“I started taking pictures for the Cook County Register back in high school, then did news photography all the way through college.” He looked impressed; I shrugged. “Paid for my books.”
“They say print is really different from TV news.”
“Some of it’s the same: the low pay, crappy hours, psycho egos everywhere. The motives are different, though.”
The lights went out in the lobby. I tried not to look impatient.
“Motives?”
“People go into newspaper work for the stories, usually. They get a thrill out of knowing stuff nobody else knows. Knowing stuff first.” I glanced at my watch again. “TV people want to know stuff first, too. But it’s mostly because they want you to notice them; they like the glam. They’re attracted to the glow of the set, like a bug to a flame.”
Ainsley leaned against the glass and tested his come-hither smile. “Is that why you went into television? The ‘glam’?”
“I said ‘mostly.’” I could see his questions percolating. I answered an easy one. “There are a lot more people watching television these days, than reading newspapers. I prefer to swim in the big pond.”
“So you like the competition.”
“Partly.” I snuck a glance at his face and added, “Also, greater opportunity for impact.”
His brow furrowed. I figured I’d lost him, until he said, “Impact won’t be much of an option at WWST, will it?”
Damn. He was with me after all. I shrugged. “Could be worse.”
Melton appeared, looking furtive but smiling. He snapped open the door and bustled us through the waiting area.
“This way.” The buzz coming off him was palpable. He must have found something interesting.
The Clarion’s interior was remarkably similar to WWST. Brown on brown. The fourth estate is not renowned for the decor and gardens. Beyond the reception area, we passed through the semi-public classified area and on into the anti-public newsroom. We wound our way through a maze of desks, randomly personalized with widgety clutter, family photos and the all-pervasive paper mosaic of shorthand notes, post-its and newsprint. Some of the computer monitors looked older than Ainsley. The space was democratically at-large but mostly deserted. Here and there somebody sat typing or talking on the phone.
Melton paid no attention and made a bee-line for the back hall. He’d cultivated a slouching sort of amble that almost made him seem as if he wasn’t hurrying. “Plate room’s right through here. Jeff’s at lunch so we can talk without,” his voice dropped to conspiracy levels, “you know-interruptions.”
The plate room is sort of a demilitarized zone between The Press and the press-the people who think up the words and the people who actually ink them onto paper. Nobody hangs out there. Melton was taking no chances we’d be interrupted.
We crowded behind an old relic A-frame into a far corner, where the light tables had been left on, burning through the page proofs with that particular shade of pale gray and fluorescent glow I recognized. I could smell the developer from the nearby darkroom. I crossed my arms over my chest and smiled, feeling right at home.
This was going to be good.
Melton handed me an eight-by-eleven envelope, wiggling like a puppy. “I got him. Employment info, adoption history…”
“Spill it.”
“…and, did I mention, his arrest record?” Excellent instincts; Melton knew his lead.
“Curzon busted the guy?” I asked with more than a reasonable amount of glee.
“Not the sheriff. His cousin.”
“Ha! And now I got him,” I laughed and put up a palm. “Can I get a witness?”
Ainsley slapped my hand.
“Let it be a lesson to you, College. Give us the short version, Mel.”
“It’s an unusual situation because the Amish don’t register births like we do. What I found was Tom Jost’s real father left the area with his son when the kid was young. He went west-California, New Mexico-somewhere like that. The next thing we know, Mr. Jost is petitioning to remove the kid-he’s ten years old by now-from an Arizona foster home, bring him back to Illinois. Kid’s dad is listed as deceased.”
“Fast forward to the good stuff, please.”
“Right, right.” Melton waved a hand, shuffling through papers. “The next bit of paper I found on him is his application for the fire service. He’d just graduated from a fire school in Elmhurst. That was three years ago. Nothing else interesting happens ’til last August, about a month before his death. When fireman Tom gets pulled over with a minor in the car. Cop writes it up-”
“Curzon’s cousin?”
“Right-as contributing to a minor’s curfew violation. I think there was some kind of scuffle, couldn’t confirm that, but Officer Curzon ended up putting them both in the backseat and giving them a ride to the station. Jost’s car was towed and-get this, the tow driver ‘happened to notice’ the trunk was full of porno magazines.”
“‘Happened to notice’?” Ainsley repeated.
“Them tow-truck drivers got X-ray eyes,” I mocked. “Go on.”
“Apparently, Curzon-the-cousin wrote that part up as well, and sent it to Jost’s lieutenant at the fire station.”
“How’d you find that out?”
Melton crooked a bashful shrug. “Buddy of mine at the fire station.”
“Not very discreet,” Ainsley tsk’d.
“‘Telephone, telegraph or tell a fireman,’” Melton said. “Those men sleep together two nights a week. There are no secrets.”
“But why tell you?”
“I get the feeling none of them really liked Jost, for some reason. Bad blood.” Melton shrugged. He seemed convinced the guy had been telling the truth.
“Any idea who the minor was?” I asked.
“No. But the record mentioned Amish clothing.”
Ainsley flashed me a look.
“Female?”
“Yeah,” Melton said.
“Rachel.” Ainsley said aloud what we were both thinking.
I was grinning like an idiot. I love these moments. “Got anything else for us, Mel?”
“Nothing really. The girl was shipped home. The guy was given some kind of write up. His employment record is sealed. I couldn’t get anything on how it impacted him at the fire station.”
“Your friend didn’t have anything to add about what happened with his shift buddies?” That seemed odd to me considering the gossip fest we’d had so far.
“Nope.” Melton shook his head. “He said it all blew over.”
“Except the guy killed himself a couple weeks later.”
“Yeah. Except that.”
1:03:11 p.m.
Fire station number six was out in the middle of nowhere. Couple of guys were giving a big red engine a bath on the driveway. Behind the station a three-story brick building with smoke smears around the windows sat alone in a parking lot. A training tower, maybe?
Several old junkers were lined up on the tarmac below the tower. We watched someone pull another barely drivable vehicle around and park it. The driver got out and walked toward us, your typical hulking, midwest beef-eater.
I opened my door and waved.
Ainsley followed me out of the van but didn’t make a move to pull a camera. “These guys aren’t gonna tell us anything.”
“Why do you think it’s not worth trying?” I pulled off my sunglasses before delivering the bad news. “Listen, College, if I gave up every time I thought I wouldn’t get an interview, I’d be selling Mary Kay cosmetics right now. You want to sell cosmetics, leave the camera in the van.”
Ainsley shook his head, his lips tight.
Stories always feel like something at the start-a texture, a shape, even a temperature. Once I recognize it, the whole thing falls together quickly. Occasionally, I get a story I don’t understand right away. I have to back up and feel my way around the edges. Crack it open. Stick my hands in deep, take hold and turn it around a few times. Those messy, ambiguous stories are the ones that don’t come easy. They’re also the ones that keep me coming back for more.