Small Town Spin

by Walker, LynDee

  “This will get blasted all over Facebook and Twitter,” I said, a lead already whirling through my head. “And I need a few points with the big bosses right now. I could kiss you,”

  “My wife probably wouldn’t care after twenty-five years, but I’ll take an owed favor.” Aaron laughed. “I’m sure there’ll be something I won’t want to tell you sometime soon. You let it go when the time comes and we’ll call it even.”

  I nodded. “Has Charlie been here?”

  “Not yet, but she doesn’t go on the air until six, and I’m pretty sure she sleeps with her scanner under her pillow,” Aaron said. “She’ll show.”

  As if on cue, the Channel Four van pulled up and parked right behind my car.

  I watched as Charlie stepped from the passenger seat, her petite frame clad in a gorgeous camel wool peacoat and black pants, her makeup and blond bob flawless.

  “Detective White.” Charlie flashed a Colgate-commercial smile at Aaron. “Nichelle. You get bored out in the sticks?” Her tone was casual, but her eyes were way too curious. Scooping each other would always come first with Charlie. But I could live with that.

  I grinned and shook my head. “No comment. Charlie, how is it that you don’t ever have circles under your eyes? Are you a pod person, or something?”

  “Just handy with a makeup brush, honey,” Charlie smiled, arching an eyebrow at my ponytail and blotchy skin. “Lucky for you, you don’t have to worry about the camera.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I got to sleep later than you did, I bet.”

  “Now, ladies.” Aaron held up both hands in a peacemaker gesture. “Anyone want particulars on this incident?”

  Charlie waved her cameraman over and handed Aaron a wireless mic. While he attached the unit to his belt and clipped the tiny microphone to his collar, I rummaged in my bag for a notebook and pen.

  Charlie flashed Aaron a smile and he gave the camera a more official version of what he’d told me. “A group of teenagers started a small fire on the fifth floor with candles,” he said. “The hotel’s fire alarms alerted security, and the first crew from the Richmond Fire Department was on the scene in less than five minutes, containing the damage to three rooms.”

  “Was there any structural damage?” Charlie asked.

  “The structural engineers haven’t been here yet, but it doesn’t look that way,” Aaron said. I jotted down his answer.

  “Have any of the hotel guests been evacuated?” I asked. Charlie could dub the audio to put in her own transition and use Aaron’s comment, anyway.

  “Six other rooms on that side of the fifth floor were evacuated because of the smoke,” Aaron said. “But the hotel had empty rooms to move those guests to.”

  “The Washington’s historic decor dates back to the city’s earliest days,” Charlie said. “Anything in the lobby damaged by smoke?”

  “No,” Aaron said. “And the hotel’s management has assured us that at this time, there are no plans to close anything other than the affected rooms.”

  “Are the students being charged with anything?”

  “I’m not taking them to jail, if that’s what you’re asking,” Aaron said. “Whether or not they’ll face charges will be up to the fire marshal and the CA.” I jotted that down, the abbreviation for Commonwealth’s Attorney still a teensy bit funny-looking after half a decade of writing about the Virginia prosecutor’s office.

  “Thanks, Detective,” Charlie said, waving the cameraman toward the fire trucks that sat in the large circular drive in front of the hotel.

  Aaron handed the microphone set back and nodded. “Of course.”

  She followed her cameraman to the fire trucks, grabbing a firefighter to interview.

  “Why do I have a feeling there’s something you’re not saying?” I smiled at Aaron, glancing at the girls huddled under the blanket and wondering if they’d tell me anything.

  “Because you know me too well?” He grinned. “Charlie didn’t ask me what the kids were drinking. Or, planning to drink. But I have a feeling it might be of particular interest to you, since you were asking me about the ABC police and moonshine last week.”

  “No way.” I stared at the debutantes. “These kids?”

  “Teenagers are the perfect market for people making back-door booze. Everywhere, it seems.”

  “Did they say where they got it?”

  “One of them has an older sister who bought it off someone in her dorm. They claim, anyway. But I ran the labels when the fire guys first handed it to me this morning. It’s not a legal brand.”

  “It has a label?”

  He nodded, turning around and opening the trunk of the cruiser. “Here.”

  We didn’t need gloves because the kids had confessed to possession, making fingerprinting unnecessary. I took the full jar he handed me and turned it over. Triple X White Lightning.

  “Son of a bitch.” I tapped my foot, studying the label. It was faded across the middle, too.

  “Look familiar?” Aaron asked.

  “Indeed it does.” I handed the jar back. “What are the chances you can have a lab analyze this stuff in some sort of timely fashion?”

  “Why? They didn’t drink it, and it didn’t combust.”

  “Because the sheriff in Mathews has closed his investigation, which I know isn’t your problem. This is what those kids were drinking, though. Someone poisoned them, I’m almost positive, but I don’t know how. This label is weird, like the one on the jar the dead girl had. I want to know what’s in it.”

  “Cause of death?”

  I smiled. Aaron was a good detective. “Liver failure. The boy. The girl’s isn’t back yet.”

  “And you don’t think the kid OD’d because why? That sounds like the most logical answer to me.”

  “I’m not even sure I have the words to tell you that,” I said. “My gut says no. The parents say no. The coach says no. Good friend of mine who’s a master shrink says not likely.”

  He nodded. “But the sheriff is done?”

  “The sheriff has a cousin who’s making moonshine.” I shook the jar.

  “A-ha.” He chuckled. “Oh, the joys of small-town politics. They’re not that different here, if you want to know the truth. People are just connected by friends and money instead of blood.”

  “Right? But I can’t let someone get away with killing two kids because Sheriff Zeke wants to turn the other cheek to the criminal branch of his family tree, either.”

  “No. That doesn’t seem right. But are you sure the moonshine had something to do with it?”

  I snorted. “I’m not sure of a damned thing. There’s more nebulous crap around this story than the big bang, Aaron. I’m just trying to cover all the bases. There was moonshine at both scenes. I heard last night that someone gave it to the girl as a gift, and for all I know, they spiked it with arsenic. I’m pretty sure TJ’s invite to the party he died at was wrapped around a mason jar, too. TJ died of liver failure. I know too much rotgut could cause that eventually, but he was so young.”

  I stopped.

  Except TJ’s liver was already compromised.

  “What if he didn’t know he was drinking it?” I asked, talking more to myself than to Aaron. “Could you mix this shit with anything that would mask the God-awful taste?”

  “I’m sure if you put enough syrup or sweet stuff with it. But would he have had enough of it to do anything if someone mixed it?”

  “I remember once when I was in school, the guys mixed up a batch of Hawaiian Punch and Everclear in a garbage can. One of the cheerleaders got so sick she had to have her stomach pumped because they kept telling her there was no alcohol in it and she drank a ton of it. You couldn’t really taste it.”

  “I guess if there was enough sugar, you could pull that off. Maybe. I’m not a doctor, but I bet you know one you can run that by.”

  “The Vicodin.” I nodded, thinking out loud some more. “Taking it with alcohol—this kind of alcohol—with a damaged liver. Could tha
t do it?” I’d been trying for a week to figure out how someone could have given TJ an overdose of painkillers, but what if they didn’t? What if he just took one, and thought he was drinking fruit punch?

  It made at least as much sense as any of my other theories, anyhow.

  “Good luck,” Aaron said. “Can’t wait to read all about it. Just don’t go jumping ship for the big city if you scoop the Post’s guy out there.”

  “They’ve been quiet for a few days. But I’m sure if I can figure it out, they can, too. I have to be faster and make sure I’m right.” I turned toward the fire truck. “Thanks, Aaron.”

  I took down the particulars of the hotel damage from the fire captain on the scene and managed to get a useable quote from the least-smeary-eyed of the girls just before a line of European cars arrived to collect them.

  “We just wanted it to be a night to remember,” she said. “That was the theme.”

  “Where did you get the booze?” I asked, trying not to sound urgent and looking around for Charlie.

  “Candy’s sister got it for us. From a friend in her dorm.”

  “Where does she go to school?”

  “RAU.”

  I jotted that down. The last thing Richmond American University needed was more scandal. Three dead coeds in two years was quite enough. I contemplated calling the chancellor.

  The girls were plucked up and ushered into cars, their parents cutting Charlie and me dirty looks. But she hadn’t interviewed any of them on camera, and I wasn’t using their names, so they’d get over it.

  Back in the car, I cranked up my heater and headed for the office. It wasn’t even six yet. I could get done, grab a nap, and still meet Jenna for coffee on time.

  Young love gone awry led to thousands of dollars in damage when three rooms on the fifth floor of the historic Washington Hotel went up in flames in the wee hours of Saturday morning.

  “We don’t have an exact estimate on the damage yet, but there are a lot of antiques in this hotel,” Richmond Fire Captain Keith Richeleaux said at the scene. “One of the rooms was mostly gutted, and two others sustained heavy damage.”

  Richmond Police Department Spokesman Aaron White said smoke damage forced the evacuation of four other rooms on the same floor.

  “The structural engineers haven’t been here yet, but it doesn’t look [like there was structural damage],” White said.

  I ended with the comment I’d gotten from the girl about wanting the night to be memorable. Once I’d read back through the story, I emailed it to Les, who had spent the day before acting shocked every time anyone commented on his full head of hair. I couldn’t even make fun of him, I was so glad to have Shelby back at the copy desk and out from underfoot.

  No one else was crazy enough to be in the newsroom at seven on a Saturday morning, so I got up and went to get more coffee from the breakroom. Walking back with a full cup, I nearly jumped out of my skin when Spencer Jacobs stepped off the elevator.

  “Shit!” I gasped as the lava-hot liquid sloshed out onto my hand, switching the cup to my left and shaking the burned one.

  “I’d say I was sorry, but I’d be lying,” Spence said. “Karma’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I think the most disappointing thing about this entire week, next to the tragedy of these children losing their lives, has been finding out that you are such a selfish prick. Have you stopped for three seconds to think beyond yourself and your ridiculous outrage about not being assigned this story? Which, by the way, you probably wouldn’t write, anyway, because you don’t write that much copy. So you’ve spent this whole time giving me shit because you didn’t get to assign this story to one of your reporters? Really?”

  I walked to the reception desk and set my coffee cup on the edge of it, grabbing a tissue from the box on the counter and wiping my hand.

  “It should have been a sports story,” he said. “You don’t know that I wouldn’t have written it. It’s the kind of story that could make a career. Land me opportunities.”

  “You want to leave the Telegraph?” I blanched. “I had no idea.”

  “No one ever asks. Just because I’m a sports guy doesn’t mean I’m not as smart as you are.”

  “I don’t think anyone ever said that, either,” I said. “I sure as hell couldn’t keep up with all the numbers you guys have to.”

  “Why did you take this story?” His face looked pained. “It’s the kind of break I’ve waited for for years. You have the spotlight around here all the time. Cops and courts are the meat and potatoes of news.”

  “Sports keeps the paper in business.” I said. “I never knew you weren’t happy writing sports. You seem to love it.”

  “I do love it. I want to do it for the AP. But I’m never going to get there with my ho-hum resume. Something like this Okerson thing could get me noticed.”

  I stared at him, my own goals of working for the Washington Post dancing around my head and melting at least part of my annoyance. “Why didn’t you just come talk to me?” I asked. “If you hadn’t been such a jerk, we could’ve found a way to work together.”

  “Because I’m capable of doing it myself,” he snapped. “Why should I have to share a story that clearly falls under my beat with you? Wait. I know, because you’re the editor’s pet.”

  I bristled at that.

  “If I’m the editor’s anything, it’s because I’m good at what I do. And the fact of the matter is that you have little or no experience dealing with cops, and this has become a sticky mess of a story. I appreciate that you have goals beyond this.” I waved a hand around the newsroom. “But no one’s goals are more important than the truth. Particularly when we’re talking about a murder case the local cops are ignoring.”

  “Awfully convenient that the Post is the only other news outlet that knew about that.” He smirked.

  “You told them, didn’t you?”

  “I did not. I assume you did. As feet in the door go, a lead like that is great currency.”

  “I would never. This story is too important to me. For a number of reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with the Post.”

  “But scooping their reporter doesn’t hurt anything. Which is why you’re hanging onto the story.”

  “I’m hanging onto the story because I think I can help these people,” I said, utter conviction in my voice. “I’m disappointed that the Post is poking around in it because I think it might be harder for me to do that with another reporter mucking things up.” Every word true. I’d thought a lot about it, and the Okersons were more important than an “attagirl” from the Post. Which wouldn’t turn into anything, anyway. Unless someone retired, no newspaper was hiring. “Thankfully, the TV folks seem to have dismissed it and gone on their way. Even Charlie hasn’t been out there in a few days.”

  He shook his head. “No one is that noble. If you’re right and this turns out to have been a murder, or two, even, you’ll be the big superstar again. Keep it up, and the offer you want from the Post will come along sooner, rather than later.”

  “That’s not what it’s about,” I said. “You ought to take a good look at what you want and why you want it, and turn that greedy self-involved speech right back around on yourself.”

  I picked up my coffee and turned back toward my little ivory cube as the elevator doors whispered open to reveal Shelby and Les, whose hair didn’t look nearly as much like George Clooney’s as he thought it did. He’d won the hair club equivalent of the booby prize on Price Is Right.

  I scurried off before either of them could say a word, leaving Spence to bitch to them. They could have the “We Hate Nichelle Club” meeting out of my earshot, thank you very much.

  They must’ve had quite a powwow, because it took Les an hour to kick back revisions on my fifteen-inch fire story. He wanted the room numbers that were affected and the number of kids involved. Picky Nitpickerson, but it was still better than answering to Shelby. She’d been a real pain in my ass for most of the
week.

  I dialed Aaron’s cell and got the information I needed, wishing him a happy Saturday. I added two lines to my story and sent it back, clicking my computer off and closing it. I needed some better coffee and good sounding board. Between Thompson’s and Jenna, I had them covered.

  21.

  Mom view

  Jenna’s eyes popped wider by degrees as I talked for half an hour. When I finally sat back in the chair with my white mocha, she shook her head, bouncing her reddish-brown curls, and winced.

  “The mom, huh?” she asked.

  “I’m just wondering about the psyche here. I’m going to call my friend Emily in Dallas as soon as it’s late enough there for me to call on Saturday without pissing her off. She’s brilliant, but she doesn’t have any kids. You do. Could you see killing for them?”

  “If someone was trying to hurt them? Absolutely. For a better spot on the baseball roster? You have to be a special kind of bat-shit to rationalize that.”

  I nodded. “That’s what I thought, too. But she’s the president of the PTA. She has access to the kids and the school, right? Someone gave Syd that jar of moonshine, and I think TJ’s party invite came wrapped around one. What if they were gifts from Luke’s mom? She comes from a family that makes the stuff, too.” It occurred to me that the funky label on Sydney’s jar might’ve been a brilliant way to throw suspicion, since Lily’s family didn’t make TripleX. Then again, it might just mean I was wrong.

  “Well, there are people who are just crazy,” Jenna said. “But just to argue the other side for a second: Does Luke have any brothers or sisters?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Only children get doted on more,” she said. “I don’t have time to be invested enough in my kids’ stuff to kill people. Not that I’m saying all people with one kid are loons. But it might explain some of the extreme stuff she said to you. I mean, if she didn’t do it. She’s so into his standing on the team because he’s her only kid and that makes him her whole world. I get that. Doesn’t mean she’s crazy enough to murder someone.”

  “Hmmm. And my go-to mom of one source is unavailable for this story.”