section. But now TV trucks, out-of-state reporters, and curious citizens surrounded the building. The Santiago trial would land him on the front page for weeks.
He scanned the faces of the reporters but avoided eye contact as he made his way through the throng and up the steps. The courthouse furnishings were outdated and its halls smelled of cleaning supplies and wet cement. As he stopped at the security desk, Alex said, “Hey, Bearon,” and flashed an ID.
Bearon Decoteau, wearing a dark blue uniform and courthouse badge, smiled as he held out a clipboard and said, “Name and address.”
“You think I don’t know the routine by now?” Alex shook his head as he took the clipboard.
“Bosses make me say it.” Bearon pulled back his long, black ponytail and studied Alex. “You look terrible, man. I mean, for a pretty boy like you. You look like one of the Backstreet Boys the morning his agent checks him into rehab. How’d it work out with Greta?”
Alex scribbled on the visitor sheet. “We had a good time. How’d it go for you last night?”
“Let’s just say I could use a little of that Alex Vane charm. City girls don’t seem to appreciate gorgeous Native men from the Pacific Northwest.”
Alex laughed. “Not like back home, huh?” He rubbed his eyes and patted down his dark brown hair. “Any good gossip for me today?”
Bearon leaned in. “Looks like Sharp is gonna take the lead on the Santiago prosecution, along with Davis and Morganthal.”
Alex handed the clipboard back. “Then Santiago’s even more screwed than we thought. Sharp is good. I heard he might challenge Bloomberg for mayor in a couple years.”
“Everybody knows that. His people are already leaking his slogan: ‘At Last, a Democrat Who’s Sharp On Crime.’ You heard from WNYW?”
“Not yet.”
“You’re a shoo-in, though, right?” Bearon switched to an exaggerated news anchor voice. “This just in: young, handsome, arrogant newsman Alex Vane to become New York’s next big TV reporter.”
Alex smiled and turned down the long marble corridor. “I hope so,” he said under his breath.
Across the hall from Courtroom Four, Alex sat on a wooden bench and leaned his head against the wall. Court wouldn’t start for ten minutes and he was half asleep when he heard his ringtone—a tinny, Muzak version of Nirvana’s In Bloom. When he pulled the phone out of his bag, he saw that the caller ID read 000-0000. He sighed, tired of telemarketers, but answered anyway. “Hello. I’d like to purchase ten of whatever you’re selling.”
He heard quiet, steady breathing on the line.
“Alex Vane?” The voice was distorted, deep and metallic.
Alex realized it was being run through a voice scrambler. He looked around instinctively and ran a hand through his hair. “This is Alex. Who’s this?”
“The one who knows.”
Alex got calls from sources almost every day, some reliable and some crazy. He decided this was one of the crazy ones. “Knows what?” he asked.
The voice spoke slowly. “Knows who killed Professor John Martin. You are covering the trial for The Standard, right?”
“I am. Again, may I ask who this is?”
“The one who knows.”
Alex paced the hallway. “Oh right, you told me already.”
“Eric Santiago did not kill Professor Martin. I could get in a lot of trouble for telling you this.”
“Then why are you telling me?” Alex asked.
Silence.
“Hello?”
“Are you familiar with John 12:25?”
Alex smiled. “Let’s assume I’m not.”
“‘He who hateth his life in this world shall keep it unto life eternal.’“
Alex chuckled nervously. “That’s why you’re calling me?” He waited. “Hello?”
The line was dead.
Chapter 3
Giant granite columns supported the rounded ceilings of Courtroom Four and rows of wooden benches held more than two hundred spectators. Alex found a seat in the back and scanned the crowd as Santiago was led to his seat. His eyes landed on a woman in the front row. In her mid-thirties, she had curly brown hair so voluminous that it blocked his view of Santiago. When she turned toward Alex, he tried to catch her dark brown—almost black—eyes, which stood out against her light tan skin. She looked separate from the proceedings, out of place. And she seemed to look right through him.
At 9:05 a.m., the judge gaveled the session to order as spectators packed the courtroom to its corners.
Alex looked up at Assistant District Attorney Daniel Sharp, who was leaning on a wooden railing, talking with the other prosecutors. Sharp was forty years old but could pass for thirty, even with his bald head beaming under the fluorescent lights. Several times over the last year, Alex had watched him shatter a witness in one moment, then turn to address a jury with grace and kindness in the next. If he planned to run for mayor in a couple of years, Alex thought, this trial was sure to get him some attention.
Sharp approached the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is one of the simplest cases I’ve had the honor of prosecuting. At one o’clock in the morning on New Year’s Eve, 2001, Eric Santiago entered Washington Square Park from West Fourth Street. He walked the diagonal toward the fountain and stopped at the towering bronze statue of Giuseppe Garibaldi.” Sharp paused and looked at the floor gravely, then continued. “Santiago—”
Alex tuned him out and studied the waves of the mystery woman’s hair. He knew most of the people in the courtroom that day—Santiago’s mother, Professor Martin’s daughter, a few NYU professors—but he couldn’t place the woman.
Sharp raised his voice. “Fentanyl is designed as a slow-release drug. After receiving a concentrated dose orally, the professor would have felt nothing for three or four minutes. As his stomach heated the liquid fentanyl to 98 degrees, he probably experienced a few moments of relaxation, even well-being. Then, suddenly, his heart rate slowed, his blood pressure dropped, and his skin became clammy. Soon after, he fell to the ground, overcome by drow
siness. Seconds later, he was in a coma. In another minute, he was dead.”
Sharp paused and looked at the defendant with contempt. Santiago was slight and pale, his face scarred from untreated acne. His eyes didn’t move from the table in front of him.
“After killing the professor,” Sharp continued, “Mr. Santiago strolled to Sixth Avenue where—theater workers will testify—he bought a ticket to the one-thirty a.m. showing of Erotic Advances. An hour later, he was back in his dorm room, where police found the spray bottle of fentanyl two days later.”
Sharp paced in front of the jury box. “You will hear from the defense that Mr. Santiago had no motive. But we will show that Mr. Santiago did not only have a motive, he had the motive. Did he kill because he wanted better grades? No, he did not have any classes with the professor. Was it about a girl? No, they had no mutual acquaintances. Perhaps it was payback for some old slight? Again, no. Santiago’s actions sprang from the motive of a true killer—a simple love of death. He’s an icy, detached man who, as a child, burned insects in his backyard for pleasure. He is remorseless. He did not even bother to destroy the murder weapon! To the man before you, killing is its own reward.”
Sharp stopped pacing and looked at the jury. “We may not be able to understand this man’s evil, but we know it when we see it. And, ladies and gentlemen, we are confident that you will make sure he never has the opportunity to kill again.”
Sharp let his words sink in, then took his seat. Alex jotted a few notes, yawned, and moved his gaze back to the woman’s hair, hoping she would turn around again. His head throbbed and he wished he’d eaten a few more eggs.
Defense attorney Cynthia Baker wore a cream-colored suit and her long dreadlocks were tied in a neat bun. She was young and Alex thought she must be inexperienced because he had never seen her before. “Mr. Sharp is right about one thing,” she began, “Mr. Santiago was in Washington Square Park from one to one-fifteen in the morning. But he was not there to kill Professor Martin. The defense will show that Mr. Santiago—lonely, confused, and away from home for the first time—made an error in judgment. He went to the park that night to purchase marijuana. But he did not purchase marijuana, just as he did not kill Mr. Martin.
