Authors: J. Wachowski
“What you wore yesterday was fine.” His voice dropped into that dark place where whispers take root. “But I’d love to see how you’d dress the part.”
“Whoops! Boss just walked in. Gotta go.”
I could hear the man laughing as I hung up which was bad enough, then Ainsley gave me a know-it-all look that was totally inappropriate from someone his age.
“Shut up.” I pointed at his face. “You do not have time.” I flapped the shot list at him.
He skimmed my notes, top to bottom. His expression made it clear when he got to the one requiring the
Dawn—pick-up. Need long, wide, establishing shot of tree where Tom died.
“Dawn? How am I going to get that?”
“I find if I set the alarm for 3 a.m. I can get camera ready in plenty of time. If I skip breakfast.”
“You’re kidding?”
“This afternoon I want you to concentrate on the firehouse. Your mom left a message that we had permission to go in and shoot interiors—his locker, his bed, whatever.” There was a definite advantage to working with someone hooked into the power loop. Not that Richard Gatt was going to hear it from me. “See if you can set up a couple match dissolves to what we’ve already got from his apartment.”
“Got it.” Ainsley nodded.
The shock of a 3 a.m. call time was passing; he was starting to get excited again which was a good sign. If he didn’t love it enough for 3 a.m., he didn’t love it enough. There are worse things about the business than an early call. Lots of them.
“I want nice clean shots, College. Nothing funky. Think journalism, not art.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Text me if you run into trouble. I’ll be here. Working.” I tipped a nod at the conference call. Sounded like they’d almost finished driveling through the LA rep’s report. My agenda had no name listed for the next spiel. Maybe they would wrap early and I could squeeze in a little studio time. “Warn Mick I might be late, would you?”
Ainsley looked wistful at the thought of the next editing session. “I’ll tell him.”
“Don’t worry. There’ll be plenty to do tomorrow.”
He smiled at the thought. “Yeah. That’s true.”
“Get out of here, College. You’re making my teeth ache.”
I went back to buzzing through the shots of Grace and Dr. Graham, looking for sound bites and jotting down times.
The conference call was still going strong. A couple major players from the top ten markets had been invited, so the grunts kept interrupting with clever comments.
Whatever. I had enough to keep me occupied.
There were a few bits I could pull out of the doctor’s interview, but even less of what Grace Ott had given me would make sense in the story I had roughly sculpted. I’d given up the salacious sex angle, but I needed something that would fit with the program. Much as I’d like to paint a picture of human isolation, Mysterious Death of an Amish Outlaw was probably my best television premise.
This is not a public service, I lectured myself. Television is a business. The purpose of business is to make money.
“O’Hara, I’ve got that office cleared for you,” Schmed wheedled from the doorway.
Speak of the devil and in he walks.
“My hero.” I had a sudden premonition I’d be carrying antacid in my wallet from now on.
“I’ll have the list of dealerships to interview on your new desk by tomorrow morning.” He winked. “Thanks, hon.”
“Getting tired of telling you to bite me, Jim. Go away.”
“GM’s in the building, by the way. She’s looking for you.”
I mumbled something creative. Schmed exited with a snicker.
New action item on my list—end Schmed’s good mood.
With the conference call as white noise, I focused on the monitor, committing some pieces to memory, watching for glitches, listening for audio errors I’d need to cut around. My brain knows how to do this stuff on autopilot. Almost like driving—there’s a part of your mind that’s totally focused and another part that’s free. I’m better at the pieces than I am at the big picture. That’s why I prefer stills to video, editing to previewing.
When it came to Tom Jost’s death, I could almost see the bits I didn’t understand coming together, spread like a collage in front of me.
I wished I had the time to follow College to the firehouse. Maybe talk to Tom’s partner Pat again. If Grace was right, Tom’s problem began there.
I still didn’t have an explanation for who’d called the station the day of Tom’s death. What kind of Samaritan would call, but not stop? If they’d only called the cops—maybe. But why call the cops and the local television station?
According to the sheriff, Tom had no phone with him. I know Tom owned a phone; we saw the empty charger in his apartment. What happened to it? I thought of Rachel sitting in the bushes with the phone pressed to her ear. She hadn’t known Tom was dead, hadn’t seen the body. She couldn’t have been the Samaritan.
I picked up my cell phone and hit the new
Clarion
speed dial for the private extension of Mr. Melton Shotter.
“News.”
“Hey, Melton. What news?”
“Maddy?” He sounded surprised. “How’s that story on Jost going?”
“Not bad. Question for you. How’d you get the tip on Jost? Was it off the police band or what?”
“I got called on my way into work that morning. Can you hold? I’ll check.”
“No problem.” I hit Rewind and toggled the mute button on the conference call to vote fine with me on a local weather graphic preceding local stories.
The guy from Dallas added, “People watch TV to find out what tomorrow’s weather will be. Give them what they want. Get them hooked. This ain’t brain surgery.”
Melton came back on the line with interesting news. “Someone called the paper with a tip. Said there were cop cars and fire trucks along the road. The receptionist who took the call knew I’d pass that exit on my way into work. She phoned me at home.”
“What time?”
“Must have been around ten. That’s when I leave for the office.”
I blew some exasperation his way. “Nice work if you can get it.”
“Hey, I work ’til we go to press on Thursdays. I’m here ’til midnight sometimes.”
“Midnight? That’s all?”
Melton and I traded poor-me stories until we were both sleeping on desktops, surviving on tic tacs and tap water.
The conference call got around to taking another vote.
“Thanks for the help, Melton. I got another call.” I hung up before he could pump me for more on Jost.
After I weighed in on title graphics, I tried to call Ainsley in the truck and got no answer. Either he wasn’t in the truck or couldn’t hear the ring over the downbeat of WKiSS-FM. Guess which one I was betting?
“Ms. O’Hara? I’ve been looking for you.” Shirley Shayla, my new general mother, stood there, hands on hips. She was almost eye level with me, if I slumped in my chair. Aggravation or a long day had crumpled her Donna Karan suit. Not a good sign.
“You found me.” I waved to the line of empty conference room chairs. The machine clucked into standby and the speakerphone suddenly cracked out an “O’Hara?”
I held up a one-minute finger to Shayla and answered, “Yeah. I’ve got a couple stories on the burner right now. For the first week, I like this piece on a local suicide.”
“Details,” the New York guy barked.
“Guy was a refugee from a local Amish community. The suicide had signs of being autoerotic asphyxiation.”
Bits and pieces of my colleagues’ opinions popped through: a snort, a chuckle, a drawn out
shiiiit.
“Sounds good,” was the final answer.
What followed was a sequence of feelings that were fairly familiar when I sold a story based on salacious spin—relief, shame, and as I met Shayla’s gaze, guilt hunkered down for the long haul.
I hit the mute. “What can I do you for?”
“
That’s
the story you’re putting together for the premiere?” She made a firm nod in the direction of Grace’s sweet image on my monitor cart, twitching rhythmically in freeze frame. “Former Amish Sex-Death?”
“Actually, I’m not sure what the story will be yet.” Guilt made me sound grumpier than was polite for a new boss. Thumbing toward the phone call, I tried to work the charm as I admitted, “You know how it goes. These conference calls are fairly, um, promotional. Until I have it in the can…” I let it drift into a long pause.
“That topic would certainly sell ads.” Her arms were folded across her bosom and her feet were planted wide and toe out. She was not smiling. “Although, I have to say I’m surprised. It’s not what I expected from you. Rather predictable.”
Amish autoerotic asphyxiation was predictable? Where had she been living?
I opened my mouth, hesitating to stick my foot straight back in there, when the cell phone vibrated. Saved by the bell. “Yeah?”
“Maddy? It’s me,” Ainsley whispered in his undercover voice. “I’m at the fire station.”
“Great.” I started talking, hoping Shayla would lighten up on the hairy-eyeball she was giving me. “Here’s my—”
“You won’t believe the visuals! They’re training on car fires. Torching old beaters in the back lot. It’s incredible. We can totally work it in. Tom-the-Amish-firefighter, lighting a car on fire? Get it? And Pat just came in to pick up his check.”
“What? Ask—”
Ainsley would not shut up. His whispering got fierce. “Pat got all over me when I told them about the bank guy out at the Jost farm.”
“Really?” I went to full stop.
“I’m going to try for an interview.”
“With Pat? He wants to give you an interview?”
“I can handle it. Leave time in the story. I’ll call you later.”
“Wait!” Too late. I hit ring-back and the guy at the firehouse who answered laughed loudly as he passed the phone back to Ainsley.
“That’s three, College Boy. You’re grounded. Never,
ever
hang up before I do.”
“Right, right. Can I go now?”
“No. Pat’s in this thing deep. Watch yourself. Ask what he fought with Tom about and find out when—before or after Rachel. Ask what he said to Nicky Curzon. And find out how the fire service call came in about Jost. Did they hear through the cops or was it direct?”
“Okay. I can handle this, Boss.”
The words “I can handle it” were a little too scary to let slide. “Don’t get fancy on me, College. Get your shots and get back here. Don’t make me give you the J-school speech again.”
“Anything else?”
He was being such a pain in the ass, I snapped, “Yeah. I need you to pick up Jenny on your way back.” Too late, I thought of Shayla and the fact that I really didn’t want to spread the word I was permanently responsible for a kid these days.
“From school?” Ainsley asked.
“Yeah,” I mumbled. It wasn’t in me to ask for a personal favor without justification but it felt tricky explaining my motives to Ainsley. “I’m going to check something out at the Jost farm and I may run late. If you get her by six, we can rendezvous back at my place and watch whatever you get at the firehouse.”
Silence.
Conference call went lull.
Shayla tapped her foot.
“You want to talk to Mr. Jost again, don’t you?” Ainsley’s mental wheels were turning. “Don’t go back there, Maddy. He’s going to call the cops or something this time.”
“He might talk now that he’s had all day to think about what I dropped off this morning.” Quietly I added, “And there’s something I need to say to him.”
“Oh, man.” Ainsley sounded worried. “Don’t make me give you the J-school speech.”
“Ha. Funny.”
Shayla stood there watching me with one eyebrow cocked, so I could only penalize the boy with the silent treatment. The conference call droned on. A close-up image of Grace flickered before me on the monitor, waiting. I felt caught in a paused moment, waiting for someone to press the button that would release me from the sameness of it all. Something had to change.
“I’ll pick up Jenny by six,” Ainsley relented. “No problem. Maybe call a pizza, too? Delivery to your place?”
Pizza, the ultimate Prescott peace offering.
All I could say was, “Thanks. I’m hanging up now. Get back to work.”
“Do I rate your attention, yet, Ms. O’Hara?” Shayla drawled.
“Absolutely.” I stood to face her.
The conference call shouted, “O’Hara?”
I tapped the mute button. “Yeah?”
It was the voice of my New York production counterpart. “Are you going to up-link your story for everybody to preview?”
“No.”
“We’d really like to see it,” the shark from Dallas cooed.
“Oh well, in that case,
hell no,
” I said with a smile. Shayla can vouch for me.
There was a laugh or two and then someone started to argue about how the stories would be previewed and I was off the hook again, for half a second anyway.
“Sorry. This may go on a while.” I waved at the speakerphone. “Can we schedule something later? We could preview tomorrow before the up-link.”
She wasn’t fooled, but she wasn’t a time-wasting moron either. I was hired to do a job, and she’d been doing her job long enough to recognize when to stay out of the way. “Fine. I’d prefer to see what you do for us, before we talk anyway. So, ‘get back to work,’” she mimicked.
I shot her with my pointer finger and nodded.
That I could do.
6:09:16 p.m.
The sun was all the way down and it was really cold now. It hadn’t even been warm when she got out of the car. Jenny pressed farther under the cover of the bushes. She pulled her knees against her chest.
School was really far away. Home was probably closer. Maybe.
She’d lied. She really wasn’t all that sure where she was. Luckily, she’d gotten pretty good at waiting, giving herself time to figure things out.
If she went home, Aunt Maddy would ask her why she wasn’t at school. What could she say? She had to think of something. She had to have an answer. Something bad would happen if she didn’t think of a way to explain.
Her head hurt.
Everyone at school would be mad at her too, now. Worse than when she hid in the bathroom.
She was gonna be in trouble.
Now her stomach felt horrible, too.
Why was this happening? It was all wrong. She didn’t used to get in trouble. She used to believe she was a good kid. Her mom always said it—like every day.