That was not the only footage Jenks shared. He’d also shown us what had happened when he and Fine encountered the body.
It started with Fine’s fussy instructions over exactly what B-roll to shoot. From the arena, Jenks and Fine had moved around the end chute used by bull riders to mount bovine tornadoes and started down an aisle beside a holding pen, with close-ups of bulls’ massive bodies, intimidating horns, and occasionally malevolent expressions.
“What’s that?” Jenks’ sharp question was caught by audio, as he’d zoomed in on a lump that trailed partially out of the pen.
Fine’s peevish voice demanded Jenks stay focused on what he wanted—texture, he kept saying. His foot came into the frame. Then everything happened fast.
Jenks snapped, “Stop. Don’t step on it. I think . . . I think it’s somebody.” The camera bobbled.
“That’s ridic—”
The sound of Fine screaming. I would describe the high-pitched sound as being like a little girl, except I know a number of little girls who would never scream like that.
The camera kept running as Jenks used one hand to fumble out his cell phone for 911.
The camera caught two early-arriving rodeo workers coming at a run, attracted by the noise. Oh, yes, and a shot of Thurston vomiting—adding, I’m sure, to the forensic team’s pleasure.
—are visible. As well as blood and agricultural byproducts. And—
“Agricultural byproducts?”
“Maybe he wasn’t trampled. Maybe he was smothered in agricultural byproducts.”
“If bullshit killed, we’d all have died the day Haeburn arrived.”
Jenks had kept a copy of his footage, handing the original to the sheriff’s department. “Thought about what Diana did with the Redus murder case,” he said now. “If I’d known Fine would air it, I’d have skipped making a copy.”
An unnatural quiet settled over the newsroom as the humans inside the wise-mouthed journalists looked on the televised version of violent death. A swath of green resolved itself into the remnants of a shirt. The shot panned up, toward a recognizable shoulder, jerked sharply to the side before reaching an ear, veering away.
“Holy shit,” breathed someone behind me.
“Was that his . . . face?”
“Yeah. Fine wanted me to pan all the way, but . . .” Jenks swallowed. “There wasn’t much there.”
The camera’s focus shifted back to a distorted torso in green.
“Jesus.”
“Grim,” came a murmur.
The cut to commercial left a momentary silence in the newsroom.
“We shouldn’t have aired that.”
“Once it was shot, we had to air it.”
“That’s crap. Journalism requires judgment, and leaving out things is part of judgment.”
The newscast ended with a surfeit of platitudes from Fine about tragedy and an exhortation that the rodeo must go on.
The now-subdued newsroom quickly emptied, until it was only Mike, Diana, and me.
I spoke the thought that had been tugging at me for a while: “Why are we sitting around?”
“Because Haeburn’s an idiot.” Mike was definitely bitter. “We thought it would be better after the Redus case, but first chance he gets, Haeburn goes and puts Fine in charge.”
“My question is: Why are we paying attention to them?”
His sour expression lifted slowly, then his grin came in a flash. “All right. Let’s go.”
“The Newsmobile’s out front, equipment’s loaded,” Diana said.
“You are a gem.”
“I know.”
Now that it was almost July, and I was a veteran of my first month of Wyoming’s summer, I snagged a jacket from the back of my chair. Bright sun made it plenty warm now, but just wait.
“How do we approach this?” Mike asked eagerly.
I eyed him. “Gee, Jimmy, what do you think we should do?”
“Jimmy? What . . . oh, Jimmy Olsen, huh? Nice, Danniher. Just because I want to learn from one of the best in the business—”
“First time you call me Lois Lane or Clark Kent, this friendship is over.” He slanted me a look I didn’t meet. “We do what Fine won’t—report the hell out of the story. Accidents happen, but they still have who, what, when, where, how, and why. We find people who knew Landry, and we ask. What was his last day like? Why on earth would he have been in that bull pen?”
“Where do we start?”
“With inconsistencies.” I spun back to him. “What was that you said before? Something about the bulls, and not knowing why they were where they were. We start there. And let’s grab Jenks.”
FIND LEFT HANGING at Amazon
About the author
USA Today bestselling author Patricia McLinn’s novels—cited by reviewers for warmth, wit and vivid characterization – have won numerous regional and national awards and been on national bestseller lists.
In addition to her romance and women’s fiction books, Patricia is the author of the Caught Dead in Wyoming mystery series, which adds a touch of humor and romance to figuring out whodunit.
Patricia received BA and MSJ degrees from Northwestern University. She was a sports writer (Rockford, Ill.), assistant sports editor (Charlotte, N.C.) and—for 20-plus years—an editor at The Washington Post. She has spoken about writing from Melbourne, Australia to Washington, D.C., including being a guest-speaker at the Smithsonian Institution.
She is now living in Northern Kentucky, and writing full-time. Patricia loves to hear from readers through her website, Facebook and Twitter.
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Copyright © Patricia McLinn
ISBN: 978-1-939215-46-8
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