Brians Writing

Chapter Nine - The Scoop

2010-11-18T13:53:44-08:00

Chapter Nine: The Scoop
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    Television may have prime time but in radio we have two of them. The most important time of the day for advertisers is what we call “Morning Drive” which stretches from about 5:00 a.m. until 9:00 a.m. That’s the time when most people are driving or otherwise commuting to work. In the mornings people are stressed and in a hurry since there are usually consequences to being even five minutes late to work.

    The second most important time of the day is “Afternoon Drive” when people are trying to get home. You might think this would be a more relaxed period but what research has found is that people are even more anxious then to make it to the house or the local watering hole with enough time to spare to have a life before succumbing to the need for sleep and the preparations for another day serving their corporate masters.

    On this afternoon drive, the radio studios were packed with people from all dayparts as we awaited this big station-wide meeting. All of the seats in the newsroom were taken and the human generated noise level was on high drowning out the police scanners and even the voice of afternoon drive anchor and Santa Ana native Craig T. Barker coming out of the speakers above the door to the announcer booth.

    “What do you think it’s about?” Eddie Solis finished his sixth cup of coffee of the day, folded the supposedly environmentally friendly paper cup, and tossed it with a Kareem Abdul-Jabbar style skyhook into the recycling bin against the far wall. Impressive considering Eddie was probably in sixth-grade max when Kareem retired from the NBA and at 35 Eddie was one of our older behind the scenes guys.

    “This place is toast,” Business Editor Yoshiro Negishi said. Negishi loosened his pastel tie and leaned back in his chair. “We should have been out of business two years ago. No clue how the old man and Mrs. H kept the plates spinning as long as they have.”

    “Are you serious?” Eddie put his head in his hands. “My wife just told me we’re pregnant again.”

    “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here,” I laid a hand on Eddie’s shoulder offering him more comfort than was prudent. “There are still a lot of moves that have to be made before they kick us all out onto Sansome Street.”

    “Whatever happens, it will be for the best,” that prompted a double-take not just from me but from the whole crowd coming as it did from Isabella, known as the most cynical and foul-mouthed person on staff.

    “What the hell have you been smoking?” Yoshiro asked. He picked up his Peabody award from three years back and start to polish it with a small piece of felt he kept inside a leather case in his desk.

    “Nothing yet you sanctimonious ass,” Isabella was back to the loveable demeanor we’re used to from her. “I’m just saying anything will be better than showing up everyday not knowing if your keycard will let you in the building. I’m just ready for some fucking answers.”

    No one had anything to say to that and trust me it takes something to shut up a group of radio people. I thought back to eight years earlier when I had arrived in San Francisco fresh from winning my own Peabody in Sacramento. At the time I had thought I had never seen a more technologically sophisticated radio station in my life. Now this same room with its fading paint, threadbare carpets and old computers seemed a step or two away from the broadcasting museum.

    No doubt the place had seen better days. That was a time when the Internet was in its infancy, when cell phones were large contraptions primarily focused on letting you make calls, and owning a radio or television permit was very close to having a license from the government to print money.

    Now if you give a shit about the news or the weather or the stock market or who won today’s games, you probably already have the information before you get in your car and if you don’t give a shit you’re probably not listening to all-news radio anyway.

    I slipped my earbuds back over my ears and finished editing my fourth and final version of the Clarence and Sally Druthers story for morning drive. Since I didn’t plan to be up at 5:00 a.m. when the story would air, I had to have several prerecorded versions ready for the morning audience. I had already done two with sound from Sally and one with sound from Mira Hansson. The final one was just told in my own words and included the basics of my earlier meetings with Clarence from before the murder. This was designed to run after a reader-act that told the basics of the story.

    I had two edits to go when Eddie shook my shoulder and pointed at the row of televisions hanging above the editor’s desk. I paused the sound editing program, popped the earbuds out, and looked up.

    “Hey McKay,” afternoon news editor Gimja Sayid held up a hand quieting the room and pointed her remote control at the TV showing the Channel Five news. “It looks like your lady friend Cynthia Ito has an update on your story.”

    This brought a round of laughter from the crowd who knew about my less than passionate relationship with the woman I considered Gil O’Bannon’s dupe. Gimja held her hand over her head like she was the smartest kid in class trying to bring the room to order. When it did she brought the volume up on the TV.

        The screen showed the exterior of the Druthers home then Cynthia walked in from the right side of the frame and spoke directly to the camera.

    “I’m standing in front of the victim’s home in the Sunset,” Cynthia transferred the microphone from her left hand to her right then used her left to make a sweeping motion taking in the ordinary looking home. “Sources tell Channel Five news investigators have made a major break in the case late this afternoon. It’s possible, these well-placed sources tell me, arrests could be imminent. It’s also possible, according to the same sources, this murder could be tied to high-level corruption within the city’s bureaucracy. I will have more details tonight on Channel Five News at 11:00. In San Francisco, Cynthia Ito, Channel Five News.”

    By the time the anchor was back on camera teasing the prime-time drama that leads into their 11:00 news I was already on the phone trying to reach Vince. His cell phone rang four times before it went to voice mail. I left a message for him to call me asap. His desk phone went directly to voicemail.

    I pulled up Mira Hansson’s cell phone. She answered on the second ring.

    “Mira, it’s McKay. What do you know about a break in the Druthers case?”

    “Dylan, slow down,” It sounded like Mira was driving somewhere while juggling her cell phone, something that’s perfectly legal for a police official in performance of her duties. A lot of people don’t know that and keep filling our tip boxes with supposed scoops of cell phone pictures showing police officers failing to heed the hands-free law. “What are you talking about?”

    “Cynthia Ito just teased a major break in the Druthers case for eleven,” I was so focused on my conversation that I barely noticed a group of three people entering the newsroom, passing the employees, and climbing the steps to the second floor conference room overlooking the newsroom.

    “News to me,” Mira said. Bass-heavy hip hop made it hard to hear her, I assumed coming from a car next to her on the road. Mira seemed more the smooth jazz type to me, but I guess I could be wrong. “Let me make some calls and I’ll get back to you.”

    “I have ten minutes left in afternoon drive.”

    “I said I would make some calls. I’ll do it as fast I can safely.” Before I could respond, she had hung up.

    I tried Vince’s phones again with the same result as before. I tried the detective’s squad to see if the JJ’s were there but the secretary told me they were still out working a case. The Channel Five web site was no help and a Google News search turned up nothing either.

    “Should I leave a slot for you, McKay?” Gimja asked.

    I shook my head and held my hands out palms up. I had nothing. I stared at the digital clock counting up to the end of drivetime.

    “6:56:59” had just changed to “6:57:00” when I felt the vibration in my coat pocket that precedes my ring tone by about a second and a half. The phone was to my ear before the music activated and the clock reached “6:57:03.”

    “McKay”

    “Dyl, it’s Vince,” I would have known that if I had taken the extra three seconds to look at the phone before I answered it.

    “I have two minutes and fifty seconds. So what’s the big break in the case?” My reporter’s notebook was open, an actual old school pen in my hand ready to take notes.

    “I wish I knew.”

    The tip of my pen froze about two inches over the notebook paper.

    “Come on Vince, I don’t have time, how could you not know?”

    “Funny, those are almost the exact words I just heard from Assistant Chief Poung,” Vince’s rueful laugh broke off after a chuckle and a half. “I will tell you if I had a good answer to that question, I would have given it to her and not saved it for you, buddy.”

    “So Cynthia Ito…”

    “6:57:40”

    “Either she has better law enforcement sources than the Captain in charge of the homicide squad or she is completely and exhaustively full of shit.”

    “Or both,” I thought but didn’t say. Gimja was looking at me and so, it appeared, was everyone else in the newsroom. I shook my head, thumbs down, defeated. I could have sworn I heard a moan from all of my newsroom colleagues.

    “Could the JJ’s have come up with something and not gotten around to telling you yet?”

    “They better not have. They know I’ll kick their asses.”

    “Cynthia’s a stooge,” I put the notebook and the pen back into my desk drawer. “But she wouldn’t just make something like this up. Plus someone in her newsroom had to sign off on this, especially if they’re making it a promotable for eleven.”

    “6:59:15”

    I could hear the sounder start to come under Barker’s voice, counting down the seconds to the tone at the top of the hour marking the start of the network newscast and the end of drivetime. It would end without an update from me and nothing makes me angrier than the idea that someone else is ahead of a story that I’m on especially a story like this one that I was way ahead of everyone else until just a few minutes ago.

    “Did you talk to Blake?”

    “Yeah,” I said trying to keep my eye off the clock. “He sounded a little weird but he’s on the case. I’m supposed to pick him up at Caltrain in the morning and take him out to that house.”

    “Excellent. If anyone can figure out what’s going on here, he can,” Vince paused. “Unless Cynthia Ito already has it all solved by then.

    “Fat chance,” I said as Barker twirled his earbud cords around a white holder while stepping out of the booth. “Alright my friend, time’s up here. If you’re home by eleven, we can watch Cynthia together.”

    “Deal,” Vince clicked off.

    “Alright folks, glad you could all make it, now do you think you could all make it upstairs?” Guy’s voice boomed across the newsroom. It took a beat and a half for most of us to spot his bald head hanging over the balcony from the conference room a floor up.

    About six years ago I had the honor and misfortune of witnessing an execution at San Quentin. I’ll never forget a detail of that surreal night from the plastic candleholders of the protesters gathered outside my window as I entered the main parking lot to the antiseptic smell of the corridors leading to the death chamber to the looks on the faces of the witnesses as we filed in to the bewildered face of the condemned man just before and after the chemicals took effect.

    For some reason that experience flashed back in my mind as I looked at my friends and colleagues standing in line to walk up the stairs to the meeting that could determine our professional lives.

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Radio: Chapter Eight - The Dump

2010-10-21T10:07:43-07:00

Chapter Eight: The Dump
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The finality of the slammed door echoed through the off-campus Palo Alto apartment covering up the sound of the techno music pulsing through his neighbor’s walls as Blake McKay pondered the rest of his life without Suzanne Toledo. Blake plopped back into his favorite chair, a round soft shocking-orange cushion settled into the middle of a wooden frame, peeled the Pittsburgh Penguins knit cap off of his head, and tried to make sense of what had just happened to his life.

Blake had looked up to and admired Suzanne from the moment they had been paired at Stanford’s freshman orientation. He had been younger than most of the rest of his classmates, starting college just a couple of days after his seventeenth birthday but having already achieved his full stature of 5’6”. At 5’10” and 19 years of age, Suzanne had been even a year older than most of the class having taken time after high school to travel in Europe and Africa before setting into higher education on Leland Stanford’s farm.

“I’ve fallen out of love with you Blake,” Suzanne’s words played on a loop in Blake’s head. “Fallen out of love,” what the fuck did that even mean, he wondered?

Blake had been dumped before but those were silly high school girls who had gone out with him just so he could do their homework and they could say they had been with the smartest and most athletic kid on campus. Suzanne was different. She was no girl. This was a woman he thought had loved him and shared his mutual respect as scholars, geeks, coders, lovers of literature and just plain lovers.

Blake realized he wasn’t embarrassed to be crying as he thought that their lovemaking was anything but plain. The salty taste of tears slid down the back of his throat as he remembered their first time together at her parents’ Mendocino bungalow over that first Thanksgiving break. Dr. and Mrs. Toledo had left early because of an emergency back in Pennsylvania, and for the first time in his life, Blake had discovered sex was something more than just taking and giving pleasure.

Blake grabbed a red team-color mini-towel from the side of his desk and used it to wipe the moisture from his face and then swept it across the wavy blond hair piled like a thick shag carpet on his head ending in a thin ponytail that ended midway between his shoulder blades. His eyes scanned his desktop pausing on the fractal screensaver turning complicated math formulae into beautiful art. His eyes sped over the pile of books that still needed to be organized into his literature thesis, a task that seemed more daunting now knowing Suzanne wouldn’t be there to help.

Then, on the top of the shelf Blake’s eyes locked on his favorite picture of the mother he had never known. The older he grew, the younger she seemed as she stood next to her best friend, Amy Smith. It was the last photo anyone had ever taken of either of these beauties, standing together outside the Lake Tahoe ski resort, arms wrapped around each other, Amy with a mug of coffee in her free hand while his Mom waved to eternity with hers. God, how Blake wished that he could have known this clearly formidable woman. He had often wondered what she would have thought of Suzanne. Now, he wondered what words of comfort she might have for her only son in this hour of his need.

As often happened when he thought about his mother, the tears returned and just for a couple of minutes Blake allowed himself to wallow in his despair. He had earned a few minutes of self-pity, he thought. Suddenly Blake stood, grabbed the Penguins cap, and threw it as hard as he could against the far wall. It bounced off and fell behind his bed. Good, he thought, let my connections to Pittsburgh remain dead forever.

He was so deep in his misery that he didn’t recognize the buzzing against his leg or hear the muffled notes of his latest ringtone. When he did look, he almost didn’t answer. While his mother might have offered words of comfort, he wasn’t sure what to expect from his dad.

“Hey dad,” Blake hoped, just for a moment, that his father would pick up on the lack of enthusiasm in his voice and leave him alone right now. No such luck.

“If it’s not my favorite dude with a ‘tude,” Blake sometimes wondered if Vince and his dad had actually talked that way when they were his age and together at college all those years ago. God, he hoped not. “I’m not interrupting anything hot and heavy between you and Suze, I hope.”

Somehow his dad’s timing could be so off.

“Uh, no dad, it’s all good,” Blake could hear his dad slam a car door and start the ignition. He rolled over on his stomach, stretched his legs, kicked his sneakers off and came as close as he had in a while to out-and-out lying to his father. “I am, uh, a little busy though. What’s up?”

“Of course you are, if you’re serious about trying to graduate in December instead of relaxing and enjoying your full senior year,” Please sweet Jesus, Blake prayed this wasn’t the start of one of his dad’s old college yarns. That he couldn’t handle right now. “You know, it wasn’t until the spring semester of our senior year that Vince and I met Amy and your mom.”

Blake decided to just leave that one alone. The silence grew uncomfortable until a loud truck’s horn poured out of the phone.

“Asshole,” his dad’s voice had lost all of its energy at the close call. “Listen, Blake, I have a project that would be perfect for you and frankly I, well actually Vince and I, really need your help.

The last thing Blake needed right now was one of his dad’s projects. With no help from Suze, getting all of his work done on the literature thesis, an exploration of the evolution of technology in 19th century literary thinking, would be just about impossible as is. Adding that to his coding commitments, his volunteer work mentoring and tutoring reading in East Palo Alto’s public schools, and the band, he would barely have time to sleep between now and the end of the semester.

Given all that, he was just about to say not just no, but hell no to his father, when he processed the last thing his dad had said. Vince needed his help. That changed everything.

“Son, you there?”

“Yeah, hang on a second,” now Blake was trying to figure out how to make it all work and still have time to shower, shave, and brush his teeth. Then it came to him. The whole reason to get out of Stanford a semester early was to take that trip with Suzanne to Europe. Well obviously that wasn’t going to happen now. So why all the rush? It’s funny how making a decision like that both relaxes you and gives you energy. “Okay dad, tell me about it.”

“You are going to find this so fascinating,” his dad had that energy back in his voice. Blake thought it unlikely that his dad’s newest obsession was going to come anywhere close to fascinating. As it turned out, he was wrong about that too.

Blake rolled off the bed, took three steps across the room, then sat at his desk, laptop fired up as his dad told him the whole story, the body on the feather, the business card, the meeting with Vince at Reds, and finally, by the time his father told him about the visit to the Steampunk house, Blake had located the Druthers’ residence on Google Earth and found four different news sources with photos of Clarence’s final resting place.

“Okay dad, how can I help?”

“We need to figure out who was really sending Clarence those e-mails. Vince tried to get Ms. Druthers to let the forensic people go through the system but she’s way too suspicious for that. I talked her into letting you take a look at the system.”

“Can I do it remotely?”

“Maybe eventually but I suspect Clarence has some pretty heavy-duty security in place so you had probably better start out on site,” Blake had already done some cursory searches on Clarence Druthers but aside from a couple of Google references he suspected were red-herrings, nothing. This guy had been good at covering his digital tracks. “Plus kid, you’re going to want to see this place.”

“Yeah, I do,” Blake was already thinking he wished he had known Clarence Druthers in life. Sounds like they had shared interests in 19th Century lit and technology. Hopefully that would come in useful.

“Alright kid, I gotta go,” Blake could hear the changes in the background on the phone as he assumed his dad was pulling off the freeway and into city traffic. “I’m sending you contact info for Sally Druthers right now. Let me know if I can help.”

“Will do,” Blake knew his own voice had grown distant. He was already thinking about the challenges ahead. “And I may need a ride when I get to the city.

“Yeah, there’s some mysterious meeting at the station tonight that I can’t miss. Maybe I can meet you at the Caltrain station in the city tomorrow morning.”

Days later Blake would look back on that day as a true turning point in his life, not just as the end of something but also the beginning. But right that minute he was just happy to have something to think about other than Suzanne Toledo.

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Radio: Chapter Seven - The Database

2010-09-25T05:52:37-07:00

Chapter Seven: The Database
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I was sitting back in my assigned divan when Sally led Vince through the magic door at the top of the staircase and down into Clarence’s batcave.

    “What the --,” the distant memory of parental displeasure may have been why Vince cut that sentence short as he took a look around this very remarkable room. Or maybe he just didn’t know the word for steampunk yet.

    I gave my friend a little wave but let him follow my eyes to the monitor showing a very angry Cynthia Ito giving a piece of her mind to the JJ’s. I had known him long enough to detect the hint of a smile which was long gone before Sally had a clue.

    “Ms. Druthers,” I saw Vince take out an old fashioned reporter’s notebook and a pen. “Why don’t you fill Captain Smith in on what you’ve been telling me.”

    Vince’s head nodded at Sally after every couple of sentences as she outlined the story as she knew it. At the end of each nod, Vince’s eyes would return to the notepad. When she was done, it looked to me like he was on page ten of the little spiral pad.

    “Ms. Druthers, given all you’ve told me here today, who exactly do you think had a motive to kill your brother?” Vince gave Sally his most earnest look.

    “What the fuck?” Sally turned to me with annoyance. “Is your friend here deaf, dumb, and blind?”

    “Let’s go at it another way,” I raised a hand to calm Vince. “Who would stand the most to lose from what your brother had been studying? And perhaps more importantly, who else knew what he was up to?”

    “I thought you were the only person who knew all of the details,” tears started to roll down Sally Druthers’ cheeks.

    “Ms Druthers,” Vince tried again. “Why don’t you let me bring the police department’s electronic forensics department down here to study your, uh, system. We need to find out who Clarence was really communicating with in these e-mails.”

    Over Christmas break in our sophomore year, Vince had elected to stay on campus rather than make the long trek to wherever his parents were stationed that year, likely in some secure undisclosed location. I had gone home and spent the holiday with my parents and friends from High School but returned to Sonoma State the day before New Year’s Eve, theoretically to get some studying done but in reality just to spend time with Vince. I had brought a few bottle rockets left over from my job at a Fourth of July fireworks stand the previous summer to help ring in the New Year.

    I thought back to the slow burn of the fuse leading suddenly to a sustained whistling launch then to a spectacular explosion that illuminated the vineyards for what seemed like miles around when I watched Sally Druthers register Vince’s suggestion.

    She sat motionless for about the same amount of time the fuse took to burn. Then, like the bottle rocket launching towards the heavens over Sonoma County, Sally Druthers shot straight up off the sofa. Her arms flowered over her head as the powder in the firework detonated.

    “There is no fucking way I am bringing a bunch of goddamned city bureaucrats into this home so that they can sabotage my brother’s life work,” Sally’s face pulsated the same red tones as at the heart of the bottle rocket’s burst. Blue light reflected off her hair as she shook her head with vigor. I realized the light was coming off Cynthia Ito’s Navy dress that seemed to fill the screen showing the scene outside the home. “If you think there’s any way that’s going to happen, Mr. Po-Lees Captain, you are fucking buts.”

    I almost corrected her to say, you mean “fucking nuts” but realized that would probably not be the correct move at this exact moment in our relationship.

    Just like the bottle rocket went from incendiary sparkle to just memory in a matter of seconds, the outburst seemed to have sucked all of the energy out of Sally Druthers.

        Vince had sat out the entire rockets’ red glare without moving from his seated position on the divan next to me. Now he reached for his wallet, I assumed to pull out a business card. Instead he glanced hard and deep into my eyes, the way he had while trying to make me understand some complex note in physics all of those years ago, then led my gaze down to the wallet. He flipped past the business cards, past his driver’s license, past the photo of Amy from their wedding day two days after graduation, over the picture of his graduation day from the police academy, and landing on a snapshot of Blake.

    My only child stared back at me from the prow of a deep sea fishing trawler. Vince loved to rent fishing boats and take my son out to the Farallons to spot whales and haul in the night’s catch. This photo was from four years ago, a trip to celebrate Blake’s very early entrance to Stanford at the age of 16.

    “What the hell are you two doing over there on my brother’s divan with him dead and his killers still on the loose?” Sally had recovered some energy and anger but still at nowhere near her earlier level of intensity.

    While I smiled at the memory, Vince shook his wallet insistently at me. Then I got it and met his gaze. Vince reached back for a business card and slid it across the small wooden table to Sally.

    “If you change your mind, here’s how to reach me,” Vince stood, glanced back at me, then made for the staircase. He knew he had to get out of there for our, okay, his plan to work.

    “You stay here,” Sally pointed a finger at me. “And this time I mean it, don’t touch nothing.”

    This time I did stay seated while I watched on the monitors as Sally escorted Vince first back into the living room then outside onto the porch. The outside camera showed Vince huddling with the JJ’s while Jenkins sprayed the house and the neighborhood with his Channel Five video camera. I couldn’t see Cynthia and suspected she was canvassing the neighbors. That’s what I would have done in her place.

    Sally was just opening the door to return to her brother’s room as I saw Vince finish his confab with the JJ’s and walk to his command car and drive off. Hector looked pissed off at the turn of events, but I suspect he’s pretty much always that way. Tommy put a hand on his shoulder in a calming manner but that’s all I had time to take in before Sally was back in my face.

    “I know you said that Captain fellow is your friend but if that’s the best this city can produce, I think we’re in deep fucking shit,” a small poof of dust arose from her chair as she settled down across from me.

    “Sally, you’ve got to understand, Captain Smith has to play by the rules, and sometimes those rules don’t make a hell of a lot of sense to outsiders.”

    “I guess so,” Sally reached for a brass box about six inches square, pried open the lid, and removed a clean, pressed handkerchief. She went back to dabbing her eyes. “I’m just so confused. Where do we go from here?”

    “Why don’t you tell me about your brother’s research. What had he been working on lately?”

    “It’s all in the database,” Sally’s white billowy dress knocked an old copy of Wired magazine off the table in front of her and onto the carpet as she stood. “It’s all in the database.”

    “That database almost certainly has the answer to finding the person responsible for Clarence’s murder,” I stayed seated hoping to get her to calm down and focus. Instead Sally started pacing between a floor-standing torch light and a wooden desk piled with what appeared to be technical manuals. “Someone who knows what he’s doing has got to take a look at it.”

    “I do not trust some civil servant,” I cut her off with a raised hand.

    “That’s not what I’m suggesting,” I pulled out my wallet as I stood and met her in mid-pace directly in front of a painting of a 19th Century pastoral scene featuring haystacks and peasants with pitchforks. God only knew what miniature cameras were hidden in its rococo frame. “Take a look at this.”

    I showed Sally one of my favorite pictures of Blake. He had been up most of the night trying to solve some problem I couldn’t begin to understand on the computer \. He sat in his room, hair disheveled, soda bottles dangling from a full trashcan, and a look of triumph on his face.

    “This is my son Blake,” Sally took the photo and for the first time since I arrived at her house I saw the glimmer of a smile. It made me realize what a beauty she must once have been. “This is from his first year at Stanford. He’ll be graduating here in a couple of months with a double-major degree in computer science and literature. Not only would he love this room, he’s the only person I know who could figure all of this out. And he’s the most trustworthy person I know.”

    “I just don’t know what to do,” Sally held onto the picture of Blake with such intensity I feared she would crinkle it. I gently took it from her and put it back in my wallet.

    “Ms Druthers, uh Sally,” I held her by the shoulders and stared deep into her eyes. “You asked for my help. This is what I can offer. Blake knows more about databases and complex systems than 99.9% of the people in this world. And he has the knowledge of 19th Century literature that I think might be needed to get past whatever defenses your brother might have in place. Please let me call him and get him over here. Nothing he finds will go to the police or anywhere else without your approval. Okay?”

    “Okay, how soon can he start?”

    “I will call him as soon as I can get someplace with a cell phone signal,” Sally nodded towards the stairs and made a move in that direction. “There’s something else we need to talk about first.

    “What’s that?” Her defenses started to rise again.

    “Sally, you know I want to help, and you’re right I do feel some responsibility here for your brother,” she dabbed her eyes with the hanky. “But I also have a job to do. While I clearly made a mistake in not taking your brother more seriously when he was alive, Clarence Druthers is now one of the biggest stories in the Bay Area and I have to cover it.”

    I pulled out my voice recorder and led Sally back to the divan.

    “I can’t tell you what to do but I can tell you it would help me a lot if you would do an exclusive interview with me for today’s radio. I just want to let people know about your brother and your love for him. I think it’s best if we don’t go into his investigation of the mayor or the database he had compiled. Let’s wait until we have something more substantial on that.”

    She nodded her agreement.

    “Also, my help does not depend on this being an exclusive, but the less you say to other reporters,” I pointed at Cynthia Ito and Fred Jenkins on the monitor showing her lawn, “the better I think it will be for all of us, yes including me.”

    “If you say so,” Sally held my left knee as we sat.

    She held it together pretty well through the interview then escorted me back into that front room which now didn’t seem nearly as creepy as when I had entered just about an hour earlier. I took down her phone numbers and e-mail addresses and told her she would be hearing from Blake before the day way out. We hugged and then I headed for the front door thinking about my next challenge, getting past Cynthia.

    The Channel Five reporter surprised me by her absence as I stepped onto the front porch. Tommy James was swinging on the bench but just offered me a little wave. I dialed Blake to avoid conversation with the JJ’s but I did wonder where Hector and Cynthia had gone off to. The two of them both missing at the same time couldn’t be good news. Fred Jenkins walked up, camera on his shoulder, and seemed to give me a little apologetic shrug of the shoulders before videotaping my walk back to my car. Now that was weird but I didn’t think enough of it as I got in the Focus and drove away.

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Radio: Chapter Six: The Steampunk House

2010-09-05T22:54:03-07:00

Chapter Six: The Steampunk House

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   “Don’t you know it’s illegal to show disrespect for an officer of the law?” Vince actually opened my door for me like he was the kid at the snooty restaurant doing the valet parking.

   “Oh yeah?” the chill of the Sunset pierced my windbreaker. “No wonder the jails are so overcrowded. Sounds like a good special report to me.”

   “Seriously Sean,” Vince paused as we reached the house’s front porch. “You know the JJ’s are pissed at you about this?”

   “What did I do? Just answered the phone like you did.”

   “You know how cops think,” Vince gave me another version of the stare. “If they get too out of hand, let me handle it.”

   “I get it,” I glanced up to see a plane ascending from SFO banking towards the Pacific. “I guess I’d be pissed too if I was them.”

   “Good,” we moved onto the porch and Vince hit the doorbell.

   Hector Jones blocked all light from inside as he answered the door.

   “You, stay here.” Jones wrinkled his nose like he was still walking a beat in the Tenderloin next to some homeless outdoor outhouse. “Captain, a minute?”

   While Vince and Jones huddled on the other side of the wooden bench hanging from chain on the porch, I looked inside the house. It was dark in there with a very uncomfortable looking couch dimly lit by a small red-shaded lamp perched on an Edwardian side-table. A woman in her late-40’s dabbed at her eyes while staring at Tommy James. The detective wore his trademark khaki pants, white shirt, and red and blue striped tie under a faded yellow blazer. His graying hair was maybe a half an inch longer than regulation in back, perhaps his way of trying to stay “hip”, never mind that no one had used that term for at least 25 years.

   “You must be Mr. McKay,” the woman stuffed her handkerchief in the front of her red apron as she waddled from the couch to the door. “Thank you so much for coming.”

   “Hey asshole, I told you to stay put,” I could hear Hector Jones’ voice flare as I stepped past the woman into the house. I looked back to see Vince’s hand gripped onto his detective’s right upper arm to restrain him.

   “This nice lady is inviting me in and it would be rude to say no, don’t you think Detective?” Vince and Jones were right behind me as we all crowded the small living room. James stood up.

   Now that I was inside, I had a better view of the small house. A threadbare rug covered the hardwood floor. A green and gold patterned wallpaper was broken only by a couple of framed photos. Could have been Pappy and Mammy Druthers or just something they picked up at a long forgotten garage sale.

   “Okay,” Tommy James spread his arms like a preacher anticipating a bountiful collection plate, “now that we’re all here, maybe we can get started.”

   “Yes ma’am, I’m Sean McKay,” I ignored James and shook hands with the woman.

   “And I’m Sally Druthers,” her handshake was strong despite the moistness on her hands from gripping the wet hanky. “I believe you knew my little brother, Clarence.”

   “Yes ma’am,” knew was probably too strong of a word for my relationship with Clarence Druthers but this hardly seemed like the right time to bring that up. “I am so sorry for your loss.”

   “Thank you,” the hanky was back in her hands dabbing at her face. “I still can’t believe this is all really happening.”

   “Now that the introductions are out of the way,” Tommy James tried again, doing that thing with the preacher arms, this time like he was welcoming a potential new and wealthy member of the flock. “Let’s all have a seat and get started.”

   I started to sit on the far end of the couch but stopped in mid-squat when I saw the indecision on Ms. Druthers’ face.

   “Actually,” she raised a finger and pointed it at my nose, “I think I want to talk with Mr. McKay first in private.”

   “Now wait a minute,” Hector Jones made no effort to restrain his anger. “This guy’s not a lawyer and you’re not a suspect. Or maybe you want to be?”

   “Detective,” Vince’s tone of voice and the grimace on his face were real and not just good cop-bad cop posturing. “That’s not necessary.”

   “Ms Druthers,” Vince’s voice was now soothing. I had heard this same approach from him when he was making the move on coeds back in college. “I know you want to find out what happened to your brother just as much as we do. The truth is the faster we can learn what you know, the better chance we have of solving this case. We’ve already delayed this interview so Mr. McKay could be here. We really need to get started.”

   Vince’s glance turned to me pleading for my help.

   “I won’t be bullied, Mr. Cop,” before I could say anything to assist Vince Sally Druthers crossed her arms over her ample chest, spread her legs and assumed the stance of a linebacker preparing to take on a blocking fullback. “I either talk privately with Mr. McKay or you can all leave my house right this very minute.”

   I shrugged my shoulders and Vince gave me a barely perceptible nod.

   “Perhaps you can show me Clarence’s room,” I put my hand on Sally Druthers’ shoulder blades and turned her away from the placating Vince, the steaming Jones, and the insincerely smiling James.

   “He always wanted to show you his study downstairs,” Sally Druthers led me into a dark corridor. More paintings of the long-dead lined the walls while ancient brass electric fixtures cast anemic flickers of light on another threadbare rug on the floor. I couldn’t quite place the smell that grew stronger the deeper into the house I got. It might have been cinnamon mixed with toasted cat litter. I wrinkled my nose to keep from sneezing.

   I nearly bumped into her when Sally Druthers stopped in front of a white wooden door and pulled a wallet from the front pocket of her apron. She extracted what I first thought was a gold credit card then realized was one of those old-fashioned calling cards people used to leave with their betters’ butlers. Sally waved the card under the shade of a brass lamp attached to the wall. I heard a faint click and the door popped open.

   I followed the victim’s sister down the stairs into the most bizarre room I have ever been in. My first reaction was to look for Captain Jean-Luc Picard traipsing through the holodeck on Star Trek in his Sherlock Holmes get-up. The space was decorated in late-Victorian style with lots of leather, brass, and dark paneling. Those old world accoutrements sat side by side with plasma screens, rack after rack of computer processors, audio and video equipment, and gadgets about whose purposes I could only speculate.

   Sally Druthers offered me a surprisingly comfortable stiff-backed chair then settled into a rolling leather desk chair. She picked up what looked like a medium-sized music box, opened the lid, and pushed several buttons inside. Three of the plasma screens came to life. One showed the street in front of the house. The second offered a view of the backyard while the third showed Vince and the JJ’s looking bored in the living room. From the angle of the shot, I figured out the camera had to be in or around one of the bizarre portraits on the wall.

   “This, um, is quite some place,” my head swiveled around the room taking it all in.

   “Have you ever heard of Steampunk, Mr. McKay?”

   Actually I had, not because I’m that cool or knowledgeable of a person but for the usual reason for someone in my line of work, I had covered a story about it. Six months earlier I had pulled a rare weekend shift and been assigned to cover an event called “Maker Faire” at the San Mateo County Fairgrounds. I had had a lot of fun getting sound effects of flying chairs and exploding bottles of Diet Coke mixed with Mentos, and my personal favorite, the power tool races.

   Steampunk had had its own building at Maker Faire. Apparently it was this entire movement dedicated to dressing up modern technology in the look and feel of the Steam age of the 19th Century. I said as much to Sally Druthers.

   “Steampunk is actually much more than that,” she said. “It’s also a literary movement that some people trace all the way back to H.G. Wells’ Time Machine.   As you can tell, Clarence was rather obsessed with it.”

   I couldn’t really tell from her tone of voice or mannerisms just how much Sally shared that enthusiasm.

   “So why did you want to meet with my brother last night, Mr. McKay?”

   “What?” I dropped the steel ball bearing I had picked up off the table in front of me. “I didn’t.”

   Sally hit another button inside the music box and an e-mail message popped up on the plasma screen nearest me. I recognized the message as identical to what was on the back of my business card that Vince had showed me at Red’s.

   “Ferry Building, 2 a.m., come alone and await instructions.”

   “Clarence traced the routing on the e-mail and said it appeared to come from your station account. He was so thrilled that you seemed to finally be taking him seriously.”

   Sally Druthers’ voice had grown cold at that last sentence. I started to wish I hadn’t agreed to leave Vince and the JJ’s up the stairs and on the other side of an electric locked door.

   “Now look Ms. Druthers,”

   “Don’t you Ms. Druthers me,” the woman had those linebacker eyes on display again. “My brother respected you. He said you were the only reporter in this god damned town who wasn’t on the take or who wasn’t seduced by the mayor’s impish smile and bonhomie. He really believed you two could work together as a team to expose Jingleheimer for the tool of the corporate class that my brother believed our mayor to be.”

   “Ms Druthers,” I tried again this time keeping my voice flat and level. “I would have loved to work with your brother on my stories but he seemed, how should I put this?, a little short on specifics the time I met with him.”

   “Then why have you sent him all of these e-mails encouraging him to keep digging?” She hit another button in the music box and the latest e-mail disappeared at the end of a long list of correspondence that appeared to go back and forth between my e-mail account and Clarence’s. They appeared to start the day after Druthers had first appeared at my office and I had blown him off.

   “Ms. Druthers, may I call you Sally? You may call me Sean,” she nodded but the football player eyes remained in place. “I met your brother once. Since then he has sent me six or seven e-mails. I replied to one of them. Frankly the last few e-mails from him didn’t make a lot of sense. I assure you that I haven’t mailed him anywhere near that many times and I promise you I didn’t send him that message to meet at the Ferry Building last night.”

   I expected her to call me a liar and start screaming at me. It crossed my mind for a flash that I hoped she wasn’t armed, perhaps with a 19th Century dueling pistol. Instead Sally Druthers put her head in her hands and started sobbing.

   “Ohhh no,” she was dabbing at her eyes with the hanky but it was no match for the flood of tears, “I was afraid of that.”

   “Sally, why don’t we both go back upstairs and tell all of this to the police.” I glanced at Vince and the JJ’s stewing in that creepy living room on the plasma panel over the fireplace. “They should know what’s going on.”

   The sobbing continued unabated but now she was shaking her head from side to side.

   “I don’t trust those cops. I can’t tell them any of this,” Sally raised her head from her hands. Her puffy red eyes stared at me with a startling intensity. “They work for the mayor.”

   “I know,” I held her gaze with one of my own. “But I’ve known Captain Smith since we were both teenagers. I trust him implicitly. And just between you and me, he’s no great fan of hizzoner either. You can trust him. I would stake my life on it.”

   “What about those other two?”

   “They’re both good cops and they’re not politically connected,” at least as far as I knew, I thought. “Why don’t we invite the Captain down here to join our conversation. We’ll see what he says about bringing in Detectives James and Jones.”

   “Don’t touch anything while I’m gone,” she shook a finger at me then pointed at the screen showing the three cops in the living room, “because I’ll know if you do.”

   “Yes, ma’am.”

   I stood as she left then made a wide circle of the room careful not to leave fingerprints on anything. I took a closer look at the magical music box. It had obviously started out as a real antique. The cover was blue and red with a gold inlaid pattern. The side included a real-looking silver wind up switch. I used a pen from my pocket to open the cover a little wider. Inside green felt covered everything including what appeared to be four valves from a trumpet. The felt concealed what must have been wires that led to the electronic workings buried deep inside. I pulled out my cell phone camera and snapped a couple of shots of the box both inside and out. I’m not sure why I took the pictures other than some vague sense that I wanted to have a record of this place. I started to upload them to my server when I noticed I had no cell phone or Internet reception inside this room.

   I glanced up at the monitor showing the living room. Even though the sound was off, it was clear the JJ’s were none too thrilled at the idea that they were going to be left out of whatever was going on the bowels of this home. Vince appeared reluctant to pull rank and order them to stay behind. I was confident he would convince them to go along with the program eventually.

   That’s when I noticed movement on the first plasma screen, this one hanging from the ceiling just over the fireplace. It showed the scene on the street in front of the home and appeared to be using a camera placed above the house, perhaps at the top of the chimney serving this very fireplace. I could see my red Focus covered with station decals and that of the sponsors who got on-air credit at the beginning and end of our live reports. Vince’s command SUV sat hard against the bumper. Then my greatest fear, okay my second greatest fear after Sally Druthers’ potential dueling pistols, appeared on the screen. A van covered with the white and red decals announcing Channel Five news, complete with microwave mast blocked the view of both vehicles then pulled in front of my car and stopped. While the technician worked to set up the shot, Cynthia Ito and her photographer, Fred Jenkins got out and started towards the Druthers home. I’m sure two of Cynthia’s first questions were going to be why my car was here
and where the hell is McKay?

   “Sorry Guy,” I thought as I saw the JJ’s head outside with a new task facing them, “looks like I’m going to be the story after all.”

-30-

Radio: Chapter Five: The Sunset

2010-09-05T22:50:08-07:00

Chapter Five: The Sunset
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    As I speed walked from Red’s back to my car, I called Isabella to tell her I would not be on scene to do the noon live shot. I told her which bites from the mayor and Mira to pull and that I would do the shot from the car. We also arranged for Mario to go over and babysit the scene until the body was removed.

    I was in my car on I-280 passing Mariposa when I asked Isabella to transfer me into talk with the News Director, Guy Gregg. Guy had been, well yes, the guy who recruited me to the station from Sacramento about eight years earlier. As I waited on hold, I pictured the boss in his wrinkled white dress shirt and stained tie sitting in his tiny office overlooking the newsroom. Chances are the trashcan was already half full of Styrofoam coffee cups and a mostly eaten doughnut leaving a sugar stain on the left side of his desk.

    Midday anchor James Myron was doing a story about the latest research into the city’s bed bug infestation on the hold system on the phone. In the middle of the word “infections” the line went silent and Gregg picked up the phone.

        “You better have your ass here by 7:00 tonight just like everyone else, McKay,” I could hear the boss unwrapping what I assumed was a Danish from the vending machine behind his gruff voice. “You ain’t gonna wanna miss this one.”

    “Can you give me a hint about what it’s about?” I continued on 280 over 101 and passed the Glen Park exit.

    “You goddamn newspeople are all the same,” I could hear Guy chewing on the Danish then washing it down with some cold coffee with a gulp. “You think you’re going to break the story before the meeting and spoil my fun. Well it ain’t gonna happen, McKay, so you can just go back to work and leave me alone.”

    “That’s not why I called, Guy,” I fairly shouted to catch him before he slammed the phone down in my ear. “I need to fill you in on the latest on this story I’m on. I don’t want you to be blindsided with it.”

    I slowed to get around the traffic backing up from San Jose Avenue and Gregg chewed and swallowed his Danish as I told him about the meeting with Vince and the simultaneous phone calls the police captain and I had received. I took the John Daly Blvd exit as I told the boss my current location and destination.

    “It’s our job to report the news, not to be the news,’ that’s what the old man always told me,” Guy resumed his own irascible tone as he quit the thick Irish brogue he always used to imitate Tony Escalante, the man who mentored him in broadcasting at a time when I was still mastering the physics of Tonka Trucks.

    “I know, Guy, but I could hardly have said no to the woman, especially after what happened to her brother.”

    “True, true,”

    “So whatcha think?”

    “You gotta run with it,” I could hear Guy licking the stickiness from the Danish off his fingertips which still wouldn’t keep it from gumming up the keyboard keys of his computer. “Just make sure you know where the boundaries are and stay at least half an inch inside them.”

    “Thanks boss,” but he had already hung up as I turned right on Lake Merced Drive and headed towards the Sunset.

    The Sunset is one of those euphemistically named neighborhoods San Francisco is so good at. If you expect a place to watch spectacular sunsets, you’ll be happy about 20 days a year and depressed the other 345. Actually the sunset comes sooner to the Sunset than in most other parts of the Bay Area when the late afternoon fog rolls in and obliterates the sun hours before the traditional siesta time ends.

    I made a right on Sloat then a hard left into a neighborhood just across the street from the Ono Hawaiian BBQ location. About a half of a block ahead I spotted a white unmarked Crown Vic that pretty much screamed “Cop Car!” parked illegally facing the wrong direction on the west side of the road in front of a white stucco home with red trim. I pulled up on the right side of the street in the legal parking pattern just as the top of the noon hour network news came on the radio.

    I dialed into the station as the network guy announced yet another “breakthrough initiative” sure to lead to peace in the Middle East. Sometimes I wonder if they don’t just pull old scripts out of the bin from a couple of years back to fill the time. I can tell you this, I will be chasing chicks in wheelchairs in the old folks home while some kid now in the elementary school a block away announces yet another breakthrough in that part of the world.

    I was halfway through my live-shot on the body on the feather and the Mayor’s “breakthrough initiative” to end crime in San Francisco when I saw flashing red and blue lights in my rearview mirror. I glanced back to see Vince giving me his “bad cop” stare from behind the wheel of his command car SUV. I gave him the finger, another advantage of live radio over live television, and finished my report.

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Radio: Chapter Four - Mr. Druthers

2010-07-29T10:50:35-07:00

Chapter Four: Mr. Druthers

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    While I tried to make sense of it all, the Embarcadero echoed with the incessant beeps of the fire truck as it took group after group of law professionals to see the sights of the waterfront and admire its newest attraction, “body in red mounted on giant plastic feather.”

    This took long enough for the sun to burn off all of the remaining morning fog as it rose over Yerba Buena island and reflected off the glass squares of downtown’s skyscrapers, throwing little flashes of light onto the crime scene. The television live van masts wilted under the solar glare as the crews packed up and left with the end of the morning shows. Soon the only reporters left on the scene were a couple of newspaper guys and me.

    I found a perch on the Bay side of the park where I leaned against a black and white three-quarter’s pole shooting up like a stunted beanstalk from the concrete sidewalk. “Tomorrow lies west” the caption on the art piece’s base read as I pulled my camera from the pack and focused in on the crime scene technicians searching the body.

    From this perspective, there was something familiar about the victim but I couldn’t place where I had seen the guy before. In the telephoto sight, the man’s eyes were still open staring at the bustling city to his west. The crime scene tech reached inside the victim’s red down-filled coat and came out holding what appeared to be a wallet. He put the find in a plastic evidence bag then dropped it the 60 feet to the ground. One of Vince’s detectives caught it. I wondered if that was really proper procedure but hoped that meant we would have a preliminary ID sooner rather than later.

    I snapped out of my daydreams as I realized it was time to cut up the latest sound featuring the mayor’s less than inspiring words. I fed in the bites then went back to the puzzle at hand.

    The scene brought several questions to mind. How did this guy get to the top of the feather and why would he climb the sculpture in the middle of a foggy night in the first place? Where would the shooter have to be to hit this guy? I assumed there were officers searching for a sniper’s nest using the line of sight data that would intersect with the hole in our dead fellow’s head. You might think the force of such a shot would have knocked the victim off the feather and sent him sprawling into the native grasses planted at the base of Cupid’s Span. What kept the body stuck in place?

    I was so focused on the scene above that I nearly fell over when the cell phone in my pocket began to buzz. I regained my balance while managing not to drop the camera onto the unforgiving ground.

        It wasn’t a call but a text message. I recognized the sender as Vince’s personal, not his city, phone.

        “Meet me at Red’s Java House in 20.”

        I recorded what the TV people call a “look live”, a short taped report that might fool the audience into thinking I was doing another live shot and fed it in for the top of the 11:00 o’clock hour then began my walk to Red’s.

        I jumped at the sound of a loud horn marking the departure of one of the city’s fire boats from its moorings just to the south of the Bay Bridge. My nerves were still shaky seconds later as I passed into the shade of the span then back into sunlight as I walked on the sidewalk past Piers 24, 26, and 28 before arriving at Pier 30/32, the home of Red’s.

        If Cupid’s Span was emblematic of modern San Francisco’s love of majestic pretension, Red’s was a reminder that this was once a working class city. The tiny white stucco structure first opened its doors in 1912 serving coffee and cheap food to the people who worked blue-collar jobs on and around the port of San Francisco. About 20 years after it opened, Red’s saw a new clientele, the hard hat workers who were charged with fulfilling Emperor Norton’s dream of a bridge connecting San Francisco with Oakland and the railroads that would link the city to the rest of the United States.

        I found Vince at his usual table outside facing the giant parking lot of Pier 30/32. Sometimes it’s hard to square the two young men who shared a dorm at Sonoma State with the not so young men we had both become.

        I’ll never forget the day I met him. I had walked into my assigned room, terrified at the prospect of sharing a space with someone I had never met. Vince had settled in a couple of days early since his parents had to report to their new duty stations at Fort Lewis in Washington State. His belongings were already in place, his bed made into tight square corners, his pencils, pens, and a large magnifying glass stuck into a white porcelain coffee cup on his immaculate desk. He was sitting at that desk, paperback book curled back, his eyes intense in concentration, his haircut as short and squared off as the blankets on his bed. I glanced at the card with my roommate’s name and then back up at the teenager sitting in front of me. He wore khaki pants, an honest to goodness polo shirt and leather loafers over argyle socks.

        Oh shit, I had thought, I’m rooming with a straight-ahead neat freak nerd. Later he had confided those were the exact first two words that went through his brain when he saw me. I’m sure I cut a figure his parents had warned him symbolized everything that was wrong with decadent civilian America. My dirty blond hair hung below my shoulders concealing a likely obscene rock-and-roll t-shirt. My ripped jeans would have earned him ten demerits had he ever had the temerity to wear them in front of Colonel Dad or Major Mom.

        We were each everything the other assumed he would despise so it came as a shock to both of us that we immediately became friends. Vince taught me to play golf, helped me study chemistry, and introduced me to the benefits of matched socks and clean underwear. I taught him to play guitar, to discover the joys of hacky-sack, and even the allure of a bottle of Jack Daniels and the thrill of a very occasional joint. When our classmates moved into off-campus housing in their junior and senior years, we chose to stay in the dorm together. Vince graduated near the top of our class in psychology. I made it through with a much higher GPA in journalism than I could ever have imagined without him.

        My friend had the exact same look of concentration on his face at his table at Red’s as he wore that day with the paperback book in our dorm room. This time he was staring at his notebook, running through the evidence he and his team had already collected. His haircut was just as short as it had been the first day of college but the dark black hair was now speckled with flecks of grey. The crease of his white dress shirt’s collar concealed a conservative red and blue striped necktie. Vince’s dark blue suit pants had two additions he had never sported in college, a gold shield on the left side of his belt and a service revolver in a holster on the right.

        “How does it feel to be taller than the most powerful people in this town?” I pulled the white plastic chair out from Vince’s table and sat facing him.

        “You’re an asshole,” the police captain tried but failed to suppress a grin as he looked up from his notebook. “One of these days I’m going to wipe that smirk off your face for good.”

        “And you’re a great judge of character, as always,” I smiled back at him. It felt good to exchange barbs with my buddy.

    “What will you two buzzards have,” Helda, a waitress at least as old as the bridge, interrupted our friendly sparring. I ordered a Danish and a glass of iced tea. Vince took a coffee, black.

        “So how the hell does someone get his ass shot while stuck on top of the most butt ugly piece of artwork in this city?” I watched Helda’s uneven gait as she pushed through the door to retrieve our orders.

        “Too soon to tell,” Vince flipped a couple of pages back to the front of his notebook then circled something that must have been important.

        “Any idea who the vic was and what in creation he was doing on top of that bow at four in the morning?”

    “His wallet says he’s Clarence Druthers, 45, of Noe Valley,” Vince pulled an evidence bag out of the inside pocket of the coat that hung from the back of his plastic chair and tossed it across the table at me. “As for what he was doing up there, I was hoping you could tell me.”

    The plastic of the evidence bag was slippery in my hands as I recognized the victim’s face I had seen through the camera’s lens. I looked through the clear side to see one of my business cards. The back read in shaky handwriting, “Ferry Building, 2 a.m., come alone and await instructions.”

    “Oh brother, not Druthers,” Vince almost laughed at my almost rhyme.

    “How do you know him?”

    “He’s been pestering me for weeks, telling me he has the goods on the Mayor,” I paused as Helda brought my Danish and our drinks. I stirred two faux sugars into my iced tea and savored the raspberry flavor in the center of my pastry.

    “Go on,” Vince tasted his coffee, winced, then gave me that look he once used when chemistry most bewildered me.

    “Vince, you gotta understand, I get this a lot from weirdoes who think I’m their ticket to vindication.”

    “I hear you. After all, we never get strange calls into the detective’s bureau. Everyone we deal with is strictly on the up and up.”

    “Okay, okay.”

    “So tell me the story of McKay and Druthers.”

    “It does sound like a rundown funeral home doesn’t it?” Okay, funeral home was probably the wrong image for this conversation. “I first heard from him in mid-August. It started with a series of e-mails. Something along the lines of ‘I know the true power behind the Smith Administration.’ Essentially teases with no evidence to back anything up.

    “I made the mistake of writing back asking him for proof. He grew hinky then implying it wasn’t safe to reveal too much.”

    “Wasn’t safe?” Vince’s pen paused above his notebook as he looked up at me and took another sip of his coffee.

    “He didn’t say anything specific about threats,” I grabbed a napkin to wipe the raspberry filling off my mouth then drank the last of my tea. “Come on Vince, you know how these guys can be. He started displaying classic signs of paranoia. ‘They’ were reading his e-mails. ‘They’ were following him on Muni. ‘They’ were tapping his phone calls.”

    “It doesn’t look so much like paranoia after this morning, does it my friend?”

    “I guess not. But admit it, if you followed up on every kook who called the squad, you would never have time to investigate real crimes.”

    “True enough,” Vince drained his coffee. Helda came over with a refill.

    “Who’s doing the notifications?”

    “We think he has a sister,” Vince sipped his refreshed drink. “We’re trying to track her down now. The JJ’s are on it.”

    If the mayor was J.J. to his admiring public, every cop in the department knew “The JJ’s” as Tommy James and Hector Jones, the homicide team with the best record of closures in the SFPD. James had been on the force since the days when they still busted hippie heads while Hector had come on board in the mid-80’s. Between them they knew every crook in the city and county of San Francisco. When that pair showed up on your door, you just knew bad news was just moments away.

    “I’m sure the JJ’s will be their usual sensitive selves,” Helda had returned with a pitcher of iced tea and poured me a refill.

    Vince had just opened his mouth to reply when both of our cell phones went off at the same time. We both conducted our conversations in whispers, hung up, and looked at each other with intense stares.

    “Oh shit, this is not good, not good at all,” Vince took a final sip of his coffee and stood.

    “I dunno, I think it’s pretty good for me, or at least for my story,” I got to my feet and used a napkin to wipe the sticky filling off my fingers.

    “You get the address?”

    “Sure did,” we each left some money for Hilda, put on our jackets and headed for the Embarcadero. “See you there in ten.”

    “Not good, my friend, this is not good at all.”

-30-

Book Passage Mystery Writers Conference Time and Place Writing Exercise

2010-07-25T18:57:09-07:00

Challenge: We were given a list of times and locations and asked to write a few paragraphs based on that prompt, I chose Present Day, Hunter's Point, San Francisco, Abandoned Dock

My entry:

You won’t find Heron’s Head park on any of the tourist guidebooks to San Francisco. The rumble of a big rig drowns my footfalls on the gravel parking lot as I start my approach to the edge of the bay. The truck fades in much the same way the squawk of the seagulls echo in and out as they circle overhead searching for food from the trash or fish in the water.

I close my eyes and imagine this place sixty years ago when the horns proclaimed shift change at the Hunter’s Point shipyards, the marching of work boots on concrete announced thousands of men and women stepping away from the victory ships as they felt the vibrations of the engines on the bus benches that would carry them to their quarters.

Today, those workers, like the war they helped to win, are gone and their battlefield has turned into a marriage of rust, refuse, and restored bird habitat.

My Entry in the 2010 Book Passage Mystery Writer's Conference Challenge

2010-07-25T18:52:08-07:00

The Challenge: Introduce a new character in three sentences. No physical descriptions allowed.

My entry:

“Game over, get ready to die,” the peppermint on the killer’s breath flashed me back to the gum my mother chewed to cover up the liquor when she kissed me goodnight. The cold press of the knife against my sweaty throat became my father teaching me to shave in the bewildering months after puberty. That’s when I relived the thrill of brandishing the razor at Pop the night he raised his fist at Mom and knew I had the determination to bring death to my would-be assassin.

The other entry I wrote which I chose not to read at the conference:

My instincts screamed earthquake as the vibrations radiated out of the sidewalk through my leather soles, up my calves, and echoed under my sternum. My brain processed the odor of burning rubber a few milliseconds before the buzzing in my throat assaulted my ears as a very low frequency bass rumble. It was the silence that buckled my knees when George killed the stereo, stepped out of the car, flipped the keys at me, and walked into the restaurant.

Radio - Chapter Three - Hizzoner

2010-07-21T20:28:02-07:00

Chapter Three: Hizzoner

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I don’t know if Sierra Myers plans a long career in public relations but she experienced the full gamut of the profession in the next 20 minutes.

Within about five minutes of my live shot that included her sound bite about hearing the fatal shots, first Veronica Peter of Channel Four, then Gary Benjamin of Channel Seven, then a couple of seconds later Cynthia Ito of Channel Five got calls on their cells. Within seconds of that they were searching the crowd for Sierra.

A camera from Channel Eleven actually found her first, still sitting on the bench where I had left her smoking and staring out at Treasure Island. A few things happened in rapid succession after that. First, the cigarette was gone. Second, she stood up and pulled out a hair brush. By the time Sierra had finished with the third thing, getting presentable for the TV cameras, Channels Four, Five, and Seven had all arrived creating an honest to goodness media event. Since I had already enjoyed a little tete-a-tete with Ms. Sierra, I just hanged back and watched.

It appeared to me that everyone got the money sound bite, the one about hearing the gunshot and the moan but whatever Sierra may have wanted to tell the world about the perils of oil tankers or the imminent destruction of the planet at the hands of evil Homo Sapiens was left in mid-air because with a shout of “Hizzoner” from a truly dastardly domesticated primate, mayoral toady Guy O’Bannon, the entire pack picked up in mid-sentence and rushed over to where John Jacob Smith, Mayor of the City and County of San Francisco stood with his back to the bridge, not to the sculpture whose recent embellishment we were all there to talk about.

Smith, known as “Mayor J.J.” to his sycophantic admirers and “Jingleheimer” to the rest of us, stood about five foot six and weighed barely 135 pounds. He wore a dark black suit complete with vest and a tie that suggested he was serious and somber all at the same time. He shifted from side to side on his Oxfords while he waited for the TV cameras to get into position. At the age of 40, Smith fancied himself destined for higher office, maybe Governor or even a candidate for President of the United States. If Mr. and Mrs. Smith every actually went to Washington, I would rent a kayak from the vendors at McCovey Cove and start paddling towards New Zealand.

For this, I joined the media circus, grabbing a small mic stand from my bag and positioning my big microphone flag front and center of the TV shot on the wooden podium O’Bannon had already set up.

O’Bannon affixed the seal of the city and county to the front of the podium and then arranged the visuals for the news conference as if he was a florist preparing a mob funeral. The aide held out his hand to indicate where Police Chief Catalina Gonzalez should stand just to Jingleheimer’s right shoulder. Vincent tried to hang back but Gonzalez was having none of it. The chief ordered him into the frame much to the displeasure of O’Bannon who didn’t want anyone looming over the Mayor. With a six inch height differential, it would be hard for Vince not to overshadow most people, let alone the scrawny Smith. My old friend saw my smirk at the dance and gave me one of those dark gazes that used to accompany a loss in our drinking games in the Sonoma State dorms. I tried to look serious but I’m sure I failed.

O’Bannon didn’t have to worry about either the height or stature of the man standing to the mayor’s right shoulder. District Attorney Michael Eisenberg was even shorter than the diminutive mayor. San Francisco prosecutors are notorious for their inability to win major cases. It’s a problem that’s gone on for years over the tenures of several D.A.’s. Even so, Eisenberg’s office had set records for futility, losing nearly two-thirds of all felony cases put before a jury. Sure, juries in the city are often filled with liberal do-gooders who would rather see a bad guy given a chance at rehabilitation than good, old fashioned punishment but even these citizens will render a guilty verdict if they’re overwhelmed with evidence.

There is one crime that will see the full fury of the law come down on you if you commit it in the D.A’s presence or that of his minions. If you use the “M” word, you know the one that’s often used to describe “little people” whose employment possibilities once consisted merely of circus or carnival sideshows. Saying the world that rhymes with “Gidget”, especially in relation to the Chief Prosecutor might see you facing hate crime enhancements on top of whatever else Eisenberg’s people could concoct.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the mayor raised his arms as if he was the ringmaster at a circus that would have, in another era, featured Eisenberg in a clown’s get up and Chief Gonzalez doing summersaults off the back of a black stallion.

Smith’s next words may have announced the coming of the lion tamers for all we knew because as soon as he started speaking, the loud beeps from the descending fire truck basket drowned out whatever he had to say. The TV news photojournalists pressed a hand to their earpieces and turned to scowl at the offending sound.

Qion Fang pulled the evidence gloves off his hands as he enjoyed what must have been a most scenic ride from the top of the span to the grassy park below. His van was waiting for him at the bottom and the M.E.’s assistants had a stretcher ready for the return ride to pick up the body. I was sure that before that happened, Vince’s dicks were going to want to ride to the top to take a look for themselves followed by the crime scene specialists. We were in for a heap of beeps before this thing was over.

O’Bannon rushed over to the Battalion Chief to tell him to put a kibosh on the beeping until Hizzoner was finished.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, and Children of All Ages,” okay, the mayor didn’t really say the last two thirds of that except in my twisted imagination which I tried to turn off as a professional and just pay attention to what he really was saying.

“We come to you today despite these tragic circumstances to announce a major crackdown on crime in our fair city,” Smith beamed with pride as he paused in turn to gaze into each of the cameras in front of him. “I have directed Chief Gonzalez and District Attorney Eisenberg to put together a task force to come up with a new strategy for preventing crime, targeting our worst offenders, and bringing them to justice.

“San Francisco is a great city, a world-class city, whose citizens have the right to enjoy our nightlife, our culture, and our vibrant business environment free of fear, free of danger, and free of failure.”

Jingleheimer droned on for another five minutes in this vein before wrapping it up with a kicker that none of us really understood until much later.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Smith fingered the gold timepiece dangling from the chain attached to his black vest and put on his most serious expression. “Communication is the key to making this city the safest in the country and eventually the safest in the world. This task force will be looking at new ways to communicate with our citizens and more importantly listening to what they have to say. San Franciscans are the smartest, most well-educated, and most civic-minded people I’ve met anywhere. Getting them even more involved in the community will help us all stay safer. I believe in San Francisco and I know you do too. Thank you for coming today.”

I felt like shouting, “We didn’t come out for you asshole, we came because some poor schlub took his last breath while climbing on a fake bow and arrow.” I didn’t say that out loud of course.

“Chief Gonzalez,” I did say not just out loud but louder than all of the TV reporters could shout their questions, “what can you tell us about the victim today? Any indication of how he got to the top of the span?”

The chief started to answer but O’Bannon cut her off. He wasn’t going to let me derail the message his boss had come all the way down Market Street to deliver.

“Cynthia,” O’Bannon fingered his yellow polka-dotted bow tie then pointed to the Channel Five reporter. “I believe you had a question about the task force.”

“Mayor J.J.,” Ito gushed. “Where did you get the idea for this new innovative new initiative?”

“Well Cynthia,” Smith turned his smile up about 3.5 megawatts as he beamed into the Channel Five camera, “as you know, I recently visited Japan and China. In Japan, I saw a society built on tradition and respect and with very little violent street crime. It inspired me to see what we could do to build on that success right here in the gateway to the Pacific.”

“But Mayor,” I couldn’t resist, “isn’t part of the reason for the lack of random street violence in Japan the total hold on the underworld of organized crime like the Yakuza? Is that the model for San Francisco?”

“Certainly not, Mr. McKay,” the mayor and I are clearly not on a chummy first name basis like J.J. and Cynthia. “I believe we can learn from the Japanese experience and improve upon it.”

The other TV reporters and a scribe for the Chronicle each took turns throwing out softball questions for their friend J.J. although to be fair the newspaper guy did ask about new strategies to improve Eisenberg’s winning percentage.

When the news conference came to an end, I joined the TV shooters at the podium where we went through the ritual of untangling our microphone cords and I collected my recorder. As I turned away, O’Bannon was at my side.

“I’ve had about as much as I can take of your know-it-all attitude, McKay,” the weasel hissed in my ears. “But that’s okay, because before very long, I have a feeling you’re going to be out on the streets looking for new work. You’ll sure wish you had friends in this town then.”

“They say a dog’s a man’s best friend, Guy,” I laughed in the mayoral aide’s face, “and I would take a rabid pit bull’s companionship over yours any day.”

“You’re laughing now, McKay,” O’Bannon wagged his finger at me. “We’ll see how you act by the end of the week.”

“You know why I’m laughing now, O’Bannon?” I covered my mouth with my hand to hide a mock giggle. “It’s the bow tie. Yellow polka-dots, really? On a man of your age?”

The aide stomped off, then returned to the podium to collect the seal and then trotted behind Jingleheimer back to the mayoral limousine for the ride to City Hall.

I found Mira and got an update from her on what Qion had found including confirmation of the single gunshot wound to the forehead. The fire truck started its loud beeping again, this time taking Vince and his detectives up for a close look at the victim.

I returned to my car where I did a live shot on the mayoral appearance and then cut up more sound bites to send in to the station.

As I worked, I thought about O’Bannon’s threats. He might have been an insufferable asshole, but a fool he’s not, yellow polka dots notwithstanding. I wondered if there was a connection between his taunts and what I might learn at tonight’s mandatory station meeting. The mayor’s remark about communication, about listening to the citizens of the city also tickled my subconscious.

I knew I had some ammunition with which to fight this battle. I just didn’t suspect then that the most powerful weapon I had was sitting folded up in my bag next to the polemics of the Earth Defender’s Front.

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Radio - Chapter Two - Cupid's Span

2010-07-19T07:51:27-07:00

Chapter Two: Cupid’s Span
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I stepped around a drunk sleeping it off in the alley between Mission and Market and sidestepped a pair of 20-something entrepreneur types who were gesticulating wildly about the next big thing in the cloud while ignoring those of us stuck here on the ground and made it back to my car. I stepped into the red Ford Focus, started the engine and slipped my laptop out from under the passenger seat. I plugged it into the cigarette lighter and dug my digital voice recorder out of my pack. I copied the room ambiance and the interviews onto the computer hard drive and went to work.
    Within a few minutes I had put together five decent sound bites that could run with an intro and an outro, something we call a reader-act. I turned the radio down in the middle of a cooking segment and recorded a couple of rosers, short for “reporter on scene” stories making it seem like I was still standing in Lucky Leoung. Well it least it did when I mixed the room sounds underneath it.
    Once I had everything put together, I dialed Isabella and told her I was ready to feed. She turned me over to Mario, a nice kid still in college who worked part time for us as a tape editor. He took my download and when it was over said Isabella needed me pronto.
    “Cupid’s Span,” Isabella’s voice was back in my ear with all of the warmth of a Lake Tahoe skinny-dip.
    “Aw, I think that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me,” I deadpanned.
    “Shut the fuck up and get your ass over there right now,” she said. “You know, the stupid fucking bow and arrow pointing straight down into the goddamn Embarcadero.”
    “On my way, sweetie,” I had already put the car in gear and turned it towards the east.
    A year after September 11th, when the rest of the world was still reeling from the “Fight of the Century” featuring in the blue corner Osama bin Laden and in the red corner George W Bush, the artist Claus Oldenburg unveiled his new 143 foot tall sculpture of the bow and arrow. He dedicated it to San Francisco as the “home port of Eros” whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean. It being San Francisco, you can’t actually see the tip of the arrow because that might imply that the damn thing was going to shoot someone. Instead the feathers of the arrow are the most prominent feature. As I pulled up to Cupid’s Span, I saw that that day the sculpture had an embellishment that would have made Oldenburg faint.
    I got out of my car, slipped my headphones on, and dialed Isabella.
    “Okay, I’m on scene. Ready for air when you are.”
    “You’re gonna pay for calling me Sweetie even if I have to mug you when we’re both standing in the unemployment line,” she couldn’t quite keep the smile out of her voice. “We’re in spot right now, I’ll send you up there.”
    Most people might think it premature doing a live report since I hadn’t actually talked to the police or sought out any witnesses or knew what the fuck was really going on. But this was all-news radio. Who needs facts when they’ve got my eyes?
    “We’re 45 out,” Eddie picked up the line. “We’re coming straight to you out of the breaking news sounder. Just do your normal sig-out when you’re done.”
    “Got it, thanks,” I took the moments to survey the scene. Uniformed officers were putting up crime scene tape blocking off pedestrian access to the sculpture. I spotted my old college roomie turned police captain Vincent Smith huddling with a group of detectives and pointing at the top of the feathers.
    Suddenly serious music filled my ears followed by our booth announcer Dudley Anderson’s most stentorian tones announcing breaking news from Bay Area Radio News.
    “This is Bay Area Radio News reporter Sean McKay live along the Embarcadero in San Francisco,” I said. “San Francisco police are now investigating what appears to be a man’s body wedged into the feathers of the Cupid’s Span sculpture, 140 feet above Rincon Park.”
    I went on to describe the scene including the impact on traffic in the area. Just before signing off, I noted the arrival of the coroner’s van saying that seemed to confirm appearances that the victim was dead.
    After the live shot, I grabbed my microphone and voice recorder and snagged a 12.1 megapixel camera out of the side pocket in my pack.
    Yes, you heard that right, a radio reporter using a camera. These days though, it’s important to take snapshots at stories to add graphics to the report on our web site. In order to make journalism a halfway paying concern, it’s not enough to just paint sound pictures anymore. I took a couple of wide shots framing the bowstring of the sculpture around the deep blue waters of the bay and the looming concrete and metal of the Bay Bridge.
    I waved at Vince but he just shook his head indicating he couldn’t talk and pointed at Sgt. Mira Hansson, the newly appointed Public Information Officer or PIO. Vince pointed his thumb at his right ear and his pinkie at his mouth indicating I could call him later. He then moved with his detectives to a pair of young white kids in their late teens or early 20’s who were sitting handcuffed on the grass about 20 feet away from the span.
    I showed my press credentials to the uniformed patrolman guarding the outer perimeter and moved closer to the center of the sculpture. I could see a pool of dried blood directly under the body staining the steel bow.
    As I greeted Mira, loud beeping drowned out our words. We both turned towards the street where a huge San Francisco Fire Department Tiller Truck, sometimes called a “hook and ladder” backed onto the sidewalk. Assistant Chief Medical Examiner Qiong Fang walked over to talk to the fire captain who had just hopped out of the passenger side of the truck. The each took turns pointing at the body on the feather.
    “What do we know?” I asked Hansson.
`    ”We got the call at 7:35 a.m.,” she consulted her notebook then spoke into my microphone. “A couple of witnesses,” she nodded to the two young handcuffed dudes, “reported the body at the top of the arrow. It seems they were shimmying up the bowstring in heavy fog in order to hang a protest banner from the span. When they got to the top, the fog lifted long enough for them to spot the body.” Mira made a slashing motion across her throat and I paused the recorder.
    “To tell you the truth, Sean, we’re damn lucky we didn’t have three bodies. Those kids almost shit their pants when they saw the body up there and we’re fortunate they didn’t fall off.
    She twirled her fingers in a circle and I started the recorder again.
    “The witnesses say it appeared to them the victim had suffered at least one gunshot wound to the forehead although we won’t know that for sure until the medical examiner looks at the body.”
    We both looked back at the Tiller truck where Fang was now climbing to the bottom of the ladder and struggled his way onto the platform. The operator then extended the basket into the air at a very slow pace until the assistant M.E. was eye level with the body.
    “Oh shit, here comes the pack,” Mira said as three competing television live trucks showed up on the scene simultaneously.
    “You can blame me for that,” I had already put away my microphone and taken a couple of more photos of the fire truck and the two handcuffed witnesses. “I did a live hit when I pulled up on the scene which their assignment editors certainly heard. You know the drill.”
    Mira rolled her eyes then pulled out a hair brush to get presentable for the cameras. I checked my watch and saw that I had about five minutes until the top of the hour when I would need to do another live shot.
    After the hit, I fed in the sound with Mira and went looking for witnesses. The first couple of people I encountered were just your standard looky-lou’s who didn’t know anymore than I did. Less, in fact. Then I hit paydirt. Standing out from the crowd because she was sitting down, a young blonde woman of about the age of the two guys Vince’s boys were questioning sat with her head in her hands on a park bench looking out towards Treasure Island. She wore a green army jacket with the Earth Defender’s Front logo embroidered onto the back. Smoke from her cigarette curled into the moist air.   I figured at that moment San Francisco’s outdoor smoking ban enforcement wasn’t top of mind for any of the authorities on the scene.
    “Pretty unbelievable, huh?” I sat on the park bench next to her. She took a long drag off her Marlboro Red then ground it into the concrete base of the bench with her heel. Her eyes were red with tears but they stared at me with an angry intensity.
    “You a cop?” She tried to sound defiant but couldn’t quite pull it off.
    “Nope, a reporter.” I showed her my press credentials.
    She shook her head. “You’re the reason I’m supposed to be here this morning. Reggie and Devin knew they would probably be arrested so they asked me to come out and talk with the press about the reasons behind our action.” She pulled out a stack of flyers on green and yellow paper and handed me one of each. She also produced a surprisingly professional looking business card that identified her as Sierra Myers, Spokeswoman for the Earth Defender’s Front.
    “Okay,” I said as I pulled out my microphone and hit record. “What did you see?”
    She stared at the microphone for a beat, then shrugged and began to answer.
    “I think, I think we heard the dude get shot,” she paused. I nodded silent encouragement so the recorder wouldn’t pick me up urging her on. “It was about four in the morning. We rode our bikes over and were just stowing them when we heard a loud bang. I thought I heard a moan right after that, but it was foggy and Devin said I was hearing things. He said the bang was probably just a backfire echoing across the water from the Bay Bridge.”
    She told me about unpacking their banners and attaching them with oversized curtain hangers to the bowstring. She stayed on the ground as lookout while Devin pulled his banner up one side of the bow and Reggie went up the other side.
    About twenty minutes later, she heard Devin let out a scream. The next thing she knew the banners were sliding back to the ground followed moments later by Devin and Reggie.
    “I can’t believe this is happening to us,” Sierra was now shaking as she reached for another cigarette. It took her three tries to get the lighter to catch, then she took a deep drag off the smoke. “We just want the world to know how dangerous it is for the planet to have oil tankers coming in and out every day through the Golden Gate. We thought this action would wake some people up.”
    My phone buzzed so I thanked Sierra and walked out of earshot. It was Isabella telling me they needed another live hit at the bottom of the hour and giving me word from our city hall reporter, Sheila Barrera, that the Golden Boy himself, our mayor, was on the way to the scene.
    “He must have heard there are cameras here,” I said.
    “Why the fuck else would he go anywhere?” Isabella said.
    “Okay, I’ll keep an eye out for Hizzoner,” I was now back to my car and unpacking the laptop. “But first I’ve got some exclusive sound from a witness who says she heard the shot. I’ll send you one bite for my next hit and then a few more bites for reader-acts.”
    While I edited the sound, I wondered what the hell the mayor was really up to. This kind of high profile crime would do nothing for the tourist trade or his ambitions for statewide office. What was his real agenda?
    In case you can’t tell, I love my job, in fact I can’t imagine not doing it. I knew I was going to be more than pissed if the station was going under and we were all getting fired. After working my way up the ladder through jobs in smaller markets including Eureka, Reno, and Sacramento, I had arrived in San Francisco where I was privileged to work with some true pros. Many of them were assholes and a few might say the same about me, but we had a good group that put out a great product. But I knew that didn’t amount to much in the minds of the corporate fat cats and bean counters who just look at the bottom line.
    As I waited on hold for my next live shot, I took Sierra’s business card and flyers and folded them inside my pack next to my already forgotten lottery ticket.
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