Kill The Story

By John Luciew

A serial killer known as "The Reader" is murdering journalists in the manner of their most famous stories. Dubbed the "Media Murders" by the press, the killings baffle authorities, turn once-aggressive reporters into prey and shock the country in what soon becomes a national story. The cunning killer's first strike is cleverly disguised as a political assassination, mirroring John Hinckley's attempt on Ronald Reagan. As it turns out, the fallen reporter had covered Reagan's shooting. It's the first of several bizarre killings with eerie similarities to sensational stories the murdered journalists once covered. The story is so big, The New York Times assigns its new national reporter, Cassandra "Cassie" Jordan, to cover its every development. The assignment returns Cassie to her familiar stomping grounds of Harrisburg, Pa., reuniting her with Frank "Telly" Tellis, chief political reporter for The Harrisburg Herald. Only Telly can put together the murderous truth as the secret motive for the killings is buried deep in his journalistic past. But can he solve the puzzle before falling under The Reader's deadly crosshairs?

John Luciew, the author of FATAL DEAD LINES, SECRETS OF THE DEAD and ZERO TOLERANCE, once again plumbs the depths of power, politics and the press. The result is pulse-pounding suspense.

FROM THE AUTHOR:

If Hollywood was ever going to make a movie of one of my books, Kill The Story would be the one. It has everything -- a high concept, a deepening mystery rooted in actual events and more off-beat but convincingly real characters than you can count. This is journalism as I saw it -- both from the outside looking in and the inside out. It says nearly everything I have to say about the state of media today -- all without slowing the non-stop action one little bit. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing it.

Journalist John Luciew is the author of numerous ripped-from-the-headlines fictional thrillers that mix politics, corporate power and pulse-pounding suspense, including: KILL THE STORY, ZERO TOLERANCE, SECRETS OF THE DEAD, FATAL DEAD LINES, CORPORATE CUNNING, and coming soon, LAST CASE. His non-fiction titles include the true-crime account, SUSPECT/VICTIM, and the real-life medical thriller, "CATASTROPHIC."

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Luciew
• Release date: Mar 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301743445

John Luciew

BREAKING NEWS!! All five of my full-length mystery/thrillers are coming soon in unabridged audio form. ZERO TOLERANCE and KILL THE STORY are already out for 2013 from Audible.com. SECRETS OF THE DEAD is up for full sound-recording treatment next, followed by FATAL DEAD LINES and my newest mystery, LAST CASE. I hope you will check them out. Some serious voice talent has been brought to bear to turn my best ripped-from-the-headlines page-turners into a can't-stop-listening, white-knuckle audio mystery experiences. Now, a little more about me and my books: Journalist John Luciew is the author of numerous ripped-from-the-headlines fictional thrillers that mix politics, corporate power and pulse-pounding suspense, including: KILL THE STORY, ZERO TOLERANCE, SECRETS OF THE DEAD, FATAL DEAD LINES, CORPORATE CUNNING, and now, LAST CASE. His non-fiction titles include the true-crime account, SUSPECT/VICTIM, and the real-life medical thriller, "CATASTROPHIC." FROM THE AUTHOR: If Hollywood was ever going to make a movie of one of my books, KILL THE STORY would be the one. It has everything -- a high concept, a deepening mystery rooted in actual events and more off-beat but convincingly real characters than you can count. This is journalism as I saw it -- both from the outside looking in and the inside out. It says nearly everything I have to say about the state of media today -- all without slowing the non-stop action one little bit. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing it. Lenny Holcomb, my first literary character, spoke to me in much the same way the dead people of his obituaries speak to him. But after my first book, FATAL DEAD LINES, I found out Lenny and the dead people from his obits had more to say. Much more. SECRETS OF THE DEAD, a specially updated sequel, completes Lenny Holcomb's intriguing saga, finally presenting his incredible story in full. I hope you enjoy it, discovering the many narrative arcs that bridge both books and come to a full and satisfying resolution by the final page. ZERO TOLERANCE Is probably my most unique and unconventional book -- a thriller set in the cloaked, cloistered world of juvenile justice. Namely, a youth reform camp set in the outskirts of Pittsburgh, Pa. It also stands as my most researched novel to date. As a journalist, I spent years covering the Pennsylvania juvenile justice system at a time when the penalties and punishments for young offenders were being ratcheted up. All that authenticity is here -- along with a highly original plot that will have you guessing until the very last page. LAST CASE, my newest thriller, is set in 1978, just as acclaimed horror director George A. Romero is gearing up to shoot his zombie cult classic "Dawn of the Dead" in the Monroeville Mall, just outside Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I was a bit too young back in 1978 to offer my able body as one of Romero's delightfully desiccated corpses in "Dawn of the Dead." But I will never, ever forget watching the Monroeville Mall - a place where I shopped for school clothes and cruised for girls - turned into a splatter-filled shopping fest for the undead. I guess you could say it's haunted me all these years. --jcl, Feb./2013

Book preview

Chapter 1

Telly? That you?

The voice broke through the noise of the protesters. I felt a hand on my shoulder and spun around.

Christ, yes! said a well-barbered man in an expensive-looking cashmere coat. He must have noticed me while maneuvering his way through the throng of journalists. The man’s eyes scanned me up and down. Frank Tellis. How have you been?

I could see by the look on his face that he had answered his own question. I hadn’t been doing all that well, at least according to his custom-tailored standards. He didn’t know the half of it. My herringbone overcoat may have been no match for his cashmere, but these days I was on the comeback trail. He should have seen me before.

Two veterans from the old Capitol gang back in city, eh? said the man. He was middle- aged, virile and energetic. He gave my shoulder a good-natured slap and grinned broadly.

I studied him. His eyes were glassy, his cheeks red from the December chill. His smile was wilting a bit under a meticulously trimmed moustache, no doubt disappointed that I hadn’t recognized him.

The bureau, remember? he prodded. Back in the ‘80s? Course, I was just a rookie then. You were ruling the roost.

A gear turned in my brain and the memory came back. Wayne? I said. "Wayne Dykstra. Sure, I remember. You were working for that piece-of-shit news service. You’d re-write my stuff from the Herald and slap your byline on it."

His face soured. Well, not anymore, he sniffed, then jutted his chin. "I’m the Inquirer’s chief political columnist. Who are you with?"

"The Herald."

Still? Dykstra couldn’t keep the surprise from his face. You’ve been in the bureau all this time? He meant the news bureau inside Pennsylvania’s Capitol building.

Nah, I shrugged off the question as quickly as I could. But it’s good to be back. I feel fresh.

I wasn’t about to elaborate on my resume. I could never let a career-climber like Dykstra know I had spent the last quarter century stuck at the same newspaper. That was the problem with being back on the political beat. I was always bumping into people from my past. Invariably, they had done far better than me, even in our dying industry. It was an ambitious bunch we had in Harrisburg back in the early ‘80s, a collection of journalists now at the pinnacle of the profession. I had long ago stopped keeping track of their career advancements and journalistic exploits. It was too damn depressing.

So, Wayne, tell me. They pay you all that money down in Philly to write any ol’ thing that comes into your head? I mean, they’ll print anything in those columns, won’t they? You don’t even have to bust ass digging up facts. You can just sit there and make shit up, long as it sounds good. Tell me, Wayne, what’s the difference between you and those know-nothing bloggers on the Internet? I couldn’t resist the cheap shot.

Dykstra glowered. I had ruined his walk down memory lane and doused his hopes of receiving my praise for his plumb position.

I don’t just make stuff up. He clipped his words. I formulate well-reasoned arguments. I get people to think. The paper relies upon me for provocative opinion. You’re a journalist, Telly. Surely you realize the value of a vibrant op-ed page?

I smiled. Now, Wayne, you know what part of the anatomy they liken opinions to, don’t you? Guess I’m too much of a newshound, myself. Facts are what I’m about. But you go on and write something well-reasoned about Hollister. Make it real provocative, too. That’s exactly what this debate needs. A little more stimulation. The people here are just too low-key.

I gestured to the boisterous crowd behind us, just as a young effeminate man screamed at a right-winger, Don’t devalue my gay currency!

Another cried out, I love men, not sheep!

To which a woman replied, God loves straight people.

Dykstra pursed his lips and looked down. Well, then, Frank, I guess I’ll leave you to your facts. I need to get up front anyway. The senator should be out any minute.

Dykstra turned, giving me the back of his wonderful coat. As he moved forward, the usually competitive pack of journalists parted as if he were Moses. He smiled and shook hands as even the most jaded reporters radiated respect.

I called out to him. Good luck with your assholes -- I mean, your opinions, Wayne. But he didn’t hear me. The crowd was too loud, too angry.

I watched as Dykstra took his place at the very front of the roped-off press section. He was within spitting distance of the raised, outdoor platform and wooden podium, from which U.S. Sen. Hammond Hollister would be speaking in just a few minutes. It was a prime position for any journalist. Most fitting for a reporter with Dykstra’s impressive resume.

And it’s probably what got him killed.

Chapter 2

The piousness, passion, and pure hatred of America’s gay marriage debate had come to Harrisburg that Saturday. Protesters jammed the city’s Market Square Plaza, which was strung with lights, garland and plastic candy canes for the Christmas season.

The protestors had brought their own, much less joyful decorations. All around me, there were angry signs and hateful banners. Everywhere I looked, arguments raged. The conflicts were as intense as the contradictions.

Two middle-age men were kissing blissfully as an old lady standing nearby clutched a Bible and pronounced eternal damnation upon their souls. Extinguish the devil’s fires in your lustful loins, the old woman commanded, raising a withered hand with evangelical flair. Or burn in the everlasting inferno of hell, ‘cause God hates homos!

Nearby, an obese woman in black leather bellowed, My love deserves the light of day!

To which a mousy guy with a moustache retorted, Homosexuality is a choice. God wants us to be straight.

Across the plaza, a bride and groom, outfitted in tux and tails and flowing white gown, made their way through the chaos. Some in the crowd threw confetti. Some blew bubbles. Others hurled epithets. Upon closer inspection, not only was the groom a he; so was the bride. At least he looked decent in drag.

The dueling protesters had come in honor of Pennsylvania’s junior senator whose reckless remarks to a reporter had made him an enemy of the gay community and a rising star in the Republican Party.

Hammond Hollister had made the offhand suggestion to a reporter that gay sex was the moral equivalent of incest or bestiality. The effect had been the same as a naïve kid sticking his hand into a beehive. Hollister’s comments weren’t a week old, yet they’d been the subject of countless newspaper op-ed columns and numerous vein-popping ideological scream fests on the cable TV talk shows. The gay and lesbian crowd quickly dubbed the senator Holier-Than-Thou Hollister, a slogan that was in no short supply among the sign-carrying protestors crowding the square. One popular chant went like this: Homophobe Hollister, go away. You’re racist, sexist and anti-gay.

But as reviled as Hollister was among this contingent, he was equally beloved by the equally represented throngs who had flocked here to uphold America’s family values. To them, the senator was a saint and his comments were right on the money. Their signs tended to strike themes centering on the defense of marriage and the supposedly well-known fact that God wants us all to be straight. Of course, there were liberal doses of hellfire and brimstone thrown in for good measure.

Prepare to Meet Thy God! declared one placard, complete with imagery of lapping flames. Fornicators Take Heed. God Hates Fags, read another.

This cultural circus had come to town because Hollister had decided to attend a holiday prayer breakfast at the Harrisburg Hilton. The gathering of bacon, eggs and bowed heads was taking place inside the cozy confines of the grand ballroom, while the massive protest was kept at bay outdoors in the mid-December chill. The chanters, sign-holders, and costumed protestors were restricted to an open-air plaza in front of the hotel. Cold winds coming off the Susquehanna River raked the crowd. Yet the freezing weather did nothing to diminish its size or cool the spirited debate.

Unfortunately for me, the media had also been barred from the prayer breakfast. This was done in order to preserve the spiritual integrity of the event. I guess one couldn’t get a clear channel to the Almighty with all those TV cameras and tape recorders around. Either way, I was out in the cold with the rest of them, caught in the angry crossfire over whether two human beings with the same set of sexual equipment ought to be allowed to marry.

I wasn’t happy.

Personally, I believed all those gay and lesbian protesters didn’t know how lucky they were. Up until now, society had spared them from the misery of matrimony and the financial devastation of divorce. They’d been handed a free pass. Given a get-out-of-jail-free card. They couldn’t just accept this kindness and go on their merry way. No, they wanted in on the wonderful world of wedded bliss. Meanwhile, a whole lot of heterosexuals who were married wanted out.

Perhaps Wayne Dykstra should stick that in one of his columns, I thought. But that was just me. And what did I know? I had screwed up my own marriage long ago. As punishment, I’d been dealt a far worse fate. My meddling mother came to stay with me. At the time, she sold the arrangement as temporary, just to see me through the trying trauma of my divorce. Temporary was eleven years and counting.

***

Coldness from the concrete seeped through the leather soles of my wingtips. I plunged my fists into the pockets of my overcoat. Periodically, I’d stamp my feet like a cop on the beat, trying to keep the circulation going. I wondered how some of the protesters in far skimpier outfits could stand it. Some of the more outlandish getups exposed far too much flesh for December. Surely, they’d end up with frostbitten privates.

What I really needed was a little anti-freeze. If only I could slip over to the Pepper Grill for an eye-opener. The dive bar was just around the corner and it always opened early for the morning drinkers.

The temptation was strong, but I resisted. Daytime drinking was one of the many sins that had gotten me into trouble at the paper over the years. There were times, many times, when I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. I’d have been in that bar draining shot glasses of Ouzo. But I was running out of second chances. I was in my late 40s. More of my career, if you could call it that, was behind me than ahead. I had pissed away most of it nursing anger, regret and resentment on a bar stool huddled over a drink.

In the newspaper business, one never knew when the next round of buyouts or layoffs was coming. Then what would I do? God help me, I still loved the job. I loved being a reporter. This could be my list shot for something more. Something bigger.

My former reporting partner, Cassandra Jordan, certainly found something bigger. Cassie left the Herald last year after landing a job at none other than The New York Times. She was young, beautiful and ambitious. I was older, rumpled and burned out. Yet we’d been thrown together by events, and together we had taken down a corrupt governor. For our troubles, Cassie received the spoils in New York. I got my old beat back at the Herald.

These days, Cassie was traveling the country as one of the Times’ national reporters. She was at the beck and call of only the most important news. In journalism, that meant just a few things -- major political scandals, calamitous natural disasters, bizarre sexual situations, big body counts, or any combination of the above.

With Cassie consumed by such lofty tasks, I hadn’t heard from her since she left Harrisburg. I didn’t expect that to change any time soon, though I badly wanted to see her again.

I had no way of knowing that events would bring us together.

See anything you like?

The ridiculous question brought my mind back to the present.

I spun around and sneered, figuring some smart-ass activist was trying to bait the conservative-looking guy in the overcoat.

You trying to be funny? I snapped.

It was an activist, all right. Only he worked for the paper. Herald photographer Wally Greenfield was young and wiry, favoring black T-shirts, baggy jeans, and all manner of tattoos and piercings. His hair was dyed about five different colors. In other words, he fit in perfectly with this crowd.

I meant, do you see anything that would work with the story? Wally corrected himself, as he fiddled with the lens of one of the three cameras he had slung over his shoulders. Anything you want me to take a picture of?

Seen lots of shit, I said. Most of it should never run in a family newspaper. Anyway, you’re the expert, Greenfield. I imagine you already have the shots you like.

Wally grinned, metal piercings flashing from his eyebrows, ears and mouth. Got some good stuff, all right, he said. Hard part’s gonna be editing it down. I mean, it’s a photographer’s field day out there.

Nice to see someone taking pleasure in his work.

Work? Wally said. You mean they pay us for this?

I scowled at him. Just then, another loud flare up among the protesters caught the photographer’s attention. Wally swung around, raised a camera to his face and plunged back into the currents of the crowd.

I turned away and stomped my feet again, resisting the call of alcohol. Maybe there’d be time for a nip later, I told myself. But the main thing now was Hollister and his speech. In his own, outlandish way, Wally had reminded me of this. I needed to stay sharp and regain my edge.

Hollister’s handlers had promised that the senator would address the crowd immediately following the prayer breakfast. That was the story: A lightening rod politician meets his deeply-divided public. Reporters from newspapers and TV stations all across Pennsylvania and beyond had come to cover it. At least thirty journalists, maybe more. All of us assembled in a roped-off section near the hotel’s entrance. Another two-dozen news photographers and TV cameramen were wandering about, capturing the bizarre scene for posterity. Wally had immersed himself somewhere in that sea of humanity in quest of the perfect shot -- a single image depicting all of this madness. Wally was out to beat his competition, and I was out to beat mine.

I’d have to out-write the likes of Wayne Dykstra and some of the other top dogs of journalism who had flocked to Harrisburg. All the big guns were there, including, I was sure, a scribe from the New York Times. Unfortunately, it wasn’t Cassie Jordan.

Damn, I scolded myself, I was still thinking about her. Cassie was preoccupying my mind far too often of late. It would have to stop. I had my responsibilities to the newspaper. That was part of it. But even more daunting, my meddling mother had been scheming to arrange some kind of a fucked-up family reunion. She invited my ex-wife and my estranged daughter back home to Harrisburg for Christmas. In just over a week, I’d meet my granddaughter for the first time.

Slowly but surely, I was getting my life together. I was making a comeback, despite what self-important assholes like Wayne Dykstra might think.

Looking back, perhaps things had been going a little too well. I should have realized that no one lives down his past. It’s inescapable. And it can be deadly.

My own past was a minefield of mistakes and a graveyard of buried secrets -- all of it returning to haunt me.

Chapter 3

The crowd noise reached a crescendo when Hollister appeared. He took the podium, flanked by ministers from the prayer service and members of his adoring staff.

Hammond Hollister had a good smile, and he used it, grinning at all those angry faces. The sound that rolled forth from the demonstrators was a roaring mix of cheers, chants, screams and boos. No words were audible. Instead, the mingling of protests and cheers made a sad, moaning sound – the last gasp of a dying dinosaur.

Hollister nodded as if he understood it all perfectly. He was tall and lanky, like Jimmy Stewart in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, but with a fraction of Stewart’s charm and none of his humanity. Hollister did have an updated version of Stewart’s 1950s image, though, and it worked for him. To his supporters, he was Father Knows Best in a world gone mad. A world where little kids grew up with two mommies or two daddies and the nuclear family was on the endangered species list. Hollister held out hope that the past was still possible.

To his critics, he was just an evil jerk who was playing the role of sex police in the Senate by trying to legislate what could and couldn’t go on behind closed doors among consenting adults. He was a human chastity belt. The anti-Viagra. A guy who truly believed all that shit about choosing one’s sexual orientation and the myth that homosexuals could resist the temptation of being gay if they tried hard enough.

Hollister wasn’t about to speak, not yet. Not with the crowd still roaring. Then a young aide with a haircut identical to the senator’s approached and whispered something in his ear. Hollister turned stage right as someone fiddled with the sound system, endeavoring to jack up the amplifier and boost the volume. Hollister leaned down to the bank of microphones.

Thank you, he said, raising his arms for quiet, or at least a low roar. Thank you all for coming today. I just came from a great prayer service. We prayed for all of you. We prayed for Pennsylvania. And we prayed for this great country of ours.

Protestors were still booing, but overall, the crowd had quieted some. Even Hollister-haters wanted to hear what he had to say. That was the thing about the senator. You never knew what would come out of his mouth next.

I had to give it to Hollister for standing up and facing the firestorm he had created. Some politicians would have tried to maneuver their way out of the controversy by issuing a flurry of cleverly crafted statements and scheduling a few carefully scripted interviews with reporters handpicked for their sympathetic leanings. Not Hollister.

Love is what brings me to Harrisburg today, he proceeded. Love of God. Love of this great country. Love of our fine institutions, like marriage and the family. And love of our fellow man.

I shifted my weight on now-numb feet, silently rebuking myself for standing out in the cold for this drivel.

Some of us see things differently, the senator went on. Some have labeled me intolerant. To which someone in the crowd shouted, You’re a homophobe!

Hollister looked in the direction of the voice. I have no problem with homosexuals, he corrected. I do have a problem with homosexual acts. To say two adults have an absolute right to do anything they want as long as it’s behind closed doors is a slippery slope.

The voice of the opposition was growing louder now. Perhaps some critics came expecting an apology -- one they surely would have hurled back in Hollister’s face. It was becoming increasingly clear they weren’t going to get that satisfaction.

But Hollister was on a roll. His staff had cranked up the sound system, and the senator’s words echoed off of the tall buildings lining Market Street. I raced to scribble them down in my notebook.

Every society throughout history has held marriage as a sacred union between a man and a woman, he said. To do otherwise would be at our great peril. It would lead to the destruction of the American family. And it would hurt children. Children are our future, and they need fathers and mothers. I can’t deny I said what I said. And I will not deny it’s how I feel. But to call me intolerant is wrong. I am a defender of marriage. I’m a protector of the family. And I am looking out for the best interests of our children. That’s something for which I will never apologize.

That last line was fuel for the flames. Chants resumed and the signs waved.

Gay-bashing is not a legitimate public policy, screamed someone from behind me.

Defend marriage, countered another.

Meanwhile, reporters were moving in on Hollister pointing microphones and armed with questions. Wayne Dykstra led the charge. I could see him shouting something and Hollister cupping his ear. But it was too noisy. The crowd had gone crazy. Perfect cover for a politician looking to dodge tough questions.

Hollister raised his palms and shook his head -- the universal sign for, I can’t hear you. It was a page from his mentor’s playbook. Ronald Reagan feigned deafness for eight years, blatantly but genially ignoring the shouting media with a hand to his ear.

Wayne Dykstra wasn’t about to let Hollister off that easy. The reporter moved closer to the podium, straining the rope line. He brought both hands to his mouth to amplify his voice.

Just then, a piece of the wooden podium splintered off. Hollister looked up, his eyes focused on a distant point. Then people around the senator started to scramble. One of Hollister’s aides grabbed for the senator, both of them leaping from the platform.

Others were scattering now, too. I heard something that sounded like a car backfiring in the distance. I saw Wayne Dykstra’s hands fly up.

Then someone slammed into me hard. I lost my balance and went down on the cold, hard concrete. The tumble put a fresh rip in the knee of my best pants. But whoever pushed me had done me a favor. As I lay prone on the ground, I realized what was happening. Some lunatic was taking potshots at the senator.

I was in the middle of a political assassination attempt.

I didn’t hear any more shots, but I wasn’t taking any chances. After all, I hadn’t heard the first shot, the one that put a hole in Hollister’s podium, sending splinters flying. I stayed down and crawled for cover. Meanwhile, the crowd ran in every direction, some bumping into each other accidentally and others knocking people over with force.

I crawled amidst scampering feet, hoping I wouldn’t get trampled. I made it to an outdoor dining area covered by an awning and encircled by a concrete wall. I hugged the wall and peeked back at the scene.

The vast plaza that had been filled to capacity by demonstrators was nearly deserted now. Fallen signs and windblown papers littered the area. City police on duty for crowd control now had their guns drawn. They kept low, their heads on a swivel, looking for suspects. But few people remained. One man crouched behind a tree far too skinny to provide any real cover. A couple of others laid face-down on the concrete, their hands over their heads, either too frightened or too injured to move.

On the periphery, still photographers and TV cameramen panned the scene from their knees. Reporters who had taken refuge inside the hotel lobby peeped from windows. A couple of the more industrious journalists and photographers had fled to the hotel’s second floor for a panoramic view of the plaza.

I looked for Hollister but couldn’t see him anywhere. His staff was gone, too. Later, I learned they had raced him through the hotel lobby, out through the back of the building and into his Chevy Suburban for the ride to safety.

I turned my gaze to the bullet-ripped podium and saw a figure sprawled in front of it. I recognized the overcoat, made of only the finest cashmere. The tan fabric was darkly stained with blood.

It was Wayne Dykstra.

***

I walked in a crouch, staying close to a hotel wall. As I neared the foot of speaking platform, I could see Dykstra lying face-down in a widening pool of his own blood. I screamed out.

Help. We need an ambulance here. Just as I shouted, I heard the wail of sirens growing closer.

I looked up at the buildings that formed the canyon of Market Square. I didn’t see anything suspicious, but I feared everything I saw. Every window was a potential assassin’s perch. The shots could have come from anywhere. I decided to crawl to Wayne anyway.

His blood was already growing thick and tacky on the cold concrete. I called his name, but there was no response. In fact, there was no movement at all. I reached into my pocket for a cloth handkerchief that I hoped was clean.

I didn’t want to move him, but I knew he was losing too much blood. Not knowing if it would do any good, I laid the handkerchief on my palm and gently pressed it to his forehead. It was sodden in seconds. I felt warm, sticky fluid oozing between my fingers. My stomach clenched.

I glanced up as cop cars, ambulances and a SWAT truck converged on the square. Two cops in riot gear wielding assault rifles gave cover as men wheeled a gurney my way.

I raised my free hand and shouted, Hurry! He’s hurt bad!

But I already knew it was too late.

Chapter 4

On most Saturday mornings, the newsroom is like a ghost town. The top editors and reporters and even most of the geeky on-line crew work Monday through Friday. The majority of the thick Sunday newspaper is put to bed by Friday night. Only sports and metro get live news holes on Saturdays, when a second-string crew rolls in at about 3 p.m. to put out the paper.

But by the time I got back to the Herald, the place was a beehive. All the top editors had cancelled Christmas shopping plans, begged off holiday socials and put a hold on dinner arrangements to shepherd the shooting story onto the front page.

The paper had received quick confirmation that both Hollister and his staff were unhurt in the incident. Still, it was a hell of a story. And reinforcements of reporters had been called in to follow the various angles -- the latest on the hunt for a suspect; the reaction in both the conservative and gay communities to the attack on the senator; and, last but not least, the preparation of Wayne Dykstra’s obituary.

All of the basic facts already were posted on the newspaper’s Web site, where corporate types in their infinite wisdom insisted upon giving away all of the newspaper’s content for free. But this amounted to little more than a string of facts. Information without context. I was determined to tell a story, the real story of what happened on the square.

No sooner had I settled in at my desk and City Editor Bill Sharps was upon me.

Jesus, Telly, I thought you’d never get back, he said, relieved. We gotta a lot breaking here. We’re ripping up the front page for the shooting story. This is huge. An assassination attempt right in our back yard.

Just our good luck, I mumbled, deadpan. I didn’t like it when my editor was high on someone else’s misfortune. Sharps was slight and short, and he appeared almost impish, especially when he was salivating and rubbing his hands over death and destruction. There was nothing like a good tragedy to get Sharps’ adrenaline pumping. For the most part, though, he was a good editor and a straight shooter. He merely allowed macabre excitement to get the better of him sometimes.

Woulda gotten here sooner, but the city police didn’t want to release witnesses until the FBI showed up, I said. They’re following the book to the letter on this one. One of the Feds wanted to confiscate Wally’s film. They were harassing the TV guys, too. Luckily, one of my friends on the city force talked the FBI guy down. Wally should be back any minute. I promised we’d give the city cops copies of all the images. I want my cop buddy, Langhorne, to have first dibs.

I get first look, Sharps corrected me. "We pick what we want for the front page, then we talk about what we show the cops. I believe in cooperation and all that, but not if it means losing control of our best images. Next thing you