Outburst (12 page)

“Glad you think so,” Todd muttered, seated in front of his computer and seeing the perversity of all this more clearly than ever.

“I mean, the killer really called you?”

“Scout's honor.”

“This is just going to keep the whole thing right on the front burner. The viewers are going to love this. I mean, you're a potential victim, you realize that, don't you, Todd?”

“Yes, thank you very much.” Todd was reluctant to add, “There's one more thing—Mark Forrest was gay.”

It was like throwing gas on an open fire, and Craig said, “Oh, this is so unbelievably hot! This is so perfect! Man, oh, man, what a story!”

Todd's journalistic instincts—which ran so completely opposite to Rawlins's procedures—were precisely the ones Craig wanted to go with. And for good reasons. Todd's broadcast tonight at ten o'clock would not only keep viewers glued to WLAK but would undoubtedly be reported in tomorrow's papers. What great publicity. Channel 10 right there at the front.

But how actually to do it?

A year ago, perhaps even a mere six months back, Todd would have played it all for the sizzle, for the paramount effect—namely, for the ratings and what impact they would bear upon Investigative Reporter Todd Mills and his career. But now … now perhaps he wasn't so much smarter as he was a tad bit wiser. Yes, he had to report on this latest development, but he had to do it just right. Instead of a cotton-candylike buzz, he was determined to provide something of lasting value.

Todd wrote the script as he saw fit. Craig read it, grimaced, and wanted more jazz, more sparks. Todd refused.

“Listen, if I can't do it the way I see fit,” he calmly said, “then I'll have to skip the ten P.M. and—”

“What?” Craig shrieked without losing his ubiquitous smile. “You can't do that!”

“Of course I can. I'll just leave now, think about it overnight, and then perhaps do the story tomorrow.”

“No fucking way! Management will have a shit fit, you know.”

Craig pulled at his hair, paced one step, then froze. “Wait a minute, you're blackmailing me, aren't you?”

“What kind of person do you think I am?”

“Sick, very sick. I'll get someone else to do it.”

“It won't work—I was the one who spoke to the killer. Nobody can do this report but me.”

“Jesus Christ, Todd!”

Of course Todd was blackmailing him. Refusing to go on at ten and declining to do the report until tomorrow would give all the credit not to Craig, the night producer, but to tomorrow morning's producer.

“Okay, okay, I give,” said Craig, surrendering and rubbing his sinuses at the top of his nose. “You'd just better be great.”

“Aren't I always?”

The next decision was to not send Todd back to the Stone Arch Bridge, where they had planned for him to do a live report in the darkness of the night. Rather, the decision was made for Todd to broadcast right there from Studio A at WLAK. A minute before the top of the hour, Todd seated himself at the newsdesk adjoining Channel 10's latest discovery, the late-night anchor, Martin Steward, a tall, slender Native American with silky black hair and a chiseled face. Todd fitted the clear earpiece into his ear, then nodded a greeting to Martin, who returned it with a savvy smile. Yes, they both knew what was up, that in large part they had their jobs because they were the perfect tokens: the Indian who could dress like a white man, and the fag who could carry himself like a straight guy.

“Okay,” came the line producer's voice via IFB transmission into both Todd's and Martin's earpieces. “We're thirty seconds in front.”

A few moments later the distant news director, seated somewhere out there at his computerized panel, began the countdown, his godly voice cooing into Todd's earpiece and head, “Ten, nine, eight, seven …”

Precisely on cue, the anchor looked directly into the robotic camera that floated just a few feet in front of him and said, “Welcome to WLAK's Ten at Ten Report. I'm Martin Steward.

“Our top story tonight continues to be that of the murder of Minneapolis Park Police Officer Mark Forrest, which has unfolded this evening with a shocking new development. The story began last night at approximately seven-thirty just as torrential rains and hundred-mile-an-hour straight-line winds were striking the Twin Cities area. WLAK's investigative reporter, Todd Mills, was following up on a lead, which had taken him to the Stone Arch Bridge in downtown Minneapolis, when he witnessed the shooting of Forrest. The body apparently tumbled from the bridge and was not located until late this morning, when Mills and a homicide investigator discovered the body downstream in the Mississippi River.

“In what could be the strangest twist to this story, however, now comes the report that Todd Mills has received a phone call from a man who claims to have pulled the trigger of the gun that killed Sergeant Forrest.” Tossing it to Todd, he said, “Here to report is Todd Mills.”

Like the naggiest of moms, Craig's voice cut into Todd's earpiece. “Okay, Todd, milk it! Be real sincere! I want viewers crying!”

The second camera, controlled by the news director via computer, zeroed in on Todd and the light atop it flashed red. Just at that moment the floor director pointed directly at Todd, indicating he was live. Oh, brother, thought Todd, realizing what he was about to do. This was like reaching into a hornet's nest and smacking about. No doubt about it, this was going to turn things into a hell of a brew.

“The murder of Officer Mark Forrest has been both odd and mysterious,” began Todd, his voice deep and even. “No motive for the shooting has yet to be identified, nor has any suspect. However, park-police officials this afternoon stated that Officer Forrest was gay and completely open about this aspect of his life with his family, friends, and coworkers. Just what bearing this might or might not have on the case is not yet known, but police will be studying this information to see if there's any kind of link to the murder of a gay man just last month.

“Additionally, several hours ago I received an anonymous telephone call from a man who claimed to have shot Officer Forrest. In no uncertain terms he stated his frustration and anger at me for speaking earlier of his personality.” Go ahead, thought Todd, his eyes following the TelePrompTer, just read it. “In the course of the brief conversation, I was not able to give my reply, which I will do in just a moment.”

Craig's voice chirped, “Beautiful, Todd. Beautiful.”

Struggling not to trip up while someone was babbling away in his ear, Todd kept his eyes on the text and continued to read. “First, however, let me go back over the story step by step.”

They cut once again to the package, only slightly modified for the late news. With Todd doing a voice-over, the tape proceeded, first showing scenes from the storm, then the spot where the shooting had taken place, and next the police and Bureau of Investigation guys scouring the area late last night. The footage continued, showing the police earlier today pulling the mutilated body out of the river and the medical examiner carting it away. Because, of course, it was important to the station as well as to the security of his own job, Todd didn't just toot his own horn, he blew it like any other reporter would, without hesitation describing how frustrated the police had been both late last night and again this morning. Todd, however, hadn't acquiesced, for he was certain of what he'd witnessed. Rather, with the help of one particularly dutiful investigator—whom Todd didn't mention by name because he wasn't certain what Rawlins would want—Todd had continued the hunt for the truth, eventually locating the body of Officer Forrest nearly a mile downstream from the Stone Arch Bridge.

When the taped footage concluded, the camera in front of him again went live, and Todd, staring directly into the lens, continued reading the TelePrompTer, saying, “As of this moment, the authorities have no suspects in custody, nor do they know of any motive for this heinous act.”

“But as I mentioned earlier, several hours ago I received an anonymous and mysterious phone call from a man who identified himself as the killer of young Officer Forrest. I was rather doubtful at first, wondering if it wasn't some sort of crank call, but eventually I was convinced of the veracity of his identity. The caller then lambasted me for not just sticking to the facts, threatened me personally, and hung up.

“Let me now say that I, as well as the police, have every reason to believe that you, the killer, lured me to the scene of the crime in an attempt to get maximum television exposure. And since I also have every reason to believe that you, the person who so cowardly gunned down a young, off-duty policeman, are now watching this broadcast, here is my reply.”

Out of nowhere came Craig's voice. “Bravo!”

His brow creased with anger as if he were staring not into a camera but into the eyes of a killer, Todd said, “Neither I nor WLAK will be used. You have committed a terrible crime, and I will not, I repeat, will not glorify your disgusting act of murder. In other words, this is not a game and I will not play along.” At least, thought Todd, not according to your rules. “At this time I urge you to turn yourself in to the authorities.”

Todd then turned to the late-night anchor and tossed it to him, saying, “Martin, at this point I have nothing further to add.”

Martin stammered ever so slightly, then said, “Todd, thank you very much for that most interesting report.”

The light atop the camera aimed at Todd flashed off, and then Todd took off his earpiece and slipped away from the newsdesk.

As [email protected] continued and Todd made his way through the dark studio, he couldn't help but smile. That, he knew with blustery and smug confidence, was TV at its best—both sizzle
and
substance.

Jesus Christ!

What kind of idiot was that guy? And what the hell did he mean by that, a game?
Game?
Shit, Todd Mills was a fool. A complete and utter fool who understood nothing. Well, fuck him! It was completely obvious he was the one turning this into a game, he was the one exploiting this for his own purposes! Well, screw him and screw the media!

In his room at the Redmont Hotel, the man jumped from his hotel bed, where he'd been sitting and watching the late news, then stormed across the small room and hit the OFF button on his TV. He clenched his fists and his jaw, wanted to scream out, to smash the TV, to break everything in sight.

Instead, he went over to the desk and dropped himself in the chair. Fuck, this wasn't the way it was supposed to have happened, no, not at all. And he grabbed a hotel pen and another sheet of paper from the drawer and started writing, scribbling it not once or twice, but over and over and over, going all the way down the page, filling line after line, being enterprising and furiously jotting:
GMF.

The phone started ringing, and he stopped and stared at it. Of course it was her. Like some sort of threat, she'd said she'd call every night. Only tonight he couldn't do it. Couldn't pick up the receiver and pretend. He was too upset. Too scared. If he spoke to her tonight he'd tell her off, tell her to go straight to hell.

You just gotta pull it together, he told himself. Gotta be tough. Gotta stuff it all back in the closet where it belongs. After all, Mark Forrest is finally gone, this time for good, and isn't that just what you wanted? Yes, absolutely, and you know what you have to do now, don't you? Just keep quiet, that's all, and no one will ever find out.

After six rings the phone finally shut up, and he started writing again, continuing down the page, scribbling
GMF
and this time chanting along like a mantra, saying, “Gay Mother Fucker.”

It had been a
shit day at the office. And now it was a shit night. Oh, God, moaned Douglas Simms to himself, at this rate he wasn't going to get out of his cramped office in Government Center until after midnight. It didn't help that since late this afternoon he'd had trouble concentrating. Or rather, he'd been able to think about little else than that blonde, Kris Kenney. More so than ever, he sensed she was a disaster waiting to happen.

Well over twelve hours ago he started working on a legal brief for Judge Hawkins, a brief that was needed first thing tomorrow but which Simms was beginning to think would take another full day of research. Sitting at his chaotic desk and sipping something like his tenth can of Coke, he started trembling. He stared at the mountain of books and papers and knew there was so much work, plus so much other crap, that he could stay virtually all night and still barely make a dent.

So what about Kris Kenney? Just who the hell was she?

That was what really scared him—he couldn't find out anything about her. Not a thing. When he'd booked Peacock Catering—insisting, as instructed, that Kris be on hand for the good judge's carnal meal—he'd been able to weasel out only her last name and that she did in fact live in Minneapolis. Nothing more. He'd then searched the phone books, finding a single “Kenney, K.” Wanting to ascertain that it was in fact she, he'd called and discovered that, no, there was no Kris at that number. Simms had then called directory information, asked the operator for the number, and been told there was an unlisted number for a Christopher Kenney and that was it.

Wait a minute, now thought Simms. It hadn't occurred to him, but perhaps she lived at home with her parents, perhaps the answer was that simple. Be that the case, however, shouldn't there still be some record of her somewhere, somehow? Absolutely. There should be a social-security number, a driver's license, a vehicle registration. Something at least. Yet this afternoon he'd called a buddy of his over in City Hall and asked him to dig up what he could using the computers over there. And the answer had come back almost immediately: nothing. As far as the city of Minneapolis was concerned, a young blonde girl by the name of Kris Kenney simply didn't exist.