Reportedly Murdered: A Gregory Thackery Mystery

By Geoffrey Walters

How does Gregory Thackery, a novice reporter working for a third-rate newsweekly, scoop the New York Press, the New York Daily Tribune, New York News Journal, and the vaunted New York Dispatch, America's so-called "newspaper of historical memory"? Luck? Common sense? Hidden connections? Even the clueless Gregory doesn't know for sure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Resource Publications
• Release date: May 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781666794014

Geoffrey Walters

Geoffrey Walters (aka Geoffrey Smagacz) writes from South Carolina and Mexico. Geoffrey's latest novel, Reportedly Murdered: A Gregory Thackery Mystery (Wipf and Stock Publishers), was released May 14th. Geoffrey is a former reporter for the Times Newsweekly in Queens, New York, and the author of Never Say Murder (republished in 2019), the first Gregory Thackery mystery. His short novel and short-story collection, A Waste of Shame and Other Sad Tales of the Appalachian Foothills (Wiseblood Books, 2013), won the Independent Publisher Book Award (IPPY) Gold Medal for Best Regional Fiction in 2014. Geoffrey is a Pushcart Prize nominee. His rhymed and metered poetry has also been published in various literary magazines and e-zines, including The Classical Poetry Society, 14 by 14, and Dappled Things.

Book preview

Chapter 1

W hat newspaper are you with? the oversized fellow sitting next to me asked. His hefty elbow hogged the armrest, so I had to take notes with my arm folded into my hip bone. These high school auditorium seats were not made for adults.

I sucked air through my teeth. Why do you want to know?

Just wondering, he replied.

I went back to inserting the tape in my microcassette recorder. Even though I tried to take fool-proof notes, I needed an accurate backup.

A lot of people sure turned out for this tennis thing, he said, hoping for my commentary.

Listen, I said. If you talk, my recorder picks up your voice and then I can’t hear what the Community Board is saying.

"Look, even The New York Dispatch showed up for this one."

If only the guy hadn’t mentioned The New York Dispatch, I would have shut up and ignored him.

"Big deal. The New York Dispatch, I said. I’m here covering Community Board 86 month after month and I’ve never once seen them here. I didn’t even know that paper set foot in Queens. I was on a roll. A firehouse closes, you don’t see them. Graffiti vandals run rampant, and that freakin’ newspaper glorifies it. It’s art as far as they’re concerned. But boy, if there’s a chance the Community Board might say ‘no’ to the expansion of the tennis center, then they’re interested."

Shhhh, the man said, and good grief did his breath reek, like the ripest Limburger cheese wrapped in a dirty sock. They’re about to vote.

All twenty-four members of Community Board 86 sat or stood on three sides of a half dozen folding tables pushed together end-to-end on the center of the auditorium stage at P.S. 263. With the curtains pulled back and fastened with gold tessellated rope, and all heads tilted toward CB86 president Mary Teresa Benedetti pouring herself a glass of water from a jug, it looked like a raggle-taggle reproduction of Da Vinci’s Last Supper.

Benedetti tapped the microphone. This was it. Order. Order. Some members stood while others huddled in conference looking hush-hush serious, probably trying to decide where they’d go for drinks afterwards. Benedetti stood and raised her voice. I said, let’s get this show on the road. She put her hands on her robust hips, which were accentuated by a wide, severely drawn black belt. She turned her head from side to side, then whispered something to the suited fellow sitting next to her. Suddenly they were engaged in muted conversation. This letdown in authority allowed chaos to once again reign.

These Community Board meetings are a joke, I said to the man with the bad breath.

What paper did you say you’re from again?

"I didn’t say, but I’m from the Mid-Queens Midweekly News."

"Are you affiliated with the News?"

"The Daily News?"

Uh huh, he said, breathing his stinking words in my face.

"That rag? No. My paper has nothing to do with the News. It’s an independent weekly."

Is that one of those free papers you see everywhere?

Nope. It’s one of those 50 cent papers you don’t see often enough.

So what's your name? he asked.

Gregory Thackery, I whispered.

Shhhh. The guy said, wafting his breath in my direction for a third time. She’s going to try it again.

People, Benedetti scolded. It’s already quarter to eight and we have a lot of business on our plates tonight. Please take your seats. Standing groups of board members sat, but four, stage right, did not. Benedetti employed her gavel again. Take your seats. Two more broke off and sat down. Only Germond Bordeaux, the pudgy guy with the bouffant toupee, and a woman he appeared to be lecturing, remained standing.

I’d seen show-boating Bordeaux from previous attendance at CB86 meetings but not the petite gal raptly listening to him. Apparently, neither had Benedetti. Bordeaux, you’re holding up the meeting. And you, I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.

"Lucy Arrowgate from The New York Dispatch."

"I don’t care if you’re from The London Dispatch. Unless you’re here to make news, you don’t belong on stage."

Bordeaux waited while Arrowgate politely tiptoed off stage, slightly lifting the folds of her pantsuit as she descended the steps as if she were curtsying to the Queen while screwing up her face in mock surprise for the audience, which tittered on cue.

Then Bordeaux returned to his seat. Or rather, he strode front and center like a guy with ambition. I wondered when he was going to declare his candidacy for a City Council position or some other local or statewide office, as had been rumored.

On the matter of CB86 endorsing the USTRF also known as the United States Tennis and Racquetball Federation’s plan for the expansion of the tennis center in Flushing Meadows Park, is there any discussion before we make our recommendation? Benedetti looked from one end of the table to the other.

Nothing? she asked with mock surprise. A couple of members said nuh uh; one said nope.

Bordeaux, what about you?

"Moi? he asked, pointing to his chest. What makes you think I’d have anything to say?"

A couple of his cronies on his side of the table chuckled; at the other end, three put their heads together and whispered.

Is this the same board that, a month ago, when this issue first came out of committee, stayed until 1:00 a.m. to discuss the merits and demerits of the private sector using public property for profit?

Again, silence. "Looks like The Dispatch and Newsday came out for nothing," Benedetti said.

"Don’t forget the New York Post," someone added.

"How could we forget the Post? Benedetti retorted. Audience members giggled. I guess the public came out for nothing as well, she said, sweeping her arm across the auditorium, which was about half-filled, but triple the usual audience for a Community Board meeting. Then let’s vote. Secretary, please read the resolution."

Be it resolved that Community Board 86, which abuts Flushing Meadows Park, hereby endorses the proposal by the United States Tennis and Racquetball Federation to expand the Tennis Center in Flushing, Queens.

Anybody have an objection to a show of hands instead of a roll call vote? She surveyed the members and saw a few heads shake. All in favor? Every hand went up. Opposed? No one. The ayes have it.

The press, standing in the corner, including a Channel 3 news camera, began packing up, but not quietly. Down came a pole of lights. Cameras were packed away, laptops snapped shut, briefcases opened and closed.

May I please have a little more quiet over here? Benedetti scolded. This isn’t the only business we have tonight. Just because it doesn’t impact Manhattan doesn’t mean it’s not important.

They must have read the board’s agenda for the evening as I had. Indeed, how could they want to miss the discussion on changing curb laws in the business district of Corona from one foot to 18 inches?

The bad breath guy turned to me and whispered—or tried to anyway: How come you’re not packing up?

Shhhh, I said.

Benedetti turned her penetrating gaze to him, and then to me. She knew who I was. Covering CB86 gavel to gavel is my beat, I whispered. That sounded important, but the reality was that I worked as a stringer and not as a full-time reporter so that the paper paid me by the hour, and sitting around for a couple extra hours was all right by me.

Benedetti held up the meeting until the last straggler exited the swinging auditorium doors because the reporters and their technicians never ceased blathering. They didn’t even try to speak softly. They got what they came for. Some onlookers shushed but the media got louder. One lady with a bonnet perched on top of a beehive hairdo who seemed to appear at every meeting I attended said, Can’t you be quiet, but Benedetti then had to shush her.

The swinging doors swishing shut on the last man seemed to trigger an unconscious cue for the audience to murmur collective comments regarding the reporters’ general rudeness, which caused Benedetti to wield her gavel again—exactly once.

Finally, we can move on to our second item on tonight’s agenda, she said, pointing to her notes as she counted. She had to hitch her red bifocals, hanging by a chain around her neck, to her nose. Does anybody object to putting off our curb law recommendation until next month?

A couple of the board members grunted.

Let me take a vote. All in favor? Many voices. Against? Silence. Except for one muted curse word from the audience. A lone man stood, huffed loudly, and walked out. Could someone have come in just for that?

Let’s get to the baseball diamond in Forest Park. Let me read this again. She pulled the bifocals down her nose, and took a long 30 seconds to scan the proposal. As I understand this, the baseball diamond constantly floods, and the proposal is to disassemble the diamond and to let it grow in. Is that correct? She turned to her left. Bordeaux? You wrote this proposal. Am I understanding it correctly?

Bordeaux stood. He seemed unable to sit and speak at the same time, as if some mechanism triggered by his big mouth were hinged to his legs. He’d taken off his suit jacket and had hooked his thumbs in the arm holes of his too-tight vest a la Clarence Darrow. He was one of the few to wear a suit.

Yes. That’s pretty much the gist of it. Every time it rains, the baseball diamond floods. It stays muddy for days. This spring it was May before the Parks Department could officially put the diamond in service. He brought out a notepad from his front pocket and began to read: In fact, according to Patel Dipta from the Parks Department, kids were using it this spring before they even put down the bases. They tore holes in the backstop and put out one of the night lamps with stones.

Benedetti let a few moments of silence pass. Are you done? she asked Bordeaux.

Yes.

Please have a seat. He did. If there are no objections to the way this proposal is written, we’ll hold a public discussion at next month’s meeting and vote on this recommendation.

Wait a minute, came a voice from the opposite end of the table. That’s not right. We haven’t even discussed this. I couldn’t see him, but I knew from the nasally high-pitched voice that Brian Devlin was speaking.

What’s not right? Bordeaux asked, bolting back to his feet.

Putting it on next month’s agenda without discussion, Devlin said.

What’s to discuss? Bordeaux asked, butting in and ratcheting up the volume as if he were in charge. We’re only deciding to put it in the agenda for a more formal discussion next month.

I don’t agree that it should be up for discussion. Now Devlin stood so I could at least see his shiny pate. He couldn’t have been more than 40 but he was already three-quarters bald. That’s always been a baseball diamond and I don’t see the necessity of letting nature reclaim it when there aren’t enough venues for kids to play in to begin with.

Bordeaux had to look at his notes to rebut. According to Dipta, it used to be a swamp. For a least half of the year it’s below the water table. As he turned a page of his spiral bound notes and stopped blabbering, I detected a distinct wheezing sound while he exhaled. He began having trouble catching his breath. In fact, that whole side of the park used to be swamp and a small pond.

So? Devlin mocked. Forest Hills used to be farmland. Does that mean we should let the cows come home? The audience reacted with several cackles, a few laughs, two guffaws, and a got him.

Bordeaux stepped forward, upstaging the other board members. That’s not my point.

Devlin followed suit. Then what is?

Doing what’s environmentally correct, Bordeaux declared.

Now I could hear Bordeaux wheezing both on the exhale and the inhale.

You know that every one of those diamonds is booked from 9 a.m. until 10 p.m. all summer long by little league players, the scouts, the Police Association to Recreate Children, and other organizations, Devlin noted.

How do you know they use that one? Bordeaux challenged.

The burden of proof is on you, Bordeaux, not me. Can you tell us who uses that particular diamond?

That’s Mr. Bordeaux, Mr. Devlin, Benedetti corrected.

Bordeaux turned pages, ruffled them back, then forward again until Benedetti helped him out. This is the sort of detail that we can discuss next month. We’ve got too much on the agenda tonight and we simply don’t have time to go into all this.

Besides, I don’t have that information handy, Bordeaux said.

I’m sure you don’t, Devlin said.

What’s that supposed to mean? Now Bordeaux’s lungs were rattling. He held his palm on his chest.

Let’s take a vote, Benedetti said.

Hey, the bad breath guy said. Is that your tape recorder?

Dammit, I said under my breath. I was so absorbed I’d forgotten to turn over the mini-cassette, and it was making a high-pitched squeak. Thanks, I said to him. Luckily, I took pretty good notes. Though I hoped the recorder hadn’t missed much.

One more question I would like to ask Mr. Bordeaux before we vote, Devlin interrupted.

OK, Benedetti said.

Where do you live? Devlin asked Bordeaux.

You know where I live. Why does the public need to know that?

Yes, Benedetti agreed. Why does it matter?

Devlin persisted and moved closer to Bordeaux. For the record I think that the public should know that Mr. Bordeaux lives across from Forest Park.

You are out of order, Benedetti said, trying to interrupt.

So what?

And in close proximity to the diamond.

Order.

What are you insinuating?

That you have a vested interest in this proposal.

I said order.

Like what?

Like you don’t want the kids hanging around at all hours of the night, Devlin said. You don’t like the loud music.

Bordeaux walked back to his seat, picked up his briefcase from the floor, opened it and fumbled around until he found an inhaler, took a shot and then several long deep and very loud breaths. What a showman.

Mr. Devlin, if you don’t sit down, I’m going to have Officer Talos escort you out. All eyes turned to Talos sitting in the front row.

OK, Devlin said. I think I’ve made my point.

Let’s have a voice vote. All in favor? Many yeses. Against? Many nos. I’ll have to do a show of hands. In favor? Bordeaux’s side of the table raised theirs. Against? Devlin’s the same. Benedetti counted. "18-16. The motion is passed. We will have a public forum at next month’s meeting."

Chapter 2

When I got home my wife, Jane, stepped out of the bathroom and into the hallway with a towel fastened above her plentiful cleavage. Only that and nothing more, not even her little footies, though she was always complaining about how dirty I kept my floors.

In Manhattan when we both had our names on the lease, they were our floors and both of us had to care for them. But here in Queens they were my floors because my name was on the lease. It didn’t matter that I had to move out to the boroughs after we’d separated. I couldn’t afford the pricey Second Avenue apartment after she left me. It didn’t matter that she promised she’d be different after we reconciled. She’d barely changed. But seeing her standing at the end of the hall, legs slightly apart, arm on the hips, the left part of her upper lip raised in a smirk, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered at all, except that damned story I had to write.

I couldn’t pass into the apartment without passing Jane. What a test, walking the long hallway, ducking her amorous overtures, passing through the living room into the alcove I’d turned into my cramped office. How the heck was I going to write my story?

Did you just get out of the shower or have you been waiting for me?

Of course I just got out of the shower. What do you think?

I touched her hair. Then how come your hair’s dry?

I didn’t wash my hair, Jane said.

How can you take a shower and not get your hair wet?

As I took my hand from her hair, she guided the palm of my hand across her cheek. Then the towel dropped.

Somehow I’ve got to get past you and get to my computer and type up my story.

Well, you can do it the easy way or the hard way.

I laughed. Either way it’s going to be hard. Then I realized what she made me say. I mean difficult.

Make your choice.

Jane, listen. I can’t do it. I want to, believe me. But it’s almost 9:30 and I’ve got to get this story over to the paper by midnight or it’s not going to make this week’s edition.

What difference will it make if it’s a week old?

Obviously, it won’t be news, I said, drawing out the last word.

When’s the last time that paper published news anyway? Those rinky-dink meetings they send you to never do anything newsworthy anyway.

You know what you’re doing, don’t you? I asked her.

No. What?

In a very back-handed way, you’re putting me down. You might not think what I’m doing is important, and maybe the story I’m writing tonight’s not all that earth-shattering, but I’m learning the profession. As I was prattling on, I bent down to pick up the