Shooter in the Crosshairs

By Rick Portier

Brock Nicholls screwed up.
When his television career went down in flames on the steps of a Dallas courthouse, it made national news and earned the TV photog a night in lock-up. Now, Brock’s stuck in the place where it all started, Baton Rouge, working for a mental midget like Percy Finch and his "Good News" strategy that has viewers flocking to the competition. If that weren't bad enough, Finch has Brock locked into shooting pet parades for Katie Couric wannabes like Nancy Patrick.
Against his better judgment, Brock drags Nancy to the scene of a fire where he is plunged into the world that originally ignited his passion for this business – a world before cookie-cutter anchors and Barbie doll reporters. There he finds something that has been sorely missing in his life – the first real person he's met in years, Ida Mae Christophe. Miss Ida is sure the man burning the homes in her neighborhood is connected to former Grand Dragon, Raphe Whitney.
Miss Ida has reason to fear, she and the Klan have crossed paths before. And when she sees the arsonist leaving a house just before it goes up in flames, she fears she'll be next.
Brock is sure that, through her eyes, he can tell the story of a neglected corner of the metro wallowing in poverty, crime, and fear. A story so intense, it will catapult him back to the top. In order to do it, he and Nancy will have to find the arsonist hiding in the circle of lighted torches around the burning cross.
Shooter in the Crosshairs is a lightning-fast tale of a guy who lives for the chase and will do whatever it takes to tell the story – including camping out in a crackhouse hoping to catch a glimpse of the arsonist. Along the way, Brock reveals newsroom secrets and rails against everything that is wrong with the business he loves, a business that's cost him every relationship he's ever had.
When he finally comes face-to-face with the man behind the sheet, Brock discovers he has one more demon to exorcise – one from his youth. In order to do that, he'll have to decide between telling the story of a lifetime and sending a murderer to jail.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rick Portier
• Release date: Dec 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466085459

Rick Portier

Sooo, you wanna know about Turd? Well, it's simple . . . I'm a television news photographer who got bored with real stories and started making shit up. First short stories, then a full-blown novel. They're all stories about crusty news veterans who've been on the street too long. They're quick. They're punchy. And they're as gritty as the crews that patrol the mean streets looking for a scoop. Although my main character shares my crappy moniker, he's a sharper shooter and waaaaaay cooler. Since my first night in a newsroom back at KTVE-TV/Monroe, LA in 1989, I've known that telling people's stories was my calling in life. The exhilaration of the controlled chaos and deadline pressure in the newsroom feeds my action jones. The people who welcome guys like me into their lives at the worst possible moments and greatest days ever feed my soul. After more than twenty years behind the camera, I decided to take a crack in front of it . . . or rather, the conditions of the business forced me there. Most of my television stories hang out near the end of the newscast with the water skiing squirrels and the 400-pound watermelons, but that's just fine by me. It's the people I meet every day that are important. Everyone has a story to tell, and it's my job to help them tell it. I ain't got the kind of face you might want staring back at you from the TV screen, but it pays the bills, and no one has called my boss to say I'm scaring their children . . . yet. Fiction is a hobby. I figured, "Hey, how hard can it be? I already make stories out of shit people tell me. With fiction, I can make them do what I want." Boy, was I wrong. Characters have a mind of their own, and getting them to bend to my will is even harder than pinning down a politician. It ain't paying the bills yet, so while you're here, look around. Find something you like and help out my retirement account. (TV don't pay what it used to.) Or, just check out some of my writer and TV friends. They're all good peeps with stories of their own to tell.

Book preview

Chapter 1

On the runway, Nancy Patrick, 13News. The perky reporterette with a sweater full of silicone held her pose for a three count. She puffed a blonde tress out of her face and pouted at me. I think I need one more. Nancy spun on her stiletto heel and made for the back of the stage.

Two decades of shooting television news had come to this: broadcasting from the shallow end of the newscast. Stuck between Chet Graytemple’s goodnight and Wheel of Fortune. Force-feeding fluff to an audience more worried about Vanna’s wardrobe than Tippy the Water Skiing Squirrel.

I zoomed my lens in tight on Nancy’s firm, round ass as it sashayed back up the runway to re-shoot her stand-up for the eleventh time. If I had to work with her, at least I could enjoy the view.

Were she 30 years older, Nancy Patrick could have been the prototype for Don Henley’s bubble-headed bleach-blonde. Every time her pouty lips parted, I half-expected to hear the ocean pouring from her empty head. The relaxing rhythms of crashing waves and sea gulls would have been a welcome change from the high-pitched baby voice she used in conversation.

The VFW hall housing this morning’s trip into inanity, a pet fashion show, was empty. Black and silver streamers hung limp from yellow-stained ceiling; balloons and confetti littered the floor, and the spotlight glistened off a big puddle of Doberman piss near the foot of the stage. All the models were long gone. I was stuck there with her trying to put this story to bed.

Nancy disappeared behind a curtain of silver and black Mylar streamers at the back of the stage for her next dramatic entrance. I reminded myself that I’d been young and eager once. My fellow shooters probably thought the same things about me. It didn’t make it any easier.

Three . . . two . . . one . . . I rolled my eyes as I listened to the wireless lavalier microphone pinned to Nancy’s clingy top. "Three . . . two . . . one . . . Static crackled in my three-dollar ear buds. Nancy was near the limit of the wireless transmitter’s range. Three . . . two . . . one . . . "

She always started three times.

With a purr, Nancy slunk from behind the curtain, first one high-stepping long leg then the other. She snaked the feather boa from around her neck revealing her only television assets framed in the plunging neckline of her top. Mr. Meows, her fat tabby, strode by her side in a matching chartreuse tutu, indifferent to the whole pet fashion scene.

I, on the other hand, suffered through the show . . . again.

Cool cats and pampered pooches aside, this fashion show is about more than just dapper doggies in diamonds . . .

Behind the eyecup of my trusty Panasonic 400, I prayed for a way out. I used to be the Brock Nicholls – the shooter they called the Turdpolisher. The guy who turned ribbon-cuttings into must-see-TV. I was supposed to be at network by now, not floundering in the minors with Katie Couric wannabes.

It should have been no skin off my nose. Nancy was going to drown the story in so much cute, that not even I could rescue it. But as much as I hated shooting it, I had worked my ass off. I had all the angles. Every corner of the room. Tiny kitten feet scampering through my lens. Big, floppy, drooling Bassett Hound tongues. Sad eyes. Twitchy whiskers. Canted framing. Barks, and yips, purrs and meows. Just because it was suck-ass news, didn’t mean it had to suck ass.

Puppies, garden clubs, or exclusive footage of Air Force One crashing into the Vatican, it didn’t matter. When I was behind my viewfinder, I couldn’t help but work to make it the best. My eye found the shot. My camera shouted instructions, and my body carried them out. Seeing any story fall short of what it could be ate at me like a cancer. That’s why working with Miss Southern Belle was such a penance.

There had to be a way out. Out of this story. Out of this television station. Out of this fluff-news hell.

On cue, my pants began to vibrate.

Without taking my eye from the viewfinder, I fished a neon yellow flip-phone from my front pocket and checked the number with my left eye. I didn’t recognize it – not unusual. Only politicians and drug dealers had cell phones when I left this hellhole fifteen years ago; and back then, they were the size of a briefcase. Shooters like me carried pagers.

I had burned every scrap of paper that might remind me of Baton Rouge, Louisiana, the day the moving truck pulled out. Burned most of the bridges, too. I didn’t hate the place or the guys I was leaving behind. Bigger and better things hung just over the horizon. I was headed to the majors, never to return to small-minded, small-market, television. Or so I thought. That courthouse in Dallas really did me in, and I had no one to blame but myself.

I tracked Nancy and Mr. Meows with the lens, racking the focus ring with my right pinky and continuing the slow zoom out with my index finger. Nancy prattled on, oblivious. My left hand flipped the phone open. Yeah, I whispered as not to interrupt Nancy’s peepshow.

Brock, you’re late.

Who is this?

When did you start working for the History Channel?

A smile cracked across my face. Only one person called 13News the History Channel, and he had never steered me wrong. Whaddya got, Mike?

606 Aliquippa Street. Brand X is already here.

Brand X. WXRT News, where I cut my teeth and earned my crappy moniker. Still number one in the market. 13News always ran a close second, if you call a ratings lead of two-and-a-half to one close.

Got it. Thanks. I pocketed the phone, thumbed my Panny’s record button and switched off the on-board mini-fill light.

. . . in their feline finery to raise – Nancy broke her stand-up off mid-sentence. I was pretty sure it was the first time she’d noticed anything. What are you doing?

Sorry sweetheart, your pet parade’s gonna have to wait. I got real news. I clicked my camera free from its perch on the tripod and began collapsing the legs.

But what about my stand-up?

I ignored her.

Percy Finch says I have to have one in every story. I don’t have a good one, yet.

You got what you’re gonna get. I tucked a stray wire into the outer pocket of my shoulder sling backpack and zipped it closed. You and the cat can hang out here if you want. I’m out.

Wait! I’ve got to get my bags. Nancy pirouetted on an open-toed pump and hurried backstage.

I gathered my gear: my slinger full of accessories, camera slung low on a worn suede strap, and my battle-scarred tripod – sounds like a lot, but shooters are part Sherpa – and it wasn’t like Nancy was going to act like a real reporter and offer to carry anything more than her purses.

Gear stowed, I waited behind the wheel of the overly logoed Mobile News Unit 4. My fingers drummed the steering wheel while my mind raced with possibilities: murder, mayhem – a body if I was lucky. The last time I spoke to Mike Harley, he was a peon beat cop with the Baton Rouge Police Department, but a well-connected peon with his eye on a detective’s badge.

The police scanner crackled, and I reached to turn it up. Fire District One. Under control. 11:49 a.m. Notify arson.

Nope. My four-month dry streak held. Probably another abandoned house fire, but it was worth a shot.

I frowned and checked the Explorer’s side mirrors. Where the hell was she? With breaking news, seconds counted. Didn’t she know that? I checked the rearview mirror. Nancy stumbled into the parking lot, Mr. Meows under one arm, her pink Gucci makeup bag under the other. Two more bags spilled at her feet. She tossed back her hair and adjusted her Chanel shades before daintily stooping to scoop up her crap.

Eager or not, she was going to be the death of me.

I watched her juggle two purses, a makeup bag, and Mr. Meows while I considered my fate. It wasn’t that Baton Rouge was a bad place; I just thought I had left it behind. Since then I had tasted success: Phoenix, Minneapolis, Dallas, hop-scotching my way through markets where photographers were gods on my way to a network gig. A doe-eyed diva with a Captain Kirk delivery and no writing skill was not my idea of newsroom nirvana.

I would just have to ride things out here long enough to rebuild my reputation. Consider yourself a teacher, I told myself every morning before work. Teaching her anything had proved impossible. Oh, I had tried. For three and a half months, I had made writing suggestions, showed Nancy how to stand, even tried to soften the edge on her accent. The prima donna whose idea of journalism was Lindsay Lohan’s next trip to rehab was obviously my penance for something I had done to offend the news gods.

Finally, the passenger door swung open, and Nancy climbed in, tutu and all.

It’s about damn time! I revved the engine.

Hold this. Nancy shoved Mr. Meows, in my face.

I swatted and ducked trying to avoid his claws. The cat rides in the back.

Mr. Meows just hissed and perched on the center console daring me to try to move him. Nancy situated her shoulder bag and clutch on the floor between her legs. I had to get my makeup bags.

Who the hell carries three bags of makeup?

I’ve already told you, the big one is hair stuff: flat iron, curling iron, brush, mousse, hair spritz, gel, and Aqua Net. The small one is for touch ups. Lipstick, compact, Kleenex. This pink Gucci bag, she shook the bulging pouch at me, is for everything else. Eyeliner, eye shadow, mascara, more powder –

I stomped the accelerator.

Ooh! Nancy reeled back in her seat as Mobile News Unit 4 belched a cloud of black smoke and laid matching rubber stripes leaving the VFW parking lot. "And I almost forgot: a big bottle of Tylenol for the headache of a cameraman in the driver’s seat. She laid it thick on the cameraman," She knew how I hated that title. Those schlubs with the pedestal cameras in the studio didn’t know a cutaway from a jump cut. Photographer, videojournalist, videographer, VJ: all just high-brow names for what we street people do every day – shoot pictures that tell stories.

Nancy tried staring me down while gauging how bad the insult stung, but playing tough wasn’t in her bag of tricks. I wasn’t biting. You gotta work on your hardass. You look more like you wanna fuck me than smack me.

She rolled her eyes. In your dreams. First, you’d have to shave that scruff off your face. That’s so 1980. And what’s with the crap on the top of your head? I pull better looking hair out of my shower drain. She smiled to herself and sunk back into the passenger’s seat as we hit the interstate. Mr. Meows climbed into her lap. So, you gonna tell me where we’re going, or is it some big secret?

Caught a breaker. Crime scene in Indian Territory. Lose the tutu. It won’t win you any friends in the hood.

Chapter 2

I had never dragged Nancy to Indian Territory. Feature stories didn’t break there. The sprawling neighborhood bore street names like Apache, Comanche, and Sioux -- names that struck fear in the hearts of settlers on their way west. These days, Indian Territory was home to thugs, pimps, and drug dealers who were no less threatening. After dark, cops didn’t enter Indian turf without backup. News crews didn’t go in without cops. I checked my watch, 11:51. We wouldn’t make the Noon show, but I might be able to talk the Early News producer into using in.

If, as I suspected, this were another deliberately set fire, maybe this house would be occupied. At least I’d have teary-eyed homeowners to wrap a story around. If it were only December and they’d lost all their Christmas presents. Morbid, yeah, but it would be my first shot at leaving the shallow end since starting at 13News. It had been too long.

Adrenaline coursed through my body. My hands drummed the steering wheel in rhythm with the worn out Metallica disc in the CD player, and I talked myself down. A case of butterflies on a busy scene always led to short, shaky shots. I had to focus.

At the Wyandotte exit off Interstate 110, we entered another world. Dilapidated houses with boarded windows and overgrown yards lined the streets. Longnecks and liquor bottles littered lawns from one end of Pocahontas Street to the other. I lowered the window and sniffed the damp air.

Eeew, stinky. Nancy fanned her hand in front of her face.

A foul, acrid breeze drifted in from the chemical plants on the river. It blended with the stench of filthy living and decay of the slum. I love the smell of shit in the morning. Smells like . . . news.

Nancy stroked Mr. Meows. And he complains about my clichés. She puckered her lips into a kissy face and put on her baby voice. He needs new material, doesn’t he? The fat cat looked up at her purred.

This could be real news. Not that crap you cover.

You really think so? Her squeal cut my un-pep talk short. She scratched Mr. Meows behind the ears. This might be my big break, Meowsie.

It’s a fire, not a feature.

But if it’s good, do you think Percy Finch will let me do it?

First, this neighborhood will eat you alive. Second, scanner said the fire’s out. I jerked my head toward the windshield, No smoke plume. I took another big sniff. You can’t even smell it. Third – I looked directly into her big doe eyes. Something about the way they sparkled wouldn’t let me stomp out her dream . . . Or was it mine? Look. This is probably gonna be another crackhouse. I just gotta check it out. It’s better if you just stay in the truck. This neighborhood can be dangerous.

Nancy flopped back in her seat and reached for something in one of her makeup bags and ignored me the rest of the way.

A drug dealer in a wife beater and pants baggy enough for three men appeared out of the shadows. Mistaking my shaggy head stretched out the driver’s side window for an addict looking to score, the pusher bobbed his head back and held out his hands palms up – hoodspeak for, I got what you’re looking for.

Not today, Pookie, I answered to no one, returned the head-bob, and moved on.

The houses not abandoned were adorned, window and door, with burglar bars that imprisoned those still living in the city’s oldest slum. I caught a hint of burning wood hanging on the stale funk. We were closing in on the address Mike had given me, but still no telltale plume of gray smoke.

The East Baton Rouge Fire Department prided itself on its Class 1 fire rating – best in the state. The District One firehouse was just a few blocks away. With lights and sirens, a fire truck could make to Indian Territory in less than four minutes. The department obviously had things under control.

Rev was probably already there, too, whipping up the congregation and stirring shit like always.

We rounded the corner in Unit 4. It was exactly what I had expected. Tattooed thugs, hood rats, and residents too poor to leave the Indian streets squawked at police while fire fighters worked to save the long-abandoned structure. Rev stood center stage in an iridescent, royal blue suit straight out of a 1970’s black-sploitation film, not a single Jheri-curled hair out of place.

I parked Unit 4 behind a police cruiser. Hopping out of the driver’s seat, I spun to the back, slung my Panny’s padded strap over my left shoulder, dropped my tripod on top, grabbed my bag and took in the scene.

I leaned into the driver’s side window to bark at Nancy while she lined her lips in the sun visor’s vanity mirror. You stay here. Call the station, and tell them what we’re doing.

Nancy looked away from her makeup-check long enough to sneer back at me. "What are we doing?"

I don’t need this shit. Just call in the fire – Aliquippa and Osceola. Tell ’em we’re on it.

The Panny locked into its place atop my tripod with a click. I tried to block the newsbabe from my mind while I positioned my rig for a wide shot from the corner. Fire engines screen right, charred shack screen left. Hoses filled the bottom half of the screen snaking their way around the back of the house. A shiny blue suit, arms extended like the crucified Son of God stood center screen. Rev was hollering something I couldn’t make out over the roaring engines. I zoomed in tight. A small gold cross on a thin chain bounced off his chest as he preached and cavorted.

To the casual observer, Reverend Isaiah Abraham of the True Believer’s House of Worship was the typical ghetto preacher in search of a flock. To neighbors in Indian Territory, Rev was a community leader, an urgent voice for change in the slow-moving bureaucracy of city hall, protector of the weak, and a perpetual thorn in the side of the country club set.

I chuckled to myself. Go get ’em Rev. Without releasing the camera from the sticks, I shouldered my rig and tromped over hoses and through puddles to the fire line.

Swah-vay, you beat me again, I joked, offering the best-dressed camera jockey in the city my left hand – the universal photog’s greeting. The shooter we called Suavé was neatly pressed and smelling of cologne. He looked more like a reporter than a photographer. Not a hair on the old school shooter’s head dared stray from its place.

Of course he beat me; WXRT always got there first. It was a badge of honor all the guys there wore with pride. At least I did when I was a Brand X’er fifteen years ago. I missed that swagger.

"Brock, cher, how you making it this morning?" The lenslinger from across town greeted me in a fake Cajun accent.

I tried to grimace, but it was hard not to like Suavé. If he hadn’t taken me under his wing, I may have never made it out of here the first time. Not worth a fuck, I yelled over the fire truck’s humming pumpers, but thanks for asking.

You still with Miss Melons?

It’s Nancy. I stared him down. It was one thing for me to rag on Nancy; she was family. But nobody from the outside dissed my reporter, no matter how big a pain she might be. And try to show a little class. I pretended to wipe drool from his chin. You with Young?

Yeah.

Ben Young, WXRT’s up-and-comer. Looks, pipes, and only two years into his career, already writing like he belonged at network. What I could do with a reporter like that.

Suavé eyed Unit 4 at the end of the block. When you gonna get a real reporter?

I’m workin’ on her. I nodded toward the smoldering shack, Anything to it?

Same old shit. Another crack house. Third one in two weeks. They ought to give this guy a medal. Suavé arched an eyebrow at me. Even though he’d been in the game for nearly thirty years, the cynical shooter act didn’t come easy to him.

I turned my lens on the wisps of smoke wafting from the former den of iniquity, leaned into my eyecup, and framed another shot. Behind the lens, the outside world melted away. No noisy fire engines. No competition. No Nancy.

All that mattered was what flickered on that one-inch by one-inch screen. Sure, it was just a burnt crackhouse, but it was news. If fire investigators suspected arson, it could mean Baton Rouge had a serial arsonist on its hands. That would be my hook. Percy Finch would have to pay attention to that.

The knurled rubber of my focus ring felt different on breaking news. Pliable, ready to obey my eye’s command. I eased it counterclockwise and coaxed the smoldering mess into focus. Tendrils of smoke seeped skyward through exposed rafters. Good, but it didn’t tell the story. I pushed my lens past the fire fighters in the yard to the living room window. Yellow fire helmets drifted back and forth through the smoky room.

A bloated LSU sweatshirt loped through my shot. The white guy wearing it seemed out of place in the hood. I pulled my head away from the eyecup. The sweatshirt turned and looked past me. Unwashed hair hung past his shoulders. He wore a blank look on his face that I recognized. I smiled to myself and nodded in his direction. He drifted over to join the crowd of neighborhood thugs.

Next, I trained my lens on the soot-stained soffit. No flames. Not even an ember. I’d have to find something else to sell this to the producers back in the newsroom. Something to make them care.

A tap on the shoulder brought me back from my trance. Suavé nodded then pointed his camera toward the corner. I swung my lens around, ready for action.

Not her.

Half a block away, Nancy bent over the hood of Unit 4 and wiggled out of her tutu. I pulled away from the viewfinder to see a grin stretch across Suavé’s face. Shit. I punched record. If she fell, it would make good fodder for my blooper reel.

She didn’t. I let her walk out of frame.

I watched Suavé follow her up the street. A tight shot on her chest, no doubt.

When I turned back to my lens, there it was. The shot I was looking for. She must have been eighty. Stringy gray hair framed her weathered face the color of café au lait. Deep-set, dark eyes. She wore a lightweight housecoat with a small print – probably blue. I couldn’t tell in the monochromatic viewfinder.

I flipped the 2x telephoto extender on my lens. Her face filled the frame. Work-worn hands rested on her gaunt cheeks. Cavernous eyes. They would tell this story.

Uhhh, Brock? Nancy tapped me on the shoulder.

I refused to take my eye from the shot. I thought I told you to call the station.

"Yeah, well, Percy Finch said