“What?” Spence sat up straight, fumbling for a pen. “How? And why don’t I have this at the sports desk?”
“Parker asked me to handle it,” I said. “The Okersons are his friends. Your guys don’t have much experience working with cops.”
“It’s her story, Spence, and you get her whatever she needs to do a good job of it,” Bob said. “Listen up, folks. We have the only interview the Okersons are giving. When this breaks nationwide, it’s going to be huge, and this poor little town isn’t going to know what hit it. Everyone and their poodle will want into this story, and no one here is sharing anything. Not a word. Are we clear? If you get a call from a member of another media organization, you forward it to Nichelle or to me. Nothing goes out without approval.”
I nodded. Parker and Bob were close, and I could tell from the forceful note in Bob’s voice that Parker had given him the same speech I’d gotten on the phone the day before.
“What’s the Telegraph’s official statement?” Shelby asked.
I snuck a glance between her and Bob. He looked irritated, and she was too busy staring daggers at me to notice.
“Just send all inquiries to me,” Bob said, impressive control in his tone. “I don’t see reason for you to get any questions. But if you do, I’ll field them.”
“What if you’re not here?” Shelby asked. “If I’m putting in long hours and find myself needing to answer someone?”
“Take. A. Message,” Bob said through clenched teeth, and I snorted. I didn’t mean to. It just slipped out.
Shelby shot me another glare as she strode from the office.
I smiled, keeping my seat as the section editors ran for their computers, looking for my story. Curiosity is part of the gig when you work in a newsroom.
“Don’t be so quick to gloat,” Bob cautioned, leaning his elbows on his desk. “She’s going to be as far into everything as she can get until Les comes back to work, and you are going to be up to your neck in this Okerson thing. I’ll do what I can, but she has Andrews’s ear, and his memory is about as long as Les’s hair.”
“That’s so wrong.” I didn’t even try to suppress a giggle.
Bob grinned. “I think you sympathize with my ill will toward Les.”
“I do at that,” I said. “And I am going to nail this Okerson story. Something’s not right, chief. I have a bad feeling about this whole thing. That interview was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in the name of a story. And that’s counting getting shot. It just rips your heart right out to talk to these people. They’re so nice.”
“I got the feeling from the story that you were hedging the cause of death.” He sat back and laced his fingers behind his head. “What gives?”
“It doesn’t fit. He was cute. Popular. Family has money. He had a girl. A looming career playing ball, for chrissakes. Why?”
Bob chewed on that for a long minute before he answered with a question of his own. “What’d you make of the sheriff?”
“Eh. He seems nice. He’s not stupid. He’s also not excited about the media shitstorm. I think I can get on his good side. I just don’t know how far he’s going to dig.”
“Well, kiddo, your gut has a good track record. Poke around if you must. But I know I don’t have to remind you that you need to stay on top of your regular beat. And we cannot screw this thing with Okerson up.”
I nodded, fishing a Kleenex out of the pocket on my soft lavender cardigan and swiping at my nose.
“March yourself to Care First and get an antibiotic.” Bob drew his brows together in a parental glare, and I smiled.
“Yes, sir.”
“And then get some juice and get to work. Find out when the funeral is and if you can go.”
“To the funeral?” Aw, man. I didn’t think I could handle that.
“There will be cameras on every inch of lawn at that church,” Bob said. “I want you inside.”
“You got it, chief.” I grabbed my bag and turned for the door. The elevators seemed a Himalayan trek away, and the room seesawed a half dozen times when I stood up.
“Feel better,” Bob said, turning to his computer. I saw my story flash on the screen, a photo of TJ Okerson from the state championship football game under the header.
I did not have time to be sick.
4.
Back to the boondocks
A sinusitis diagnosis and two amoxicillin capsules later, I was back at my desk with a steaming mug of honey-lemon tea, a sweating bottle of orange-pineapple juice, and a big question mark hanging over TJ Okerson’s death. I dialed Richmond police headquarters and asked for Aaron White, the public information officer and generally one of my favorite sources.
I trusted Aaron’s opinion more than Sheriff Zeke’s.
“I’d ask if you have twenty minutes for me to come by, but I think I have the plague, and I don’t want to stand up unless it’s absolutely necessary,” I said when he picked up. “So, I need to ask you a couple of questions. Got a minute?”
“For you? Usually. What’s up? We don’t have much for you this morning, unless kids ripping off car stereos is news.”
“This isn’t about a case. At least, not your case. But we’ll come back to the kids later.” Lots of car stereos could be worth a few inches of space. We could run a warning to residents in the area.
“Why are you asking me about a case that’s not mine? How sick are you?”
“Sick. But the news doesn’t write itself. Did you see my story this morning about the Okerson kid?”
“Ah.” He fell quiet.
I twisted the phone cord around my index finger. Aaron had two daughters, neither of them much older than TJ.
“Aaron?”
“I saw it. Those poor people.”
“Indeed. So, the thing is, I’m not entirely sure it was a suicide.”
“What? Why not? What does local law enforcement say?”
“The sheriff thinks he killed himself,” I said, tapping a pen on the calendar blotter that covered the top of my paper-strewn desk. “But it doesn’t track. I get the empty pill bottle and the booze at the party. That’s damning evidence. But this kid, according to his parents, anyway, had none of the markers of being suicidal. Not one.”
“How well do most teenagers’ parents know them?” Aaron asked.
“I have no frame of reference. Only child of a single mom. We’ve always been tight. But I suspect you’re looking for ‘not well?’”
“As much as I hate to say it, that’s usually the case.”
I pictured Ashton Okerson’s crumpling face, heard her “helicopter our kids” comment ring in my thoughts.
“These folks didn’t seem to think so,” I said.
“Not that they told you,” Aaron said. “I mean no disrespect. Tony Okerson is a damned fine ballplayer and I hear he’s a good man. But he’s spent a lifetime working the media. If they didn’t know what was up with their kid, they’re not admitting it to you. Not now.”
I sighed. Tony said they went for runs every day. Ashton knew all about his plans to marry his girlfriend. That more mirrored my life than your typical primetime teen angst my-parents-are-morons drama, but he had a point.
“So I should dig more.” I said. “Thanks, Aaron.”
“Anytime. Holler if you find something else you want to bounce off me. Such a sad story.”
“Your girls home for break yet?”
“They came in Friday, bearing a small mountain of laundry.” His tone told me he didn’t mind a bit. It was the first year both of his daughters were away at college, and he was over the moon to have them home.
“Hope you have enough detergent,” I said.
“Me, too. Though if I were the sort to do it, I could borrow some from the evidence locker. That might be an interesting one for you: narcotics seized three hundred gallons of Tide in a bust yesterday,” he said.
“How did I miss that?” I asked. “And what the hell are drug dealers doing with detergent? Do I want to k
now? I can’t imagine shooting up Tide is going to end well for anyone.”
Aaron laughed. “No, I don’t suppose so. But this isn’t for shooting up. It’s currency,” he said. “They’ve been having this issue in New York for over a year. Looks like it’s trickled down here. Tide is expensive, right? And it’s something that’s not usually stolen, so no one locks it up. People make a run for it with a shopping cart full, then they trade it to the dealers for drugs. The dealers take it back to another store and get a full refund, plus the sales tax. Nifty little scheme, huh?”
I flipped my notebook to a clean page and scribbled that down. “I swear to God, if these criminals directed their creative energies to good things, we’d have a cure for cancer. How the hell do people come up with this stuff?”
“It’s job security,” he said. “As long as there are creative crooks in the world, we’ve got jobs.”
“I can always count on you for the bright side,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”
I asked him to email me what he had on the car stereo thefts and the detergent bust before I hung up. Maybe it was mind over matter, but I felt a bit more human, and the room only rocked once when I stood. I grabbed my bag, tea, and juice, hoping I’d continue to improve on the drive to Gwynn’s Island. The answer to the nagging feeling in my gut wouldn’t come looking for me in Richmond.
I dropped my Blackberry in the cup holder for easy access when I climbed into my car, dialing my friend Emily’s office in Dallas when I got to the freeway. A perky-voiced receptionist answered and I asked to speak with Emily.
“Doctor Sansom is very busy this morning,” she said, her tone sweet but guarded. “May I tell her who’s calling?”
Once I had given her my name, Em was on the phone in four seconds.
“It’s been ages, girl,” she said, her earring clicking against the receiver. “What is going on with you? I thought you wanted to be Lois Lane, not Nancy Drew. Then I see you on Anderson Cooper talking about all kinds of crazy stuff. And, I hear Kyle moved to Richmond. Do tell.”
“You’re not charging by the hour, right, Dr. Sansom? Just so we’re clear?” I tried to sniffle quietly, hoping I sounded a little farther from death’s door than I felt.
Emily had the best laugh. Her head-thrown-back, full-blown chortle had been one of my favorite things about her since she loaned me her Strawberry Shortcake eraser in third grade and became one of my best friends.
It rang in my ear for a good ten seconds. “Shut up, Nicey,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to call and bug you about Kyle since Christmas. My days keep getting away from me. What’s going on? Do I need to clear my June weekends?”
“There are no wedding bells in my future,” I said. “Kyle is…complicated. We’re getting to know each other again. It’s been ten years, and we’re such different people than we were then.”
“Last time I saw Kyle he was way hotter people than he was then, that’s for damned sure.”
“There is that.” I grinned. “And he’s sweet. But I don’t know.”
“I’m guessing there’s another guy,” she said.
“Did they teach you to be psychic at shrink school?”
“Something like that. What’s he like? Must be something else to keep you away from Kyle.”
“He’s something else, all right. Sexy, mysterious. But I didn’t call to talk about my love life.” I also didn’t want to spill details on Joey. Talk about complicated.
“What did you call to talk about?” She stopped. “Shit. Have you been crying? Is your mom okay?”
“Mom is great, thank God. Five years remission this summer. I just have a sinus infection. None of that’s why I called, either. Tony Okerson’s son died Wednesday night.”
“Tony Okerson, the football player?”
“The very same.”
“Um. I love hearing from you, but I’m confused.”
“The local sheriff says the kid killed himself. I’m not convinced.”
“I see.” She paused, her voice softening. “You sure you’re not projecting? It wouldn’t be abnormal, with everything you and your mom went through.”
“That, friend, is the million-dollar question.” I sighed. “But I’ve covered other suicides, and this is different, Em. That’s part of why I called you. I want your take on this kid.”
“You know I can’t analyze someone I’ve never met based on third-hand information. Certainly not in the space of a phone call.”
“I know you can’t give me expert opinion I can quote,” I said. “I’m not asking for an interview. I want to know what you think.”
She was quiet for a long minute.
“Because I love you, tell me about him,” she said finally.
“Back at you.”
I gave her the rundown. The only noise as she listened was the sound of her earring hitting the receiver when she nodded. “It just doesn’t add up,” I finished. “No matter how I try to force it, the puzzle doesn’t fit. Or am I crazy?”
“You are not crazy,” Em said. “Whether you’re right or not, I don’t know, but I hereby pronounce you as sane as anyone else. I’ll go with your theory, though. There are statistical anomalies in everything, but if what you’re telling me is true, this would be so far outside the curve we’d need binoculars to make it out.”
“Why?”
“Well first, teenage boys who are suicidal are more successful at their first attempt, because they tend to do more permanent things. Taking pills is an iffy option. Maybe it works, maybe someone finds you and you get your stomach pumped. Or you change your mind and stop after two and have a bad hangover. Intentional overdose is more common among women. We tend to be more unsure of what we want.”
Her voice dropped and I knew she wasn’t just talking about pills.
“Yeah, yeah, I have commitment issues. We can discuss that later. Keep talking. What do guys do instead of taking pills?”
“Shooting, hanging, jumping off bridges,” she said. “Things that have more permanent results.”
I filed that away. “Okay. What else? You said ‘first.’”
“I did. The rest is pure conjecture, because I haven’t met anyone involved. But unless there’s something you didn’t tell me, or something they’re not telling you, I can’t find a reason. If the kid didn’t have a psychotic break in the space of a few hours, you didn’t give me anything that indicated he would consider suicide. There are warning signs.”
I nodded. “That’s what I thought.”
“I’m not saying run a story crying conspiracy,” Em said. “But if you think something’s off, check it out. This will be hard on his family. The closure would help them. I don’t suppose I have to tell you that.”
Nope. “Thanks, Em,” I said.
“Anytime. Now, about this mystery man,” she said.
My phone beeped. I pulled it away from my head and checked the caller ID.
“Speak of the devil,” I told Emily. “Let me call you later?”
“Sure, honey. Good luck.”
I thanked her again and clicked over.
“Hello?”
“Nichelle?” Joey’s deep tenor, with his slight Italian-by-way-of-Jersey accent, always made my stomach flip.
“Hey there. What’s going on with you?” I put one foot on the brake as I took the West Point exit.
“What’s going on with you? Have you been crying?”
“I wish. Tears are easier to get rid of than germs.”
“You’re sick? Are you at home?”
“That’d be fabulous,” I said. “But no. I’m chasing a story to Tidewater.”
“You should rest.”
“Nice theory. I’ll try it out later. I hope. What’s up?”
“Just calling to say ‘hi,’” he said.
“That’s a new one.”
“I was thinking about you.”
My stomach flipped again. “That’s nice to hear.”
“I’m glad. Get done out there and get home.
Feel better.”
“Thanks.”
I clicked off, a smile tugging at my lips. He was thinking about me. Kyle’s face flashed quick on the heels of that and I sighed, considering Em’s words. But I had time to figure Joey and Kyle out.
The clock was ticking on TJ Okerson’s story.
The light was green again when I crossed the bridge to the island. I drove every street, which took all of twenty minutes at Sunday-stroll speed. It was quiet, the children I’d seen the day before tucked safely behind locked doors in the wake of the tragedy. I wasn’t looking for an interview—just to get a feel for the place TJ had called home. It was Mayberry-like, in the most charming sense of the label. And it was an island. But for the ninety-minute drive from my office and my favorite coffeehouse, I’d consider moving.
I slowed as I approached the Okerson house, then slammed the brake and turned around when I saw Charlie Lewis’s satellite truck from Channel Four parked along the side of the road. She was likely camped outside Tony and Ashton’s gate, and I didn’t want to lead her to my actual destination if she hadn’t thought of it yet.
I crossed the bridge again and turned toward Mathews, parking in a visitor space at the high school. The building was TV-show-high-school-set perfect, red brick with bright white columns.
I walked into the front office and a plump blonde woman with a turquoise sweater set and shimmery pink lip gloss smiled and asked if she could help me.
The question was, would she help me? I introduced myself, and her smile faded. I didn’t like my odds.
“We saw your article this morning.” She gestured to the computer monitor on her desktop. “Lyle Foxhead at our local newspaper is my sister’s boyfriend. He was tore up over the Okersons talking to you and not him. He rang their phone off the wall all yesterday and half the day today. How come they talked to you? You ain’t from here. Of course, they’re come-heres, too.”
“Come heres?”
“People who aren’t from the county. They come here to live. But they’re not part of us. Not part of the area like the rest of us.”
“I see.” I wasn’t sure I did. She made it sound like a club there was no way to pledge. “Well, as a journalist, I can certainly understand Lyle’s frustration.” I smiled. “The Okersons and I have a mutual friend who recommended they talk to me. So this is not a case of ‘they just didn’t trust him.’ And I’m sure y’all know it’s been a very trying couple of days for them.”
Small Town Spin Page 4
