Whatever. I had enough to keep me occupied.
There were a few bits I could pull out of the doctor’s interview, but even less of what Grace Ott had given me would make sense in the story I had roughly sculpted. I’d given up the salacious sex angle, but I needed something that would fit with the program. Much as I’d like to paint a picture of human isolation, Mysterious Death of an Amish Outlaw was probably my best television premise.
This is not a public service, I lectured myself. Television is a business. The purpose of business is to make money.
“O’Hara, I’ve got that office cleared for you,” Schmed wheedled from the doorway.
Speak of the devil and in he walks.
“My hero.” I had a sudden premonition I’d be carrying antacid in my wallet from now on.
“I’ll have the list of dealerships to interview on your new desk by tomorrow morning.” He winked. “Thanks, hon.”
“Getting tired of telling you to bite me, Jim. Go away.”
“GM’s in the building, by the way. She’s looking for you.”
I mumbled something creative. Schmed exited with a snicker.
New action item on my list-end Schmed’s good mood.
With the conference call as white noise, I focused on the monitor, committing some pieces to memory, watching for glitches, listening for audio errors I’d need to cut around. My brain knows how to do this stuff on autopilot. Almost like driving-there’s a part of your mind that’s totally focused and another part that’s free. I’m better at the pieces than I am at the big picture. That’s why I prefer stills to video, editing to previewing.
When it came to Tom Jost’s death, I could almost see the bits I didn’t understand coming together, spread like a collage in front of me.
I wished I had the time to follow College to the firehouse. Maybe talk to Tom’s partner Pat again. If Grace was right, Tom’s problem began there.
I still didn’t have an explanation for who’d called the station the day of Tom’s death. What kind of Samaritan would call, but not stop? If they’d only called the cops-maybe. But why call the cops and the local television station?
According to the sheriff, Tom had no phone with him. I know Tom owned a phone; we saw the empty charger in his apartment. What happened to it? I thought of Rachel sitting in the bushes with the phone pressed to her ear. She hadn’t known Tom was dead, hadn’t seen the body. She couldn’t have been the Samaritan.
I picked up my cell phone and hit the new Clarion speed dial for the private extension of Mr. Melton Shotter.
“News.”
“Hey, Melton. What news?”
“Maddy?” He sounded surprised. “How’s that story on Jost going?”
“Not bad. Question for you. How’d you get the tip on Jost? Was it off the police band or what?”
“I got called on my way into work that morning. Can you hold? I’ll check.”
“No problem.” I hit Rewind and toggled the mute button on the conference call to vote fine with me on a local weather graphic preceding local stories.
The guy from Dallas added, “People watch TV to find out what tomorrow’s weather will be. Give them what they want. Get them hooked. This ain’t brain surgery.”
Melton came back on the line with interesting news. “Someone called the paper with a tip. Said there were cop cars and fire trucks along the road. The receptionist who took the call knew I’d pass that exit on my way into work. She phoned me at home.”
“What time?”
“Must have been around ten. That’s when I leave for the office.”
I blew some exasperation his way. “Nice work if you can get it.”
“Hey, I work ’til we go to press on Thursdays. I’m here ’til midnight sometimes.”
“Midnight? That’s all?”
Melton and I traded poor-me stories until we were both sleeping on desktops, surviving on tic tacs and tap water.
The conference call got around to taking another vote.
“Thanks for the help, Melton. I got another call.” I hung up before he could pump me for more on Jost.
After I weighed in on title graphics, I tried to call Ainsley in the truck and got no answer. Either he wasn’t in the truck or couldn’t hear the ring over the downbeat of WKiSS-FM. Guess which one I was betting?
“Ms. O’Hara? I’ve been looking for you.” Shirley Shayla, my new general mother, stood there, hands on hips. She was almost eye level with me, if I slumped in my chair. Aggravation or a long day had crumpled her Donna Karan suit. Not a good sign.
“You found me.” I waved to the line of empty conference room chairs. The machine clucked into standby and the speakerphone suddenly cracked out an “O’Hara?”
I held up a one-minute finger to Shayla and answered, “Yeah. I’ve got a couple stories on the burner right now. For the first week, I like this piece on a local suicide.”
“Details,” the New York guy barked.
“Guy was a refugee from a local Amish community. The suicide had signs of being autoerotic asphyxiation.”
Bits and pieces of my colleagues’ opinions popped through: a snort, a chuckle, a drawn out shiiiit. “Sounds good,” was the final answer.
What followed was a sequence of feelings that were fairly familiar when I sold a story based on salacious spin-relief, shame, and as I met Shayla’s gaze, guilt hunkered down for the long haul.
I hit the mute. “What can I do you for?”
“That’s the story you’re putting together for the premiere?” She made a firm nod in the direction of Grace’s sweet image on my monitor cart, twitching rhythmically in freeze frame. “Former Amish Sex-Death?”
“Actually, I’m not sure what the story will be yet.” Guilt made me sound grumpier than was polite for a new boss. Thumbing toward the phone call, I tried to work the charm as I admitted, “You know how it goes. These conference calls are fairly, um, promotional. Until I have it in the can…” I let it drift into a long pause.
“That topic would certainly sell ads.” Her arms were folded across her bosom and her feet were planted wide and toe out. She was not smiling. “Although, I have to say I’m surprised. It’s not what I expected from you. Rather predictable.”
Amish autoerotic asphyxiation was predictable? Where had she been living?
I opened my mouth, hesitating to stick my foot straight back in there, when the cell phone vibrated. Saved by the bell. “Yeah?”
“Maddy? It’s me,” Ainsley whispered in his undercover voice. “I’m at the fire station.”
“Great.” I started talking, hoping Shayla would lighten up on the hairy-eyeball she was giving me. “Here’s my-”
“You won’t believe the visuals! They’re training on car fires. Torching old beaters in the back lot. It’s incredible. We can totally work it in. Tom-the-Amish-firefighter, lighting a car on fire? Get it? And Pat just came in to pick up his check.”
“What? Ask-”
Ainsley would not shut up. His whispering got fierce. “Pat got all over me when I told them about the bank guy out at the Jost farm.”
“Really?” I went to full stop.
“I’m going to try for an interview.”
“With Pat? He wants to give you an interview?”
“I can handle it. Leave time in the story. I’ll call you later.”
“Wait!” Too late. I hit ring-back and the guy at the firehouse who answered laughed loudly as he passed the phone back to Ainsley.
“That’s three, College Boy. You’re grounded. Never, ever hang up before I do.”
“Right, right. Can I go now?”
“No. Pat’s in this thing deep. Watch yourself. Ask what he fought with Tom about and find out when-before or after Rachel. Ask what he said to Nicky Curzon. And find out how the fire service call came in about Jost. Did they hear through the cops or was it direct?”
“Okay. I can handle this, Boss.”
The words “I can handle it” were a little too scary to let slide. “Don’t get fancy on me, College. Get your shots and get back here. Don’t make me give you the J-school speech again.”