Bobbing for Bodies

By Mickey Scheuring

Bobbing F or Bodies By Mickey Scheuring

Who is guilty of murder at Philips Pharmaceuticals, the towns biggest employer?

What is the terrifying agenda there?

Where is the contamination in the companys products coming from?

When is the executive staff of the beleaguered company going to wake up and take some action?

Who, What, Where, When. These are the four most important ingredients of a news story, and Eddie Riley, cub reporter at the Town Telegraph, is determined to answer all these questions. The towns livelihood and his sisters life depend on it. Luckily, Ed has a gutsy group of assistants in his investigation: Rose Philips, the surprising octogenarian who owns Philips; Bruno, the muscle-man who lives downstairs from Eddie; Peggy, an irritant to her little brother, Ed, but indispensable; and a four legged friend, Rex, who knows exactly when to use his teeth. Unluckily, the bad guys will eliminate anyone in their way; age, sex, gender, or species are all disposable.

As Ed plunges into the case, he risks everything to answer those four critical questions and learns that age is only a number, siblings arent so bad, and old fears faced are old fears conquered.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 8, 2004
• ISBN: 9781418408091

Mickey Scheuring

Mickey Scheuring, born and raised in Chenango County, New York, received her college degree at State University of New York at Delhi in the Animal Science program. In the past she has worked as a lab technician in a variety of laboratories. She is an ongoing student of writing at a local college in the Pittsburgh, Pa. area where she resides with her husband. Mickey expanded into the writing field with the Eddie Riley mystery series. She finds the escape into the world of her hero Eddie, the brash and reckless young newsman, a refreshing alternative to her daily life and whole lot of fun. The first two books in the series, “Lead A Dead Horse To Water” and “Bobbing For Bodies” are only the beginning of the adventures we’ll be sharing with Mickey and her hero, Eddie Riley.

Book preview

Chapter 1

See the man, Code three, ten-fifty-five. All cars report to Phillips Pharmaceuticals. The dispatcher’s voice crackled like cellophane over the police band radio and Eddie Riley sprang out of bed. Code three, he knew, meant a major emergency, and a ten-fifty-five was a call for the coroner. Phillips Pharmaceuticals, or the pill factory, as it was commonly called, was the largest employer in Portledge, Ed’s small hometown. It churned out generic pills, potions, and lotions that were shipped worldwide. Ed checked his clock, two fifty-three a.m. Moments later, dressed in clothes snatched from the floor, he bolted from his apartment and down the steps to his car.

Ed Riley, twenty-one, tall, slim, and perpetually tan, had recently graduated from Penn State University with a major in journalism and was now the youngest reporter on the Town Telegraph, Portledge’s small daily paper. His energetic enthusiasm at newsgathering often caused him problems. One time, he reported a car basking in the moonlight in the middle of the high school football field. Donald Wilson, Portledge’s Chief of Police, found his own daughter, naked, and busy in the back seat with a real loser. Unfortunately, Ed was at his elbow during the Chief’s discovery. A couple months later he was tangled in everything from a corpse in his car trunk to a murdered town deputy. Over a relatively short period of time, his reporting efforts garnered an impressive list of people who either loved or hated him. Sometimes, it was a little bit of both depending on the story he was chasing at the time.

Ed, bombing through town in his primer-splotched car, squealed to a halt in front of Phillips, leaped out, and caromed up the steps. Officer Porky Pollard, Portledge’s most sizable police deputy, stopped him. The cop reminded Ed of a buffalo in uniform.

Cool your jets, Riley. Pollard stepped in Ed’s path. This business ain’t open to the public this time of night.

Oh, c’mon Pollard, something big is cooking in there and the public needs to know. Ed slipped past him like an eel. He yanked on the locked doors, and then peered through the glass, his nose pressed flat on the pane. All he could see was the reception area. The dim light revealed a deep green leather sofa flanked by mahogany end tables, each bearing massive brass lamps. They were accompanied by a matching chair and a glass top coffee table. A large Cubist oil painting hung over the sofa, and it faced an equally large aerial photograph of the pill factory on the opposite wall.

Pollard tapped Ed on the shoulder. Back off, Riley. Somebody will release a statement after a while. You ain’t going to miss the story.

Ed shrugged off Pollard’s spongy hand. Oh come on, Pollard. You know what’s happening inside. Clue me in.

Behind them, a nasally voice chimed in, Now, now, sonny. Be a good boy and let the man do his job. Ted Russell, the Town Telegraph’s senior reporter-at-large trod sedately up the steps and joined them. He had a sallow, bony face, was yardstick thin, and took great pride in wearing bow-tied crisp white shirts, topped by an Argyll sweater vest. Ted, the only feature reporter on the paper for twenty-five years resented the addition of Ed to the staff, and complained about it to anyone who would listen.

Hello, Ted. What brings you out this time of night? As far as Ed knew, Ted seemed only to cover news that took place between eight a.m. to ten at night.

Ted nodded gravely to Pollard, then turned to Ed. You aren’t the only one who listens to the police band.

Yeah, replied Ed, but I’m the only one who responds to it. He recalled several dozen radio calls he had bounded out of bed for in the past few months.

All the same, you can go home now sonny. I’m the senior reporter here and as such your services are no longer required. Ted flapped his hand at Ed as if to shoo away a pesky bug.

Like hell, Ted. It would take a SWAT team to get rid of me tonight.

Ed glared at the smirking Pollard, who was plainly enjoying the clash, and demanded, When will I find out what’s going on in there? This waiting around is stupid.

Now Eddie, replied Pollard, crossing his huge arms over his chest to rest upon his belly, You should be more patient, like Ted. When there’s something to know, someone will come out that door and tell you.

Suddenly, an ambulance with its lights flashing shot from behind the pill factory, barreled around the corner and down the street that led to the hospital. Ed’s first instinct was to follow, but he hesitated, seeing that Ted didn’t make a move in that direction.

There goes the ambulance, Eddie. Don’t you want to chase it? Ted watched him expectantly.

Ed considered. If Russell wasn’t flying after it, that could only mean there was no story there; the story was still here. You’d like to get me out of the way wouldn’t you? Ed leaned against the wall by the main door and smiled at Ted’s scowl. The one other time Russell had pulled that stunt was at a house fire. At Ted’s suggestion, he had eagerly fled after the screaming ambulance only to find out later that the house had collapsed, briefly trapping a fireman inside. Consequently, Ted had scooped the big story and Ed had swept up a few smoke-inhalation crumbs. It taught him that until the action at the scene was over, he had better stick around.

Why don’t you take Russell’s advice and run along Eddie? Pollard chimed in, his chins quivering over his collar. Night work hasn’t been very healthy for you ever since the Torrence affair.

Ed bristled, irritated that this subject kept coming up. A few months earlier his mentor and horseback-riding instructor, Mark Torrence, had been murdered. It was Ed’s bad luck to find his body and within ten minutes, lose it. Ed finally found Mark’s corpse and helped catch the killer, but in the process, two other people had died. It wasn’t a time he liked to remember.

I’ll move along when Ted does, Officer Pollard, and he walked to the far side of the steps to wait. Slouched against the wall, Ed wondered if he should stick around. If he waited until the brass came through that fancy front door to spout their sanitized, official line it could take all night, and likely, it would be a limp version of the actual event. But, if he could talk to the people who were in the vicinity at the time. . .

Maybe you’re right after all, Ted. Ed flashed him a bright smile. That ambulance must have the real story in it. See you later. He trotted across the street to his car, gunned it to life, and sped away. Once around the corner, he cut back on a parallel street behind the pill factory to its employee’s entrance, and arrived just as a large group of workers was leaving the building.

Ed recognized quite a few of them. It seemed that most of the people he knew had once worked for, or were currently working at, the pill factory.

Hey Buddy! Ed called out to one of the men he had graduated with from high school. He flung his arm over Buddy’s shoulder. How you doing, guy? Before Buddy could respond, Ed added, What the hell’s going on in there, anyway? Who’s dead?

Jeeze, Ed, replied Buddy, as he roughly shoved Ed’s arm away. I don’t think I should be talking to you. My supervisor said the company would issue a statement, and anything we said would be confusing. Go hug your information outa someone else. He quickly walked away.

Undiscouraged, Ed worked his way through the crowd, but they would say only that they had been let go for the night, and that a skeletal staff was on duty until the seven A.M. shift. They scattered to their cars and drove off. Alone and angry both at himself for leaving Phillips’ front door, and the closed-mouth workers who wouldn’t talk, he knew that by now the company brass had probably issued their statement to Ted, and in the morning he would cuddle up to his electric typewriter transforming a dull announcement into a downright boring news story. Still, he reasoned, that didn’t have to be the only report.

He leaped into his car and raced to the front of the building still hopeful he hadn’t missed out. He had. The front doors were deserted, no cops, no brass, no Ted. Even the lobby had been dimmed to a breath of light. He would have to take Ted’s suggestion after all.

Fifteen minutes later Ed walked into the emergency room lobby of the Portledge Memorial Hospital. At four-thirty in the morning, the waiting area was deserted except for an elderly man sitting forlornly in a corner under the glare of the fluorescent lights. As Ed approached the desk, he felt the man’s sad eyes rest on his shoulders and the invisible weight of his gloom. He cleared his throat and spoke to the clerk.

I’d like to make an inquiry about someone who was brought in tonight in an ambulance.

The young man behind the desk glanced up at Ed then returned to his computer monitor. His pale skin, and clubbed light blond hair, washed out by the strong overhead lights gave Ed the impression of a ghost.

Three people were hauled in here tonight, the clerk replied. Tell me who you are and I might tell you who they were. The nametag on the specter’s shirt winked the name Vincent as the light flickered over it, and the gold hoop earring in Vincent’s right earlobe reflected in synchronized time.

I’m Ed Riley, a reporter. Can you tell me who came in from Phillips Pharmaceuticals tonight?

Vincent smirked. "Riley from the Town Telegraph? Are you on a hot, hot story?"

Maybe. What do you know about the pill factory victim? Another jerk, thought Ed.

What’s in it for me, Riley? Vincent smiled lazily, his eyes traveling slowly over him.

How about twenty bucks? He would have liked to offer less, but this guy seemed to require a bigger distraction.

Hmm . . . Okay, Vincent replied. His gaze slid around the room as he furtively extended a colorless hand while Ed dug into his thin wallet for the lonely bill.

Now what’s the deal? asked Ed as he slid the twenty onto the counter and watched it disappear into Vincent’s back pocket. There goes lunch for the week, he thought regretfully.

His name was Bert Pail and he came in here DOA. Apparently, he slipped, bumped his head and drowned in a big tank of alcohol. Man, did he reek of it. I think that’s about twenty bucks worth, don’t you? Vincent drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk.

No, but I guess it’ll have to do, won’t it? Ed was elated, but Vincent didn’t need to know it. A terrific story could be made from this much information.

I would say so, said Vincent, and he turned his attention back to the monitor as though Ed had evaporated.

As he passed through the automatic double doors, Ed noted that the old man in the waiting room had dozed off into a slack-mouthed sleep, his coat draped shroud-like over him.

* * *

Driving through the sleeping town, Ed was pretty sure the Phillips executives hadn’t announced the way Pail died, and just because old Ted had the official nod from Mac didn’t mean that he couldn’t scoop him. All he had to do was write the story and have it on Mac’s desk before Ted could deliver his own version. His car lurched to a halt in front of the newspaper office and Ed galloped up the steps to the city room. He wondered why there were so many lights on in the building, and rounding the corner, was surprised to see Ted at his desk typing out his report.

What are you doing here, Russell? You should be home under your goose down quilt.

Too hot for goose down, Eddie. Even a child like you ought to know that. Besides, Mac will want this first thing in the morning. Looks like you came in second this time, junior. Ted flashed Ed a mean smile and continued to beat on his electric typewriter.

Ed yanked a typewriter off another desk and wrote his own version, grinding his teeth as he heard Ted behind him muttering about his fine copy.

Well, that’s that, said Ted loudly. He ripped the page from the platen and marched it into Mac’s darkened office. See you in the funny papers kiddo. Ted strode across the room to the exit, but turned back to say, Next time don’t even bother getting out of bed. Just leave the big stories to the big boys.

Get a life, you jerk, snapped Ed to the echo of Ted’s footsteps. He concentrated on his report, wringing out every last plausible particle of action. Although it was basically an industrial accident, there was enough meat; a bumped head, a drowned guy, a big tank full of booze, to give it some flash. Maybe he would write another, even better, story tomorrow when he returned to the pill factory for more background. Oh, yeah, there was going to be some real action for a change.

Inside Mac’s office, Ed laid his story on the desk, but paused to turn on the green shaded lamp to read Ted’s article. It was just a simple announcement; Bert Pail had passed away while at work. Words of sympathy littered the page but there was nothing about his manner of death.

What is this? Ed muttered. If this is the official line, I’m glad I wasn’t there after all. Okay, Tedmeister, we’ll just see who Mac would rather publish tomorrow, my color or your creamed corn. Then he carefully placed his page directly on top of Ted’s, squared their corners and left them in the lamplight.

* * *

What’s this, Riley? Mac demanded, holding up Ed’s report. Stocky and strong, Mac had beefy hands that would have looked more at home at the end of a lumberjack’s wrists. A healthy fringe above his ears surrounded his polished bald head, and his bushy eyebrows looked as if they had upwardly mobile plans to cover the loss. His broad pug nose, high cheekbones and piercing, almond shaped eyes revealed Eastern European ancestry. He put Ed in mind of a Cossack and was frequently just as intimidating.

That’s what happened last night at the pill factory, Ed replied. He shifted uncomfortably on the hard oak chair across from his boss’s desk.

Then why is it so different from Ted’s piece? Mac tossed the paper onto the littered surface.

I guess it’s because Ted went with the official release from the company brass and I searched out the whole story.

Mac frowned, his eyebrows gathering like storm clouds. This copy looks more like a trip into your imagination. You’re intimating that because of Bert’s years of experience around those tanks, that it was unlikely for him to have accidentally died while examining them.

Ed was startled at Mac’s statement. That wasn’t what he was thinking when he wrote it. Go with it. Well, yeah, it’s as plain as dog crap on a hot sidewalk, don’t you agree?

Mac frowned and replied, "No, and quit inventing bad similes and lousy situations that only hurt nice people and damage the reputation of the town’s biggest employer. You need a lot more than conjecture to make this sieve float.

Boss, it’s not conjecture! I talked to the night clerk last night at the emergency room. He told me everything. Ed couldn’t believe Mac thought he made it all up.

Really? I’ve heard some shaky stuff about that guy, Vincent’s his name? He’ll say anything for a few bucks. Next time get your facts corroborated, Eddie. Now go check the assignment board. There’s a Grange Hall meeting I want you to cover, and an auto dealership opening up in town that needs a little publicity. Mac wadded up Ed’s story and lobbed it into the garbage can beside his desk.

Moments later, Ed grabbed his assignments off the board, banged through the door, and hurtled down the steps. Later that day, he picked up a fresh copy of the paper from the in-house newsstand