Action News

By Paul Jeschke

A high tech psychopath, addicted to online role playing games, transfers his obsession to real life serial “sexcapades” that employ skill, logic and deception to elude capture.

A San Francisco television reporter, anxious to use the story as a stepping-stone, is caught up in a televised pursuit that leads the nightly newscasts. If she isn’t careful, her liveshot could become a "deadshot."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Jeschke
• Release date: Mar 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458130389

Paul Jeschke

Paul Jeschke is a television reporter, writer and producer who has covered thousands of news stories during his journalism career. His reporting has appeared on TV stations throughout the United States and on the ABC and CNN television networks. As a general assignment reporter based in San Francisco, Paul has covered earthquakes, forest fires, floods, robberies, murders, serial killings and an assortment of unusual, sensational and bizarre news happenings. He is an “adrenaline junkie” who thrives on breaking news stories, quick deadlines and constant updates. He received an Emmy Award from the National Academy of Television Arts and Sciences for a story entitled “Market Street Sniper.” Prior to his television career, Paul Jeschke was a reporter for United Press International. His stories have appeared in major newspapers, including the New York Times, Los Angeles Times, Washington Post, San Francisco Chronicle and hundreds of others. He was a contributor to the book, “Assassination: Robert F. Kennedy.” He is married and lives with his wife, Anne, in Muir Beach, California.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Her brain blanked as if she’d accidentally hit the delete key. Carefully crafted, repeatedly rehearsed words retreated to an inaccessible corner of her mind, a monumental problem for a news reporter whose job was to talk on television.

Vickie Rodriguez struggled to regain control of her thought process. She was scheduled to go live any minute. Panic was unprofessional, unacceptable. She lifted a folded square of paper to eye level, glanced at the script and concentrated on the 36 words that would launch her story. More than 500,000 viewers watched Channel Six Action News and Vickie needed to speak her lines flawlessly.

Though the approaching live shot should be her main focus, Vickie was distracted, even obsessed about the tantalizing offer that News Director Craig Harrison had teased her with during a meeting in his office this morning. A distinct possibility, the news director said about promoting her to anchor. Harrison told Vickie that in order to get the new job, she needed to work harder to appear more relaxed, an oxymoron if she’d ever heard one. How could she relax when one stumble and it was "adios" anchor promotion.

Vickie and cameraman Randy Chamberlain were using the Golden Gate Bridge as a backdrop for the live report. The October sun blazed above the towers of the bridge and raised the ambient temperature at least 20 degrees higher than its meteorological competition, a fog bank that hung offshore waiting to unleash another damp-drizzle attack. Vickie could feel sweat breaking out on her forehead. She took off oversized sunglasses, advanced three steps and bent toward a tripod-mounted video camera set up on the Marina Green, a shoreline park along the lip of the bay. Using the camera’s saucer-sized glass lens as a mirror, she ran a brush through long black hair and blotted perspiration from sand-colored cheeks tinted orange by the late afternoon sun.

Vickie wore an uncomfortably hot blue blazer over a light blue cotton blouse with a white collar. Tailored gray flannel slacks completed the outfit, the required uniform for an Action News reporter. Platform wedge sandals provided extra height for her five feet two inch frame.

The reporter turned away from the camera, faced the sun, and forced her eyes open until the pain was nearly unbearable. She needed to shrink her pupils to accustom them to the fierce blast of light that would illuminate her during the live shot. The sun was behind her, what photographers called back light, and additional high intensity illumination was necessary to highlight her facial features. She couldn’t give into the impulse to protect her eyes by squinting. The scrunched-up look, the news director told her, made her angry and unhappy, not the friendly countenance viewers would welcome into their homes.

It was TV axiom that Barbie Girls made good impressions on 46-inch, high-def screens. Young blondes, natural or beautician-enhanced, got the majority of on-air jobs because executives thought fair complected women had more viewer appeal. For an Hispanic to make it, she had to be extra fastidious about appearance.

Five minutes, Mobile Three, Vickie heard through the IFB, the nearly invisible, hearing aid-like device inserted in her ear canal. She turned to the camera. Ocular overload made everything blurry, but Vickie didn’t really have to see sharply now. Her job was to look into the lens at the appropriate time and speak a few memorized lines.

Hey, what’s going on? a voice intruded. The question apparently came from a curious passerby off to the side whom she could hear, but not see.

Nothing. Really nothing, Vickie answered without turning toward the voice. The distraction was unwelcome. Just using the bay and the bridge as a backdrop for a story about crabs. It was only smart to pretend to curious onlookers that whatever the television crew was doing, it was basically boring. Vickie knew better than to let on that she was about to go live, which is why she let the microphone hang down by her waist and assumed a nonchalant pose as she waited for her cue. She endured live shots almost daily, and fully subscribed to the premise that if something could go wrong, it darn well would. Female reporters were always getting hit on – and worse. A woman colleague was mooned during a live shot in Berkeley and a sports reporter was doused with a pitcher of beer while reporting live at a 49er football celebration.

You’re shorter than I thought, the onlooker said, as if it was his job to offer a personal critique of her stature.

Half a step to your right, Randy ordered, cutting off further conversation with the gawker. The photographer watched picture composition in the viewfinder and needed to make last minute adjustments. The north tower of the bridge looks as if it’s growing out of your head.

Vickie inched sideways. How’s that?

Better. I’ve got the bridge in the background and plenty of bay in between. If that outbound freighter keeps coming, everything should be perfectly framed. Eat your heart out, James Cameron.

From Vickie’s point of view, Randy was just about the finest photographer in the television news business, certainly the best on the Channel Six staff. And the rangy redhead wasn’t hard to look at, either, especially his muscled torso. The two of them worked together infrequently, but she was thrilled when they did. Randy took pride in every assignment, from routine feature stories where picture quality made the difference between an ordinary and award-winning story, to breaking news, where on-the-run news judgment and calm competence under fire were the traits that mattered. Stories always looked better with Randy taking the pictures.

While she waited to go live, Vickie reviewed the brief remarks she’d make when the anchor tossed to her. The crab story was the second segment lead; it followed the first commercial break. She’d put together a pretty good story about how these crabs, newcomers to the Bay, were multiplying rapidly and threatened to crowd out the native Dungeness variety. The invasive crabs had apparently hitchhiked to California in the ballast of a visiting freighter. The interlopers, much smaller than native crab, had practically no meat and the consequences for crab fishermen and gourmets were monumental. About the only thing worse than a scarcity of Dungeness in food-savvy San Francisco would be a sourdough bread shortage.

The bulk of the story was already done—shot, written, edited and put together in an electronic package that was stored in a computer at the station awaiting playback. Vickie’s remaining task was to deliver a few words at the beginning and end of the story. The inscription LIVE would be added electronically to the upper left corner of the screen. High-paid media consultants had convinced news management that there was something magical about live shots, even though the actual live portion of this story would last less than 20 seconds. Vickie thought it was unnecessary and mildly misleading, but television news was essentially show biz and if she wanted to succeed, she had to follow the rules.

Vickie adjusted the volume of her on-the-air audio receiver so she could hear co-anchor Lisa Douglas. Commuter train service was halted south of San Francisco, Lisa reported, because of an accident involving a homeless person.

From what she could hear through the earpiece, the vagrant had fallen asleep on the tracks and was run over by a ten-car train. Miraculously, he survived.

I got a headache, let me tell you, the victim told Action News. About every three or four seconds an axle would come along and crack me upside the head...

You’re up next, Mobile Three, following the break, squawked the director over the system that interrupted air audio. The director’s verbal warning covered up part of the story and she never did find out how the homeless man had managed to survive his railroad run-in.

Thanks, Don, she heard the anchor say. When we return, the story of alien creatures that have Bay Area residents really crabby.

Two minutes later, Vickie got her cue, looked earnestly at the camera and launched into the introduction. This time the words came readily and the delivery was flawless. She used phrases like crab crisis, threatened extinction and potential devastation of a multi-million dollar seafood industry to hype the story and paint a vivid word picture predicated on the worst possible scenario. Doom and gloom, according to the TV journalism creed, always grabbed viewer’s attention. KISS – Keep It Simple, Stupid – was the newsroom credo. Reservations, qualifications and hesitations were deemphasized or edited out.

When the intro was over and the director rolled the prerecorded portion of the story, reporter and cameraman hunched over a portable TV monitor and watched their handiwork unfold. They’d included lots of close-ups of crustaceans flexing claws like spastic space aliens, "sort of like George Lucas’cantina creatures in Star Wars," Randy laughed. Scholarly researchers contributed pithy opinions. Marine biologists had been artfully coerced into stretching their conclusions beyond hard evidence.

Coming back for a tag in ten seconds, Mobile Three, the director said as the video insert neared an end. And then, abruptly: Cue.

The city may get caught in a squeeze as uncomfortable as a finger grabbed by a crab’s pincers, Vickie concluded, looking earnestly into the big round lens. Without crabs, tourists could stop coming to Fisherman’s Wharf and the Wharf, according to surveys, is the city’s biggest tourist attraction. Reporting live from the Marina Green, Vickie Rodriguez, Channel Six Action News.

She stood motionless and attentive for a few seconds to see if Lisa or co-anchor Vince Packard asked a question. Lisa, however, immediately segued into the next story. Action News is learning tonight...

Clear, Mobile Three, the director said via the intercom, signaling that audio and video from the live shot location were now shut down.

And screw you, too, Lisa, Randy muttered. Really appreciate the praise. He looked up from the viewfinder and smiled. I thought we did a great job, even if Lisa didn’t acknowledge it.

Probably tight on time. The pictures were sensational, Randy. Thanks.

My pleasure, he answered, unlatching the camera from the tripod. It’s always fun working with you because you make sure my best pictures get on the air.

Vickie savored the compliment on a personal and professional level. Randy was as much producer as photographer, helping set up the elements that went into a story and guiding reporters through the arduous tasks of writing and editing. Several reporters owed their local Emmy awards to the photographer’s thorough competence and expert follow through. He was probably good enough to nab a job with the network. Nor was there any denying his physical appeal. Randy was redheaded, a freckled, boy next door type with a gym-toned physique that looked great under the form-fitting pocket T-shirt and Levi jeans that were his basic workday wardrobe.

Vickie climbed awkwardly into the passenger door of the news van, hampered by her petite build, the high threshold and her platform shoes. She settled in the front bucket seat and waited patiently as Randy coiled cable and packed it neatly away with the rest of the gear. He was compulsive about the way the equipment was stowed; everything had to be returned to its assigned storage spot so it would be immediately available for a fast breaking news story.

While she waited, Vickie switched her attention to the young people who frequented the waterfront park. What a contrast to the hardscrabble farm town where she’d grown up. Despite today’s heat, Spandex-clad runners jogged along a red dirt path while a group of exercise buffs stretched, chinned and did pull-ups at a nearby par course. A pickup volleyball game attracted a large number of enthusiasts of both sexes. No wonder San Franciscans tended to be in so much better shape than residents of other cities, she mused. When they weren’t marching up and down the city’s steep hills, they were out exercising.

A vibrating cell phone interrupted her mental meanderings. The screen identified the caller as Craig Harrison.

Vickie, you looked great, the news director said.

That’s a real compliment coming from you.

Yeah, but the story sort of sucked.

Her heart raced and sweat forced its way through the makeup on her forehead. Guess I can kiss the anchor job goodbye.

…story is a perfect example of what we were talking about this morning, Harrison continued. That crab story wasn’t really hard news. I’d call it byproduct – okay, sort of interesting, but not the compelling, fast-breaking news that our viewers expect. If you want to be an anchor, you’ve got to toughen your image.

Right, Craig. Got it, she said. What she thought was, "He hasn’t kicked me out of the running yet."

You know my philosophy, Harrison went on, late, live and local. Adopt it as your own and everything will be fine.

Thanks, boss, I appreciate it.

A runner in sweat-soaked T-shirt and bun-hugging shorts slowed down as he jogged past, looked inside and apparently recognized Vickie from her TV appearances. He smiled and waved a greeting.

Harrison like the story? Randy asked, appearing at the open window just as Vickie finished the call.

Not really. He wants me to start covering hard news.

Randy nodded in agreement. Rumor mill says you’re a shoo-in for co-anchor. It was as much a probe as an observation.

Well, first there has to be an opening, Vickie answered a bit disingenuously. As far as I know, Lisa’s still got the job.

According to office scuttlebutt, Lisa Douglas’ hold on the anchor job was tenuous as best. Lisa had shared the anchoring duties at Action News for a dozen years—an eternity in the volatile broadcasting business. She had to be close to 50, almost ancient by TV standards, and even regular Botox injections, plastic surgeries and generous applications of pancake makeup couldn’t cover up lengthening lines and deep wrinkles crisscrossed her face like a Google map.

Newsroom gossip says Lisa’s agent is telling management that she’d entertain a buy-out, Randy said.

If KSFT management was sufficiently unhappy with Lisa to want to pay her to break her contract, there was a good possibility Vickie could become the six o’clock news co-anchor before the year was out.

You’d take the job if it were offered, wouldn’t you? Randy’s green eyes locked on her, waiting for a response.

The answer to the question should have been an automatic and enthusiastic yes. Vickie desperately wanted to prove to family and friends that she’d made the right choice by choosing TV news as a career. There were, however, some negatives. KSFT’s news ratings were in a downward spiral. Formerly the number one rated news station in the Bay Area, Channel Six Action News had fallen out of favor with viewers and was now a weak second. The station might even slip into third place during the next rating period. Station management desperately responded with a series of fast and frequent fixes—a new set, replacement producers, expensive newspaper, billboard, and social network promotional campaigns. Nothing worked to reverse the slide, not even an overly hyped multi-part series on changing sexual morals and provocative Twitter posts written by a publicity department hack, but ascribed to the anchors.

Like the pilot of a plane spinning toward the ground, management grew increasingly desperate, pulling levers and pushing pedals almost randomly, hoping to regain control and avoid disaster. But endless unsettling, heavy-handed meddling only further destabilized the situation and shortened the time remaining to fatal impact.

Anchors were the usual scapegoats for bad ratings. Lisa’s replacement would be under tremendous pressure to win back viewers.

Not wanting to appear overly ambitious, Vickie answered Randy’s question with a lawyer-like dodge. That’s really hypothetical since I haven’t been offered the job.

Despite reservations, Vickie knew she couldn’t resist if the job were offered. She’d be the first Mexican-American female to front a Bay Area newscast, a real coup for the daughter of farm workers who arrived here illegally. But if she didn’t garner bigger ratings in a hurry, it would reflect badly on the entire Hispanic community. And if Vickie were fired and had to slink home … Unthinkable.

While Randy stored the last of the gear, Vickie forced herself to think positively and fantasized about seeing her face beaming from billboards and bus ads.

Mobile Three, give the desk a call on the hotline, the two-way radio blared. Radio communications between the assignment desk and crews in the field were routinely monitored by competing news operations, so important business was frequently conducted by the much more private cell phone.

Vickie punched the direct dial button, a private newsroom number for the exclusive use of news crews.

Start heading to Golden Gate Park – western end, out toward the beach, a breathless assignment editor ordered as soon as she identified herself. Cops are calling for the coroner and a homicide investigator. Need you and Randy to check it out.

Vickie was of two minds. The murder could be a good story, but she’d been up at the crack of dawn to work on the crab piece. She was exhausted and now the desk wanted to squeeze out another assignment. She really wanted to go home, fix a quick bite and watch Desmasiado Corazon, a Mexican soap opera she recorded daily from the Spanish language channel.

Can’t one of the night crews do it? she asked.

Mobile Five’s in Oakland on an armored car robbery and Mobile Seven’s got a working apartment fire on Potrero Hill, possible injuries, the desk assistant answered. You’re our closest crew.

Vickie knew argument was futile. Even if she could talk her way out of the story, she’s risk looking lazy and uncooperative. While the desk was supposed to be reasonable about working hours, news was a 24/7 operation. Crews could strategize and attempt to dissuade, but ultimately the assignment editor was a news crew’s puppet master. So better to get with the plan and hope the story turned into a decent yarn that could further her career.

Got a better fix on the location? she asked.

John F. Kennedy Drive, near the soccer field. Call the producer with a heads up when you get more.

Vickie turned to Randy and explained the situation.

Terrific, he beamed. You said Harrison wanted you to cover hard news. So here we go. Murders and home invasion robberies almost always lead the show. Anyway, it’s overtime for me.

Evening commute traffic heading toward the bridge was bumper-to-bumper, hopelessly snarled. Hold on, Randy advised, risking a ticket by bumping over the curb onto the wide sidewalk for half a block before reverting to the street and a twisty route through the Presidio, the former army base on the western edge of Golden Gate Park.

Once inside the park, they found the crime scene easily. Two squad cars blocked John F. Kennedy drive adjacent to the soccer fields. Red and blue roof lights pulsated like an illuminated tattoo. Powerful spotlights, augmented by police flashlights, pointed at a dense clump of vegetation.

End of the line for us, Randy said, swinging out of the van and shouldering his camera.

Grab some quick scene setters and I’ll see if I can find somebody who knows what’s going on, Vickie answered. She jumped out the passenger door and felt her ankle start to twist in her unsupportive platform shoes. She ignored the pain and hobbled toward the cluster of lights. She hadn’t exactly volunteered for this assignment but now her reporter instinct was revved up full throttle. Golden Gate Park was the where, but the other four basic journalistic questions –who, what, when and why—remained unanswered. Her job was to get the story.

* * * *

CHAPTER TWO

The squat, puffy-faced man grabbed a beer from the fridge and headed to an office carved out in the rear of an attached garage. Will Rabin heaved himself into a black mesh chair, adjusted his glasses and peered at a 17-inch flat panel computer monitor. He was agitated and could barely concentrate on the computer game unfolding on the screen.

Images from last night’s sexcapade flooded his consciousness and blasted fresh adrenaline into his already stressed body. What a ride! Will shuddered with pleasure as he remembered penetrating the woman. She’d shifted her ass trying to get away, only intensifying his pleasure. Even better was how she’d stiffened when he plunged the knife into her chest. Wouldn’t it be something if I could time it so I could kill and come at the same time?

The tingling sensation reminded Will of the new toy FedEx delivered a few hours ago. He reached into the back of the bottom desk drawer and from a box filled with foam peanuts, removed what looked like an ordinary cell phone. The cleverly disguised device was actually a stun gun, powerful enough, the manufacturer claimed, to immobilize an attacker in three seconds. Obtaining the weapon was a piece of cake. Stun guns were perfectly legal in California. He just filled out an order form on the Internet.

Will put the weapon down and studied the printed instruction guide. Stun guns work, the user’s guide said, a little like radio jamming, interfering with and overwhelming the body’s neural network. When the weapon was activated and pressed against the target, electrical impulses blocked communication between muscles and brain. Stun gun victims were too weak to move, confused, unbalanced and partially paralyzed.

Will fondled himself through his pants and started to get hard.

Following the guide’s directions, he inserted a nine-volt battery. When he pressed the activation button, blue bolts arced repeatedly between prongs on the business end of the weapon. The stun gun delivered 180,000 volts of electricity, a debilitating, but non-lethal dose. The manufacturer claimed the current could penetrate several layers of clothing. Fine in theory, Will thought, but he really needed to test its performance.

He went to the door and whistled. Boomer, his son’s beagle, bounded in from the backyard. The dog never sensed danger. Will pressed the device to Boomer’s back, triggered it and watched intently as the animal stiffened, trembled violently and dropped to the ground. He waited to see how long it would take the dog to recover. The answer, he discovered, was about three minutes.

Will gave Boomer a scratch behind the ears. Sorry about that, buddy, but no pain, no gain.

He returned the weapon to the drawer.

An electronic ping summoned him back to Warrior World, the interactive game he’d been playing on a sophisticated, fully loaded PC. His avatar, Thorg, had, at his keyboarded instructions, joined a group of player-controlled characters attacking a swarm of computer-generated spiders. The arthropods lived in a damp, dark cave and protected valuable treasure hidden in an inner chamber. A dozen hissing spiders rappelled down silk strands and advanced on the invaders. Just one spider bite was fatal.

You obsessing on that game again? asked a moon-faced woman in her late 30’s. Will’s wife, Sheri, stood in the office doorway carrying a pile of laundry. They should call it ‘Crack World’ you’re so addicted to it.

Hey, give me a break, dammit, Will snapped without looking away from the screen. I had a hard day and I don’t need this shit.

Sheri tried to mollify him. It’s just that I miss you. Come on to bed. We can, ah, at least cuddle.

Will felt his face flush at an apparent reference, however indirect, to his recent lack of sexual interest in his wife. Look, I’m exhausted. Too stressed and need to unwind. Besides, I’ve got some business problems to think about. See you in an hour or so.

Okay, Will. You can wake me if you’d like.

He grunted, dismissed her with a wave of his arm and turned back to the game.

To Will’s surprise, Arrowsmite, an avatar controlled by a relatively inexperienced player, got lucky and shot a fatal arrow into the fiercest spider. The enemy collapsed into a vanishing jumble of pixels.

The group quickly overwhelmed the remaining creatures. Before they could savor victory, however, Will used Thorg’s spell-casting power to disable Arrowsmite and grab his bow and a stockpile of poison-tipped arrows. With these additions to his weapon arsenal, he was even more powerful.

Thorg’s a traitor! an incensed player messaged in the chat window at the bottom of the screen.

Will laughed and caused Thorg to do a victory dance before hitching a ride and escaping on the back of a bat.

He glanced at the clock on the computer taskbar. Still ten minutes before the late television news and his highly anticipated moment of fame. He’d always been treated as an invisible, unimportant person, someone to be ignored. Now he’d done something that would grab everyone’s attention.

He signed out of Warrior World and checked out a couple of new Internet game sites. Particularly intriguing was Mytholotron, recently released in beta, which claimed it had no taboos. Rape and pillage were not only possible, they were encouraged. The guide even warned about the dangers of virtual STDs and pregnancy.

Fun, but it couldn’t possibly be more exciting than getting laid in the park.

Will put the computer to sleep and turned on the TV, using the remote to toggle through the channels.

The three network stations with eleven o’clock newscasts were in pre-show commercial breaks. Sandwiched between spots for hemorrhoid treatment and erectile dysfunction medication were teases, snippets of hyped-up headlines designed to keep viewers from changing channels or hitting the off button.

A million dollars in his hand and a bullet in his heart, proclaimed one anchorman. We’ll have a live report. Brief flashes of video showed a chalk outline and shell casings in front of an armored car. And the body in the bushes in Golden Gate Park.

Not the top story, but my sexcapade at least made it into the headlines. Shit, this is going to be great.

All three newscasts led with the armored car heist, a story tailor-made for TV. A team of bad guys hit a courier as he was unloading cash to stock an ATM terminal. They’d grabbed what police estimated at close to a million dollars and got away in a blaze of automatic weapon gunfire. Police gave chase and forced the getaway car off the freeway near the Bay Bridge toll plaza.

Stupid bastards. The dumb fucks should have known those money sacks contain location tracking transponders.

As the anchorman introduced a story on security around sidewalk ATM’s, Will flipped to Channel Six where the anchorman had already started the introduction to the story about the Golden Gate Park murder.

...vestigation and how a lost dog led to the grizzly discovery is what he heard. Action News reporter Vickie Rodriguez has more in this live report from Golden Gate Park.

The picture switched to an attractive woman in a blazer standing in front of a yellow crime scene tape emblazoned SFPD Crime Scene Do Not Cross.

Will’s eyes riveted on the screen. His balls tingled.

The reporter launched into her narrative. Police say the body of the unidentified woman was discovered by a dog walker whose pet found the corpse lying in dense brush. While she talked, the video showed distant shots of police walking back and forth to an area that was out of camera range. Will leaned forward to study the detail.

While police aren’t saying much officially, the reporter said, we have learned from informed sources that the victim was apparently stabbed numerous times and left to bleed to death.

Will grunted and unfastened his belt. He fumbled with the zipper of his fly and missed the next few words.

… know when the murder occurred, but it was apparently some time in the last 24 hours. The coroner’s wagon is still here and the body had not yet been removed.

Will raised his ass and slid his pants down. He was hard as a rock.

It’s standard police procedure in cases like this for the body of the victim to remain where it was found until police finish collecting evidence, the reporter said.

The picture shifted to thick brush. "This part of the park is frequently used by homeless people who set up camp and sleep in the bushes. Police think there may