Читать книгу A Memorable Murder - John Schlarbaum - Страница 6

There was turmoil inside and outside the television studio. For the people who hadn’t witnessed the shooting, the immediate interest was that of a motorist passing an accident. Their dismay at narrowly missing out on the year’s biggest story wouldn’t hit them until they heard the news at their office or were asked by a security guard if they had seen The Nation Today.

For those who’d stood next to the mysterious orator (who now lay face down on the sidewalk at the base of the microphone), only one question ran through their collective minds: What if I had asked the first question?

The smiles they’d been wearing when the outdoor camera’s red light flashed on had been replaced by lost expressions and tear-stained faces. Their once-waving and animated arms now hung silently at their sides. Those not openly showing their emotions stood uneasily, shifting from foot to foot, unsure of what to do next.

What if I had asked the first question?

He was dead. Everyone knew this. There was no need for a good Samaritan to step forward to comfort the man. He ceased to exist the moment the shot rang out. He wouldn’t have to worry about money problems, finding a job, finding romance or simply trying to keep going until the sun rose again.

He also wouldn’t have to carry the horrific memory of seeing a man shot in the head as he was about to ask a question on a network morning show.

What if I had asked the first question?

Stanley Unger stood so close to the window that the fog his breath produced on the glass obscured his view. He didn’t seem to care as he absently watched the scene before him. As the newly appointed producer of The Nation Today, he knew he was to blame, or that he would be blamed for this. It had been his suggestion to go back to the winning formula that had suited the show in the mid-60’s. It was his idea that the public should see what goes on behind the scenes and allow them to be part of the show, instead of merely as observers. He’d pitched these radical ideas to the network bigwigs who decided they had nothing to lose. That was why they had hired the 32-year-old hotshot from the competition in the first place. Although $15 million to renovate the main studio seemed a bit excessive, it was a better idea than replacing one of their hosts. In the past that tactic had temporarily boosted ratings until the public caught on the show remained virtually the same. Interchangeable talking heads couldn’t hide that detail.

“Have the police been notified?” Stanley asked no one in particular.

“They probably saw it on TV like the rest of the country,” a voice in the background mumbled.

Stanley slowly turned and surveyed the group who made up the crew. No one moved. Stanley fixed his unflinching gaze on a television assistant who stood near the set. The TVA wore a smirk on his face which he unsuccessfully tried to hide. Stanley saw through the charade and was not amused.

“What was that, cue-card boy?” Stanley asked. “You have something to say?”

“Not really,” Carl Taylor replied. “It was—”

“What—a joke? Is that what you were going to say, Carl?” Before getting a reply, Stanley was running full-out toward the man. Members of the crew grabbed Stanley as he reached his target. “You won’t be laughing when you’re looking for another job after the network shuts us down!” He twisted his way out of the burly arms that held him back and returned to the window.

“Calm down, Stan. This wasn’t your fault,” a production assistant said.

Stanley wanted to throttle her.

You don’t have all the facts yet, he thought.

He had to keep his attention focused. Blowing off steam at a bunch of unionized technicians wasn’t going to help in any way, so he began to do what he’d been hired to do: take control.

Seeing that both police and ambulance had arrived, his first directive was to pull the curtains across the wall of windows. Onlookers had begun to press against the glass hoping to catch a glimpse of anyone they recognized from the show. This type of voyeuristic atmosphere was not what Stanley needed. He next ordered the entire crew back to their positions.

“If we go live again, I don’t feel like hunting down a cameraman or a tape guy who thinks he can slack off because the rest of today’s show is cancelled.” Stanley looked at the crew before him. “And under no circumstances is anyone, regardless of how low on the food chain you are,” he said glaring at Carl, “to talk about what has happened to anyone. That means no calls out of this studio or the control room for personal reasons. Is that clear?”

A muttering of agreement came as the reply.

“One more thing.”

The sternness drained from Stanley’s face as he watched the curtains close off the outside world.

“I know some of you are really shook up and that’s understandable. However—and don’t think I’m a cold, unfeeling prick for what I’m about to say—we are in the news business. There is a time to reflect on this horrible incident, unfortunately, now is not that time.” He pointed to the curtains. “If you thought we were in a fishbowl when the show began, you had better believe that bowl has now been transformed into a giant microscope.”

With the crew looking nervously at each other, Stanley left the studio and briskly walked up the hall toward the newsroom. His head felt like it was about to detonate.

What happened wasn’t your fault, he repeated to himself, although not totally convinced. A random act. It had to be, because nothing like this ever happens in real life.

He pushed his back against the wall and took a deep breath. His entire body began to shake. He lifted a hand and watched, mesmerized, as it quivered uncontrollably. Painfully aware that if his connection to the dead man became known his days in the industry would be over, he summoned his remaining strength and walked into the newsroom to face his peers head on.

* * *

Through a stroke of luck Jason Morris and Susan Donallee were at the anchor desk. The two anchors, whose Q-rating for recognition amongst the viewing public rivaled Brian Williams and Katie Couric, had been scheduled to do an early morning promotional shoot for the new fall campaign. On any other news day, these two network powerhouses wouldn’t have been anywhere near the studio until early afternoon.

This small gift from the heavens only momentarily soothed Stanley’s nerves as he began to contemplate the significance of what they were telling the viewers at home.

“Not since Lee Harvey Oswald was killed in the basement of a Dallas Police Station has a televised murder been seen by so many people,” Jason said with a grim expression on his face.

“That’s right, Jason,” Susan cut in. “Back in 1963, however, there were only a small percentage of TV sets in use and the signals were broadcast mainly for the North American viewing public. Today with satellites and cable, a network’s signal is truly global. Although millions will have seen this tragedy unfold throughout the country, there is no way of determining how many untold more witnessed it around the world.”

Where the hell did she pull that out of? Jason thought. What a load of crap. I’ll show her. Take this, honey.

“For those of you old enough to remember, at the time, Jack Ruby claimed he shot Oswald in a fit of passion out of concern for Jacqueline Kennedy, as he didn’t want her to have to return to Dallas to suffer the further ordeal of a trial. Was today’s shooting also an act of passion? As a reporter covering the crime beat for many years, I can tell you that for a woman—such as today’s shooter—to gather the internal strength to carry out such an act of violence, it is highly probable there was a relationship between her and the victim. Was this an act of jealousy? Of love? Revenge? Or simply an act of passion?” Jason paused dramatically before adding, “We may never know.”

The camera had slowly zoomed into a single shot of Jason, thus not recording for posterity Susan rolling her eyes in disbelief at what she was hearing.

Great, she thought. The crusty old crime reporter turns pop psychologist. What’s next, Jason—a psychic reading?

The director (who playfully thought of airing Susan’s theatrics before being outvoted by the other control room technicians) cut back to a two-shot when Susan had sufficiently regained her composure.

With live reports such as these, there were no scripts to follow. There was only one rule that had to be followed at all times: Don’t blink.

As the shooting had taken place during one of the network’s shows, it was quickly decided that, as a duty to the audience, there would be no commercial breaks. With the two nightly news anchors already in the building, the decision not to use the morning show’s newscaster was pretty simple. During a major crisis the public didn’t want to see a former football jock giving them updates and analysis. They wanted the best money could buy and that happened to be Jason and Susan.

A news anchor is like a computer: information in equals information out. Along with having the director and production team giving them updates and subject ideas in their earpieces, the anchors have to contend with their surroundings. Only a few feet away from the set there was a small army of people running from desk to desk, furiously typing copy or on the telephone. Each person had a job to do, which today entailed only one thing: to make the anchors appear knowledgeable. Promotions and raises hinged on one’s performance during a crisis situation.

Using all available land lines, cell phones and smart phone devices, reporters and junior news directors tried desperately to schedule guests who could give their “expert” opinions on why the morning’s events had occurred. On the line at various times were police sergeants, psychologists, criminal behaviourists, car experts, gun dealers and so forth. Susan would have smiled to hear the psychic who was claiming she knew the identity of the killer and that it was not a woman! The reporter who had the misfortune of taking her call insisted he didn’t think they could afford her services.

“Not at $4.99 a minute in any case!” he’d laughed, before putting her on hold indefinitely.

Stanley watched the media circus unfold in front of him. Listening to the anchors relate the recent events over and over made him nauseous. It was the phrase, “Not since Lee Harvey Oswald,” that stuck like an ice pick in his mind.

This thing is bigger than the Kennedy or Reagan or Lennon shootings, he thought.

There were millions of witnesses who had seen it happen—live—and he now believed he’d been party to the whole thing.

Feeling physically sick for the first time, Stanley rushed to the nearby men’s room where he vomited violently. As he lay partially on the floor at the base of the toilet, he gave thanks the room was empty.

A short time later, he pulled himself off the tiled floor and walked to the vanity, where he splashed water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror, noticing his paleness and realizing that being sick was only part of the reason.

As he stared at his mirrored twin, he saw raw unbridled terror looking back at him. He tried to banish the image from his head as he exited into the hallway. Yet, he could only think that if he couldn’t look at himself now, how would others view him if the truth ever came out?

He shuddered at the thought and decided that now was an excellent time for a smoke.