Excerpt of A Case of Volatile Deeds by W.S. Gager

The police scanner next to my computer screen squawked tones that dispatched the Grand River Fire Department. Late Friday afternoon wasn’t the usual time for me to be at my desk but I was trying to write some sappy features for the weekend edition. I wanted the evening off for a hot date. In the newspaper business these days, the mantra is: do more with less. While feature writing didn’t galvanize my creativity, I could string some adjectives together that weren’t half bad, if I do say so myself. The newspaper business was changing and I needed to appear to toe the line and be more versatile in the tough economic times or I would be the next good reporter collecting unemployment like several of my former colleagues. When the tones continued calling a second station and then a third, I reached for my jacket. Fluffy features were fine but I was a crime beat reporter and fires were big news. My adrenaline kicked in as I snagged the long-thin notebook and shoved a pen in its spine across the top. The tools of my trade slipped into the back pocket of my jeans. I paused and waited for the dispatcher to announce more information to tell me where this monster fire was, if it needed three stations. Instead, another set of tones sounded. The honking noise didn’t finish until five stations had been called—a record in my years at the Grand River Journal. My nerves tingled and I felt in my pocket for other essentials. Cell phone, check. Camera, got it. I grabbed another empty notebook and put it inside my leather jacket. “Explosion. Fifth and Division. Unknown casualties.” The nasal sound clipped out its sharp message telling me this was no ordinary dispatch but was akin to a nuclear disaster. “Shit.” The excitement of a major story momentarily made me forget the reason I was stuck in the office on a Friday afternoon struggling to find the right flowery language. My date. “Is the building stable, is it safe?” Agitation clear in the voice that responded to the missive. “Unknown.” The dispatcher’s voice stressed. The noise sent shivers up my spine as I realized my ear was next to the speaker. I couldn’t delay. Shades of the World Trade Center towers video flashed through my mind. In Grand River? The second largest city in Michigan? I sprinted to the bank of windows to join a weekend reporter, copy editor and night editor. Most other reporters had hit the road for their weekend off. A huge plume of smoke filled the sky. My dinner date forgotten. I had to move. The story of the century was unfolding if this was terrorism in Grand River. Even if it was accidental, this was a national news story and needed to carry the Mitch Malone byline. I snapped a quick photo out the window. I would love to give the photo department a heads up but knew the story was evolving without me and I didn’t have time. The editors would send someone when they quit gawking. The location was about twelve blocks due south and a vehicle wouldn’t do me any good. “Malone, we need to coordinate coverage.” I heard the editor yell but I never slowed down. I didn’t work with anyone. I flew down the escalator, barely hitting the moving steps and out onto the sidewalk in front of the two-story building that commanded respect on one of the busiest corners in the city. I jogged the twelve blocks, arriving out of breath, cursing my diet of doughnuts but getting a good handle on the chaos from the visage on the way in. Glass littered the street below the building as people rushed from the scene fleeing in terror. After 9-11, no one trusted a building to stay standing anymore. Fire trucks established a ring around the building at the end of each block. The fire fighters had learned too. I looked up. Smoke and small pieces of debris still rained down but the dense cloud from New York’s disaster wasn’t apparent. Then again it took several minutes for those buildings to come down. Police officers and firefighters helped people exit but not a single emergency professional looked in a rush to tackle the building. Each wondered if it would be the last they would enter. I felt no such hesitation. While the professionals plotted their attack, assisted people leaving, and probed the building for stability, no one paid attention to me. All efforts focused on evacuation, not a reporter sneaking in. I thought about my own mortality. Only my date would miss my presence. I had no one to leave behind. Oh sure, a few friends would toast my accomplishments over brews and maybe a couple would say nice things over my coffin but no one that really mattered.