H
urrying from Stralla’s office, Jason lost his race against the rain. Half a block before he reached his Falcon it came down hard, drenching him as he unlocked his door. Inside, he gripped his cell phone and called the
Mirror.
“Nestor.”
“Ron, it’s Jason. I’m just leaving Bellingham.”
“Get anything?”
“We can say Gideon Cull, Karen Harding’s college professor, is a suspect in her disappearance.”
“You’re certain. You’ve got confirmation, Jason?”
He flipped through his notebook to the critical quotes he’d flagged with asterisks, then read them to Nestor. “I’ve got Hank Stralla on the record: “Quote: ‘Gideon Cull is a person we intend to interview,’ close quote. Then I asked him if Cull was ruled out as a suspect and Stralla said, quote: ‘At this point, no one’s been ruled out or crossed off as a suspect,’ close quote.”
Nestor was silent. Lightning strobed, thunder nearly split the sky.
“Did Stralla say why they want to talk to Cull, anything about his past?”
“No. He said it was routine. Did you read my draft profile of Cull? I finished it last night and e-mailed it to you this morning.”
“I’ve read it. It’s strong,” Nestor said. “Get back here as soon as you can, and find me. Things have been happening. We’re looking at going with your Cull story for tomorrow’s paper.”
Jason was pumped as he got onto I-5. He monitored radio news stations for any breaks. Nothing new was being reported, other than his story in today’s paper about the Benton County murder being linked to another, and possibly Karen’s case.
Driving back to Seattle in the downpour he thought of her final moments before she’d vanished. Would they find a third corpse? Was Cull involved? Jason searched the darkness for an answer.
In the newsroom he saw his front-page story posted on the bulletin board and smiled to himself.
It acknowledged his work while blaring Astrid Grant’s failure. She’d dropped the ball in checking out the Benton County meeting. Maybe he’d get extra points for cleaning up after her. He shrugged it off, then spotted Nestor in his glass-walled office waving him in.
“Sit down.”
Nestor’s clipboard with the sked of the next day’s stories was on the table. Topping it was
Cull-Harding Suspect-Page 1 W/Turn. WADE.
“We’re hearing that our competition in Seattle, and news outlets in Spokane and Portland, are poised to take the lead on your story saying a new serial killer is at work in the Pacific Northwest.”
“Just what you figured.”
“That puts pressure on us to keep ahead of the pack with a story about a suspect.”
Jason’s pulse increased.
“I’ve gone through your Cull draft story. I’ve sent it back with my notes on everything I want you to check, double-check, and confirm. Lead with the Sawridge detective and suspect stuff. Put a Bellingham dateline on it. Give the photo desk all of your art, or tell them where to find it. Go long with this as a big investigative feature. Exclusive to the
Mirror.
”
“How long?”
“Thirty-five, maybe forty inches. I’m selling it to page one, turning to an inside page with pictures. But it doesn’t go unless you take care of everything.”
Jason nodded.
“You’ve got a few hours and most of it’s done already. I’m pulling you from the police scanners. Find an empty desk in Lifestyles to write.”
“Who’re you putting on the cop desk?”
Nestor’s eyes twinkled. “It’s time Astrid took a shift or two.”
After grabbing an egg salad sandwich and a large coffee from the cafeteria, Jason worked on the story. Nestor’s instructions made it better, and Jason labored to fill in every blank, answer every question, and confirm every point raised.
The news library helped him use public records to try to locate Cull’s ex, friends, or relatives. He didn’t have much luck. He tried several databases for New Mexico but failed to locate Bonnie Stillerman. He called church and charity groups in Spokane and Seattle and quoted volunteers who offered observations about Reverend Cull.
“A few years back, before he got busier at the college, he liked to drive around in the RV and bring hot meals, blankets, coffee, and counseling to homeless people and people just released from jail,” Sister Marie Broward, director of Seattle Street Angels of Mercy, told Jason. “Sometimes he would drive up and down the interstate and help stranded motorists.”
There it is. Karen Harding was a stranded motorist. Man, it’s looking more like Cull at every turn.
“A while back, the governor’s teenaged daughter slipped security after a spat with her mother. Her small car broke down on I-Five and Reverend Cull was there to help, which is why he was recognized by Olympia.”
It was early evening when Jason finished his story and sent it to Nestor, who went through it with the night editors, then called Jason into his office. Beale went first.
“I like this story. But it’s damning. It pushes things. You’re accusing him of being the suspect in the murders of Roxanne Palmer, the Jane Doe from Oregon, and Karen Harding’s kidnapper.”
“He is a suspect.”
“Your cop quotes imply it, but don’t state it implicitly. They have deniability. Do you stand by Detective Stralla’s comments?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have Stralla on tape?”
“No.”
“You should’ve taped him, he could challenge your quotes.” Beale sighed. “It’s a helluva story. We have the fact that police want to talk to him. And we’ve got his disturbing history. But you haven’t got Cull’s response in here. It’s not enough to say he was unavailable for comment. I say we don’t run the story unless you get Cull.”
Mack Pedge, the front page editor, agreed. “The story doesn’t go without Cull being given a chance to respond.”
The photo editor grunted as he gazed upon the photographs.
“Don’t want to piss off Mount Olympus. Man, look at this art. The governor shaking hands with this guy. It’s like Gacy with the First Lady.”
No one spoke. All in the room knew it was a compelling picture juxtaposed with Jason’s story. Every editor wanted to run the story but knew there’d be a price to pay if an intern reporter had screwed up.
“Look,” Pedge said, “if this falls through, I’ve got to juggle front page and the inside page we’re holding. You’ve got about ninety minutes before I pull the plug on it.”
Nestor stroked his moustache.
“Try to get Cull, Jason.”
“I’m trying. I left messages at his office, his home, his cell.”
“Call people at the school or the charities, see if they know where he is. Keep trying.”
On his way back to his out-of-the-way desk in Lifestyles, Jason walked by Astrid contending with her first full shift as the
Mirror
’s night cop reporter. She looked bored, flipping through a magazine with the volume turned down on the emergency radios.
“If you keep the radios too low you’ll miss something.”
She flipped him her middle finger.
“Nice.” He ignored her, turned to leave.
“Some guy called for you at this extension when you were in your big meeting.”
He stopped in his tracks.
“Who? Did he leave a name, or message?”
“Nope. I think he left a message on your voice mail.”
“He didn’t say who he was?”
“Nope.”
Jason went to the newsroom editorial assistant, a slender red-haired young woman eating microwaved popcorn and proofreading a soft-news page. He asked her to direct his calls to the desk he was using in Lifestyles. By the time he’d returned to it, his line was ringing.
“Jason Wade,
Seattle Mirror.
”
“Vern Gibson at the West Sunshine Shelter. I understand a volunteer gave you Reverend Cull’s cell phone number.”
“Yes, is there a problem?”
“It’s outdated. Here’s the new one.”
Jason wrote it down and dialed immediately.
“Hello?”
“Reverend Cull?”
“Yes, who’s calling please?”
“Jason Wade—” He swallowed and searched for his tape recorder, connected it, turned the machine on. Its red light blinked. “Jason Wade, from the
Seattle Mirror.
”
“This is a bad time. I don’t appreciate your leaving messages everywhere. I’m tied up with something and not in the best position to talk right now.”
“Yes, but you should have the chance to respond on the record to what we’ve learned. It’s very important.”
“Respond to what? I don’t talk to reporters. I don’t trust them. I sensed that you weren’t being sincere about your intentions when you came to my office. I agreed to see you to help Karen. I didn’t like your questions. So I’ll refer you to public affairs, Mr. Wade.”
“Wait! Sir, you’re aware that the police want to talk to you about recent developments surrounding Karen’s case?”
The line hummed. It sounded like Cull was driving.
“Hello? Reverend Cull?”
“I’m aware that they’ve talked to my colleagues about Karen. The police have not yet talked to me because I’ve been out of town traveling. I really have to go.”
“Please, wait, sir, this concerns you directly.”
“Me?”
“Your past. You assaulted your wife, your time at Tumbler in Spokane, the sexual harassment complaint from a student. Aspects of Karen’s and Roxanne Palmer’s cases that you’d be familiar with. I mean you’ve been known to travel the state in an RV helping stranded motorists, and Karen Harding was—”
“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
“You haven’t been ruled out as a suspect, sir.”
“I haven’t—what did you say?”
“We’re running a profile of you because police haven’t ruled you out as a suspect in Karen’s disappearance and the murders of Roxanne Palmer and a young woman whose remains were found in Oregon.”
“Dear Lord. Why? Why are you doing this to me?”
“Sir, where are you now?”
“I’m trying to help someone at the moment. I have to go.”
“Is that your response?”
“Yes, I’ve made mistakes in the past. I’ve acknowledged that. I’m only human. But I’ve paid for my sins and now I help others who’ve made mistakes find their spiritual way. I don’t know what you, or the police, think you know about me, but I’m sure it’s all wrong,” Cull said. “When I’m not teaching, I travel through the Pacific Northwest helping people find their way. I minister. That’s who I am. That’s what I do. I’ve—”
A sudden commotion came from Cull’s end. Like a struggle. Then moaning. A woman. Jason pressed the phone to his ear. Cull was trying to comfort her. Maybe subdue her? Straining to listen, he heard a strange voice pleading.
“No, no, noooooooo.” A young woman.
Cull was trying to calm her.
“It’s all right, dear. Everything’s going to be fine. I’m going to help.”
“No! No! Please!”
“No, you have to lie down,” Cull said.
Then came screams. A woman’s screams.
“Oh God! Please help me! Oh God!”
Cull’s line went dead.
Tiny hairs at the back of Jason’s neck stood up and his scalp tingled.
M
inutes after Cull’s line went dead, Jason Wade and the night editors tried in vain to reconnect.
They alerted police in Seattle, surrounding counties, the Washington State Patrol, and the FBI, who contacted Cull’s service provider. They managed to confirm that Cull was in the state, south-southeast of Seattle. The exact location was unknown and the phone had been turned off.
As his first deadline neared, Jason finished his exclusive. It was lined six columns across the front page under the headline
CALL TO MURDER SUSPECT
, with the subhead
Line dies with woman’s screams.
The story began:
Jason Wade Seattle Mirror
A woman’s screams cut short a cell phone interview last night between the
Mirror
and a Seattle college instructor suspected in the ritual killings of two women and the disappearance of a Seattle college student.
The investigative profile of Gideon Cull ran with huge pictures of Cull shaking hands with the governor, head shots of Roxanne Palmer, Karen Harding, and the blank face of “Jane Doe,” the unidentified victim. A graphic locator map pointed to crime scenes in the Rattlesnake Hills, Sawridge County, and the Lost River region of Oregon.
It was a compelling package and it stared back at Jason from his TV the next morning after he had switched on the local news. Making toast and coffee, he was groggy. He unmuted the sound and was jerked awake when he heard, “…as a result, Gideon Cull is being hailed as a hero, which stands in stark contrast to today’s
Seattle Mirror.
Mac Thomas,
Live Eye News,
at the Puyallup River near Orting.”
Hero? What the hell?
Jason switched channels, catching another local report with footage of a small car being wenched from the Puyallup River. What the hell? Now it cut to a hospital lobby. Cynthia Holmes was being interviewed by
Action First News.
During last night’s thunderstorm the young mother of two was driving alone to her Auburn home from a rural church meeting when she had lost control of her car. It rolled into the river, trapping her. Reverend Gideon Cull of Seattle, who also attended the gathering and was following her, jumped into the water and rescued her. “He’s my savior,” said Cynthia, who suffered shock and a bump to her head. Cull drove her to the hospital as a precaution.
That would account for the screaming during the phone call, Jason thought. Church meeting. Cull would’ve gone to that. Jason glanced at Cull’s face staring from the front page of the
Mirror.
He swallowed hard.
His phone rang.
“Jason, it’s Ben Randolph at the paper. How you doing?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Guess you heard about the shit storm. Look, you got any new numbers for Cull? I can’t reach the guy. Your story implies he was killing a woman and here he was saving her life. Neena Swain has gone ape-shit over what’s happened. Wants the
Mirror
to talk to him again.”
“I don’t have any other numbers than what I left. I’m sorry.”
“Too bad. Anyway, Neena said to pass you a message.”
“What.”
“Get your ass in here as soon as possible.”
No one spoke to Jason when he arrived in the newsroom.
He walked directly to Neena Swain’s vast corner office, overlooking the bay and skyline. She ordered him to sit while she folded her arms and paced around him.
“The bottom line here is your story should never have run. While you reached Cull for comment, your interview was incomplete. You had no grasp of all the facts. It was filled with innuendo and malice, as if you were out to get this man.”
She then counted off her orders. Jason couldn’t call a damned person, couldn’t write a damned word, and for damn sure, couldn’t grant any goddamned interviews to other news organizations writing about the “mother of all screwups” caused by the
Mirror.
He was to help other
Mirror
reporters on the Cull follow, until she decided his fate.
By late afternoon, things had worsened.
Several Seattle news stations were saying that Jason, a junior reporter, had been previously suspended for “questionable behavior.” One radio station reported “an earlier incident in which Wade’s father showed up intoxicated and had threatened the paper’s staff.” Another suggested the pressure of the newspaper’s infamous internship program was to blame.
The governor’s office called the
Mirror
to say its reporting was a “shameful character assassination of a man who embodied the virtues of spiritual self-rehabilitation” and “trampled upon the fundamental judicial cornerstone of innocent until proven guilty.”
Cull’s college said it was aware of his past, stressing that it was long behind him, and the school’s administration praised him as an inspiration for turning his life around. Tumbler River College in Spokane faxed a statement saying the ancient sexual harassment complaint against Cull was never substantiated because the complainant, a troubled young woman, had left the school.
“Guess you stepped in it big time, brewery boy,” Astrid Grant said at Jason’s desk. “TV says he’s hired an attorney to speak for him. You’re so screwed.” She strode away.
Jason looked back to Nestor’s office.
Neena Swain had been in there having an intense conversation with Nestor, Beale, and Mack. It’d been going on for over an hour. The
Mirror
’s board of directors, many of whom had friends in the capitol, wanted someone’s head.
Jason went to the west side of the newsroom to the big windows looking out at Elliott Bay. He loved Seattle. And he loved the
Mirror.
Working at a big metro paper was not easy, but he lived to be part of it. This was his dream. All he ever wanted to be was a news reporter at this paper, writing about this city. The best city in the country. He watched the boats and rushhour traffic as he tried to make sense of the past few hours, days, weeks. Hell, his entire damned sorry life.
A hand touched his shoulder. He turned to face Nestor. The regret Jason saw in his eyes told him immediately.
“Come into my office.”
After closing the door, they both sat at the small, round table. Nestor ran his hands over his tired face.
“Jason, I want you to listen carefully to what I’m telling you. You’re the best of the interns. I swear. It’s why me, Beale, and Mack got behind you on Cull. You blew us away with what you’d dug up on your own. You’re a natural reporter and you have a solid writing style.”
Jason’s stomach quaked. He knew what was coming.
“We weren’t wrong. You did nothing wrong. I swear to God my gut tells me you’re not wrong. The facts are there. Cull’s past is disturbing, violence against his wife, a reputation for touching women. The RV motorist thing. A connection to Karen Harding. He hasn’t been ruled out as a suspect and police investigating two murders and a disappearance want to question him. We have on tape a woman screaming. Those facts were undeniable and we went with them. But circumstances worked against us. Politics have come into play, from the highest office.”
Jason nodded.
“Neena is covering her ass. I’m so sorry, Jason. I have to let you go. You’re done. Effective immediately.”
It felt like a blow to his stomach. Jason closed his eyes for a moment. Opened them and looked out to the newsroom.
“Jason. It’s unfair. It’s wrong. Beale and I tried to get between you and Neena.”
Jason blinked but said nothing.
“Mack, Beale, and I are being suspended for two weeks. Here’s my home and personal cell number if you want to call and talk. Take a few days to think things over.”
Jason was numb when he walked out of the newsroom. He had a vague memory of shaking Nestor’s hand and Astrid Grant wiggled her fingers at him in a little victory wave. What the hell did it matter? What did anything matter? he wondered later, guiding his Falcon along a southbound expressway, taking in the city and trying not to think.
He found himself wheeling into the neighborhood where he grew up. Funny where you go when your heart is broken. His old man wasn’t home. And Jason was feeling too shitty to hang around.
He scrawled a note, wedged it into the door, then left.
On the way to his apartment in Fremont, he stopped near the Aurora Avenue Bridge, got out, and walked along its span. Dusk. Lights twinkled everywhere. He looked at the ships in the locks heading for the canal and the Pacific. Then down at Lake Union. The winds lifted his hair and pushed at him, nudging him. For a long, dark moment he contemplated the unthinkable before cursing and walking back to his car.
There was a slower death.
He picked up four six-packs and went to his empty apartment.
He sat alone in the dark, watching his fish glide in the blue-lit water of his tank. As he drank, he went over everything in his mind.
Accept things as they are.
Resistance is futile.
He was done as a reporter.
There would never be a reporting job for him here, or anywhere. Never. Not after this. Strange, but it kind of completed things. He’d lost his mother. He’d lost Valerie. He’d lost his old man.
And now he’d lost the one thing that kept him going, his dream.
He’d been a fool to think it could ever come true. All along he had been destined to stand alongside his father at the brewery. The failed cop and his son, the failed reporter. He opened another beer and hoisted it to fate.
You win.
He watched his fish, finished his beer, then another. Then another. It was nearly three in the morning when he realized he’d scattered all of his papers, pictures, and research notes from the case around the floor.
Even drunk he couldn’t give it up.
It was here. He swore the answer to Karen Harding’s disappearance was somewhere in here. It had to be.
Jason believed it until he passed out.