[Critique Group 1] Marcia's December submission

[Marcia Wick]

(another chapter)

Breaking News

1457 words

 

I arrived five minutes late to the February Town Board meeting to avoid
small talk, but I don't know why I worried. Most folk in town, especially
Robbie and Mr. K, were giving me the cold shoulder. I slipped into an empty
folding chair in the back row and prepared to take notes. The clerk and the
mayor droned on about budget increases required for flood control, road
repairs, drainage, bridges.my mind wandered.

 

What would it cost me to stay in Doe Lake? I could push ahead and do my job
despite the town's silent treatment, as long as Mr. Kowalski didn't fire me
that was. His unspoken repudiation left me with an uneasy sense of security.
Although taciturn, Mr. K had accepted and printed each story I'd written
since publication of my fateful editorial. In an effort to earn back Mr. K's
trust, I was using extra care wording my reports. I remained neutral if not
positive. If necessary, I erred on the side of ambiguity. With chagrin, I
asked myself, was I being cautious, compromising, or giving up? 

 

I tuned in temporarily to the boring board meeting. The mayor was announcing
his intention to present a special plaque to Mr. and Mrs. Smythe for their
upcoming 75th anniversary celebration. Perfect. A special feature on the
well-respected senior citizens was just the right story to get me back into
Mr. K's good graces. I made a note to phone the couple in the morning and
set up an interview.

 

The town's ancient treasurer adjusted his papers, his glasses, his tie, and
his chair before speaking. Soon, I was back to calculating my options. Worst
case, I would be tarred and feathered, strung up by my thumbs, run out of
town on rails, ostracized and exiled. If I rocked the boat again, I would be
forced to crawl on nails back to Colorado and hunt for a new job. Like a
bone, I chewed on my predicament.

 

When the wall clock indicated 6:55, I slipped out before the meeting
adjourned. While bundling up for the outdoors, I ducked into the police
dispatcher's office to take a cursory look at the daily blotter. The usual
drunk, Mr. Dobey, had been escorted home at 1620. Teenagers partying on the
beach had been urged on at 1840. On a typical night in the sleepy town, not
much else would happen before dawn. 

 

"Have a good evening," I zipped my puffy down coat and turned to exit. No
surprise, the matronly dispatcher avoided meeting my eyes.

 

The night was colder than forecasted. The metal hook at the end of its rope
on the empty flag pole clanged in the wind. As I scurried across the parking
lot, a van careened to a stop in front of me. Blinded like a deer in the
headlights, I froze.  A familiar voice sliced the icy air. 

 

"Do you know the address police were called out to?" 

 

"Called out to? What's up?" A glance over my shoulder confirmed that the
town's police cruisers were off site.

 

A passenger exited the van and ran inside, triggering the overhead light.
Illuminated, I recognized the face behind the voice behind the wheel, Al
Murphy, Grand Rapids' television News reporter.

 

"There's been a shooting, maybe some kind of domestic dispute," Murphy said.
"The call came over the radio about 40 minutes ago." 

 

"Forty minutes ago?" That meant the dispatcher hadn't logged the call even
though it must have come in while I was still in the town board meeting,
maybe even before the report about partygoers on the beach. My stomach sank,
the dispatcher's deliberate deception revealed.

 

Before long, the passenger emerged from the Town Hall calling, "let's go."
The news van screeched off as quickly as it had arrived. At a sprint, I
retraced my steps and confronted the croan. 

 

"What the hell is going on? Why didn't you tell me about the emergency call
out when I was here?" I banged the counter with a fist, a clumsy
impersonation of a character from a Perry Mason courtroom.

 

"You didn't ask," the woman replied without further detail.

 

"Give me the address," I raised my voice. "You can't stop me from doing my
job." I had her full attention now.

 

"Oh yes I can, if you don't report the truth." The dispatcher flashed me a
warning look and slammed the blotter closed. I snapped it back open to the
page I had reviewed minutes earlier, noting a new note had been added.

 

1835 - 9-1-1 call from neighbors - possible shooting, domestic disturbance
at 114 Franklin Place."

 

I flung the log book across the counter and flew out of the office.
Fortunately, the address was on my way home. Unfortunately, someone was
having a worse night than me.

 

Turning the corner, my enlarged pupils were assaulted by television
spotlights and police search lights flooding the front of a house. Like on a
movie screen, the chief of police huddled on the porch with Officer Braun,
several firefighters, and EMTs. An ambulance pulled away without lights or
siren. Not a good sign, I thought.

 

I heard the chief instruct Robbie, "Make some kind of comment to the Grand
Rapids TV crew to get them out of here."

 

I intercepted Robbie as he descended the steps. "Please, talk to me first. I
am the town's local reporter, after all. You may not like it, but I have a
job to do, just like you."

 

Officer Braun swiped a palm over his mustache to avoid speaking.

 

"Enough is enough." I stamped my boot on the snow-covered sidewalk. The
effect was muffled. "I get it, small town pride and all that. Trust me to
write a fair story."

 

Robbie looked at the chief who nodded in agreement. I was steered by an
elbow down the driveway. Out of ear shot, Robbie turned his back to the TV
crew and softly spoke

 

"OK, then. It's delicate. We've got two bodies, probably a murder-suicide.
It will take an autopsy to know for sure. We aren't ready to release the
names of the victims, but just so you know, it's a long-time, well-respected
elderly couple with a slew of children and grandchildren - the Smythe family
will be devastated."

 

I slapped a gloved hand over my mouth and gagged on my saliva.

 

"It's rare, but it might have been a mercy killing," Robbie continued. "Mr.
Smythe had Parkinson's. The couple was planning to celebrate their 75th
wedding anniversary this weekend."

 

I clenched my eyes to block the news. Behind tears floated the image of a
hand-written anniversary announcement ripped in half under Veronica's heel.
Had the Smythes' tragic ending been foretold? 

 

Whispering, Robbie penetrated the fog of my memory. "We'll need time to
notify the family. Can you keep the news under wrap until Thursday? And ask
Mr. K not to put the story on the front page," he added.

 

"High school sports always take the front page, you know." I repeated Mr.
K's maxim in reassurance. Catching Robbie's weary eyes, I said, "Thanks for
trusting me." 

 

"Okay, truce?" Robbie held my hand longer than expected for a professional
handshake. "See you soon," he said. 

 

Advancing to the TV crew, Robbie said, "OK, we've got two fatalities, ID
unknown, cause of death unknown. There's no risk to the community. It's most
likely a domestic affair. No arrests are expected. We'll know more when the
medical examiner completes his investigation. For the sake of the family,
please cut the lights. We'll keep you informed as the investigation
proceeds."

 

The news van backed out of the driveway and I strutted home. I was tempted
to grab my crotch to check if I'd grown balls. I had confronted the
dispatcher. I'd stood up to Robbie at the crime scene. I'd demanded due
attention before my male colleague. I was anxious to compose my first
breaking news story.

 

The next morning, Mr. K discovered my lengthy report front and center on his
desk. He lifted a pencil but never lowered it while he read the formal
obituaries. He thumbed through several photographs of the Smythes I'd pulled
from the archives. 

 

"There's more?" Under the photos, Mr. K discovered a feature story I'd
drafted honoring the couple. Mr. Smythe's numerous contributions to the
community were detailed. Mrs. Smythe's lifelong love of family, volunteer
service, and crochet were given equal weight. I hoped the Smythe family as
well as the Lake Doe Historical Society would be proud to save and share the
published legacy.

 

Squaring the pages, Mr. Kowalski threw me a broad smile from across his
desk. "Way to go, kid," he said.

 

I caught the smile like the Hail Mary pass I'd been praying for. I'd done
Coach K proud.

 

# # #

 

 

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