[Critique Group 1] Thought I allready sent this

[tuchyner5 at aol.com]

This reads like an adventure mystery novel. 



Very good.  



I don’t know what the document was that  Veronica stomped on.  



There were a few terms that I was notfamiliarwith.




 


Martia sub for December




 



 


(another chapter)



Breaking News



1457 words



 



I arrived five minutes late to the February TownBoard meeting to avoid small talk, but I don’t know why I worried. Most folk intown, especially Robbie and Mr. K, were giving me the cold shoulder. I slippedinto an empty folding chair in the back row and prepared to take notes. Theclerk and the mayor droned on about budget increases required for floodcontrol, road repairs, drainage, bridges…my mind wandered.



 



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



 



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



 



The town’s ancient treasurer adjusted hispapers, his glasses, his tie, and his chair before speaking. Soon, I was backto calculating my options. Worst case, I would be tarred and feathered, strungup by my thumbs, run out of town on rails, ostracized and exiled. If I rockedthe boat again, I would be forced to crawl on nails back to Colorado and huntfor a new job. Like a bone, I chewed on my predicament.



 



When the wall clock indicated 6:55, I slippedout before the meeting adjourned. While bundling up for the outdoors, I duckedinto the police dispatcher’s office to take a cursory look at the dailyblotter. The usual drunk, Mr. Dobey, had been escorted home at 1620. Teenagerspartying on the beach had been urged on at 1840. On a typical night in thesleepy town, not much else would happen before dawn.



 



“Have a good evening,” I zipped my puffy downcoat and turned to exit. No surprise, the matronly dispatcher avoided meetingmy eyes.



 



The night was colder than forecasted. The metalhook at the end of its rope on the empty flag pole clanged in the wind. As Iscurried 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 slicedthe icy air.



 



“Do you know the address police were called outto?”



 



“Called out to? What’s up?” A glance over myshoulder 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 thevoice behind the wheel, Al Murphy, Grand Rapids’ television News reporter.



 



“There’s been a shooting, maybe some kind ofdomestic dispute,” Murphy said. “The call came over the radio about 40 minutesago.”



 



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



 



Before long, the passenger emerged from the TownHall calling, “let’s go.” The news van screeched off as quickly as it hadarrived. At a sprint, I retraced my steps and confronted the croan.



 



“What the hell is going on? Why didn’t you tellme about the emergency call out when I was here?” I banged the counter with afist, a clumsy impersonation of a character from a Perry Mason courtroom.



 



“You didn’t ask,” the woman replied withoutfurther detail.



 



“Give me the address,” I raised my voice. “Youcan’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. Isnapped it back open to the page I had reviewed minutes earlier, noting a newnote had been added.



 



1835 – 9-1-1 call from neighbors - possibleshooting, domestic disturbance at 114 Franklin Place.”



 



I flung the log book across the counter and flewout 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 wereassaulted by television spotlights and police search lights flooding the frontof a house. Like on a movie screen, the chief of police huddled on the porchwith Officer Braun, several firefighters, and EMTs. An ambulance pulled awaywithout lights or siren. Not a good sign, I thought.



 



I heard the chief instruct Robbie, “Make somekind 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 maynot like it, but I have a job to do, just like you.”



 



Officer Braun swiped a palm over his mustache toavoid speaking.



 



“Enough is enough.” I stamped my boot on thesnow-covered sidewalk. The effect was muffled. “I get it, small town pride andall that. Trust me to write a fair story.“



 



Robbie looked at the chief who nodded inagreement. I was steered by an elbow down the driveway. Out of ear shot, Robbieturned 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’tready to release the names of the victims, but just so you know, it’s along-time, well-respected elderly couple with a slew of children andgrandchildren – the Smythe family will be devastated.”



 



I slapped a gloved hand over my mouth and gaggedon my saliva.



 



“It’s rare, but it might have been a mercykilling,” Robbie continued. “Mr. Smythe had Parkinson’s. The couple wasplanning to celebrate their 75th weddinganniversary this weekend.”



 



I clenched my eyes to block the news. Behindtears floated the image of a hand-written anniversary announcement ripped inhalf under Veronica’s heel. Had the Smythes’ tragic ending 




 


I don’t remember this. 




 


been foretold?



 



Whispering, Robbie penetrated the fog of mymemory. “We’ll need time to notify the family. Can you keep the news under wrapuntil Thursday? And ask Mr. K not to put the story on the front page,” headded.



 



“High school sports always take the front page,you know.” I repeated Mr. K’s maxim in reassurance. Catching Robbie’s wearyeyes, I said, “Thanks for trusting me.”



 



“Okay, truce?” Robbie held my hand longer thanexpected 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 riskto 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 thesake of the family, please cut the lights. We’ll keep you informed as theinvestigation proceeds.”



 



The news van backed out of the driveway and Istrutted home. I was tempted to grab my crotch to check if I’d grown balls. Ihad confronted the dispatcher. I’d stood up to Robbie at the crime scene. I’d demandeddue attention before my male colleague. I was anxious to compose my firstbreaking news story.



 



The next morning, Mr. K discovered my lengthyreport front and center on his desk. He lifted a pencil but never lowered itwhile he read the formal obituaries. He thumbed through several photographs ofthe Smythes I’d pulled from the archives.



 



“There’s more?” Under the photos, Mr. Kdiscovered a feature story I’d drafted honoring the couple. Mr. Smythe’snumerous contributions to the community were detailed. Mrs. Smythe’s lifelonglove of family, volunteer service, and crochet were given equal weight. I hopedthe Smythe family as well as the Lake Doe Historical Society would be proud tosave and share the published legacy.



 



Squaring the pages, Mr. Kowalski threw me abroad smile from across his desk. “Way to go, kid,” he said.



 



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



 



# # #



 



 



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