Chapter 1
Kris
Langley stared at the bright newsprint lit up on the
microfilm reader.
The top headline leaped off page one. “Missing Barmaid
Murdered.”
She squinted over the story of Diana Ferguson, a young
woman found bludgeoned
to death in the woods. In little over a week, it would be
the
twenty-fifth anniversary. A quarter of a century ago,
Diana must've
dressed and driven out as always. An evening like any
other.
By the end of the night, she was dead, her life
extinguished like the
other victims on fate's hit list.
Most
people had forgotten Diana by now. In the black and white
yearbook
photograph, she didn't smile. Straight dark hair
curtained her
serious oval face. Diana had her arms crossed on a table,
slender
fingers too delicate to protect her from a killer.
Kris
flipped to a blank page in her notebook, scribbled “Diana
Ferguson”
and stopped writing. Resurrecting the tragedy in her “25
and
50 Years Ago Today” column would catch readers’ attention,
but it
seemed inappropriate.
She
jumped as Dex Wagner, the seventy-year-old editor-in-chief
of the
Fremont Daily News, slapped a rolled-up newspaper
against someone’s
desk. “Jacqueline, why the hell didn’t we have this
theater
group feature? The Fremont Community Players are in our
own backyard.”
Suppressing
a grin, Kris swung around in her seat. She could use a
distraction
right about now. Dex waved the competition paper in the
air, red
circles and slashes marking half the page. In her three
weeks
as editorial assistant, Kris had enjoyed Dex’s tantrums.
So
far, none had been directed at her.
Managing
Editor Jacqueline McCormack tossed back her blonde
ponytail, gathered
in a tan fabric scrunchie. She owned a world class
selection of
ponytail holders that complemented her designer wardrobe.
Kris
couldn't help thinking of her as a thirty-five-year-old
cheerleader.
Corporate Barbie.
“We
ran a story last week in our entertainment section,”
Jacqueline said.
“They got the idea from us. Gosh, Dex, are you trying to
blind
me with that underlining?”
Dex
paced to the oak bookshelves and back to Jacqueline's
neat desk.
His stomach bulged under a rumpled gray suit and his wrists
hung out
of jacket sleeves a couple inches too short. “I think we
missed
it.”
“Trust
me,” Jacqueline said. “I put a headline on it myself.
You do read beyond the front, don’t you, Dex?”
Grumbling
under his breath, Dex opened The
Greater Remington Mirror, a large daily that covered
the ten towns
in their readership area and more. Kris saw another
column
ballooned in red marker.
He
pressed his index finger against the lead paragraph, his
penguin-patterned
tie flapping as he stooped forward. “What about the
stabbing
of that Miles kid? We should be talking to his family and
we haven't
even contacted them. For Christ's sake, do I have to
keep track
of everything?”
“Relax,
I'm working on that,” Bruce Patrick, the police and
court reporter,
said from the doorway. He swaggered over and hopped onto
the edge
of Jacqueline's desk.
“I
just got off the phone,” he said. “The parents are basket
cases, but the siblings said I could come by tonight. And
it's
an exclusive.”
A 19-year-old college student had murdered his classmate,
Scott Miles,
in a fight that went too far. Kris had edited the obit,
stomach
queasy as she cut “beloved son and brother” out of the
text.
Dex insisted such phrases only belonged in paid death
notices.
Unlike
the Diana Ferguson case, there was no mystery to this
homicide.
Many young people had witnessed the brawl, which started
over a girl.
It had lingered in her memory, though, a teenage boy who
went to a party
and left dead in an ambulance. Another individual singled
out
by fate, never suspecting he had no future. He picked the
wrong girl.
For that, he died.
Kris
shuddered despite the heat in the newsroom. The family
members
must feel like their world had spun out of control. She
remembered
the grieving process well: walking around as if in warm
Jell-O, arms
and legs heavy, head difficult to hold up, and crying until
numbness
froze the tears. Forgetting had disturbed her the most,
slipping
away into the calm relief of sleep, then jolting awake in
cold horror.
Jacqueline's
ponytail bounced in glee. “They'll talk?” She turned
to Bruce. “Terrific. Have you assigned a photographer?”
Bruce
rested his notebook on his thigh. “You bet. I didn't
mention
the photos, but once we're there, I'm sure
they'll go along with it.”
“Get
two or three color shots for the front,” Jacqueline said, a
lilt in
her voice.
Kris
abandoned her quiet corner of the newsroom and strode over
to the group.
Bruce and Jacqueline had never suffered tragedy in their
lives, or they
wouldn't act so blasé.
No
one noticed Kris’s presence. She spoke quickly, before she
lost
her nerve. “I know you want a good story, but have a
little
sympathy. Sending a photographer unannounced would be
taking advantage
of these poor people.”
Her
co-workers regarded her with blank expressions.
“Why?”
Bruce asked. “The kids are of age. It’s not like we’re
exploiting pre-schoolers.”
“If
they're inviting a reporter into their home, they
should realize we
intend to play up the story,” Jacqueline said.
“They'll
be emotional,” Kris said. “A photographer will make them
feel
worse. The least you could do is prepare them.”
Jacqueline
folded her arms, covering a horizontal row of gold buttons
on her biscuit-colored
blazer. “I'm sure they expect it, but Bruce was smart
in setting
it up this way. If they have doubts, they'll be more
likely to
say yes once our staff has had a chance to develop a
rapport.
If the pictures bother them, the family can always
decline.”
“They'll
feel pressured,” Kris said. “They have enough to deal with
right
now. You’ve got your exclusive. Why can't you just
run
photos of the boy who died?”
“Kris,
this is our job, not yours.” Coldness had replaced
Jacqueline's
lilt. “This paper tells it like it is. If you can't
accept
that, then maybe you shouldn't work in a newsroom.”
“Maybe
you should treat your sources like human beings.”
“Why
don't you stay out of things that don't concern
you? As I recall,
you have no news experience. I'm not even sure why you
were hired
in the first place.” Jacqueline glared at Dex.
They
all knew the answer to that. The previous editorial
assistant
had quit on Jacqueline's vacation. Dex grew impatient
and placed
a classified ad. Kris admitted she preferred the dreaded
four-to-midnight
shift, and he hired her on the spot. His judgment
wasn't good
enough for Jacqueline, who had reminded him of the three-
month probation
for all employees.
Dex's
shaggy salt and pepper eyebrows curled downward. “Kris
does fine. She's bright and talented. Give her a
chance to learn.”
He glowered at Bruce. “Next time you're working on a
hot story,
check with me.”
He
stalked to his desk, leaving the others gaping after him.
Her neck and
shoulder muscles tense, Kris released a deep breath. She
needed
this job. Like it or not, she was stuck working with
Barbie.
“Sorry if I offended you, Jacqueline. I just wanted to
give
you another perspective.”
Jacqueline
ignored her and gestured to Bruce. “Come on, let's
discuss tomorrow's
budget.”
He
snapped to attention and followed her into the conference
room.
Jacqueline carried herself with the posture of a model, her
back straight
and an upward tilt to her chin. Jacqueline and her
budget.
Kris had once asked Dex if the paper was in okay shape,
money-wise.
She’d assumed Jacqueline was obsessed with the editorial
department’s
finances. Dex just laughed and said, “That’s news lingo
for
story line-up.”
As
others in the newsroom headed out, Kris drifted back to the
microfilm
machine and her research. Her editors demanded eight
historical facts
per issue. Dex told her to play up light local fluff as
people liked
seeing their names in print, while Jacqueline said to
emphasize hard
news. Kris found herself trying to please them both.
At
first, she had enjoyed exploring the older editions. Fifty
years
ago, chunky blocks of type took up the front page. Most
articles
came over the wire and staff-written pieces had no
bylines. Dex
had explained how reporters worked for “the paper” in those
days,
not for the recognition. But now if Kris spent too much
time on
the machine, the scrolling of the film gave her motion
sickness.
The focus lever didn't work right, so she'd press
her finger over the
tape, holding it in place.
Frowning,
Kris stared at the bold black headline splashed above the
subhead “Body
Found In Fremont State Woods.” For the second time, she
skimmed
the article about Diana Ferguson.