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.