“In an exclusive report, T.O. TV News has learned that a third homeless person in less than a week has been murdered in the Humber Valley,” Alison said, looking straight into the camera. “The victim this time was Ms. Melissa Copeland, the ex-wife of well-known city councillor Karl Hodgson. Her body was found on the grounds of the Humber River Golf Club, where three years ago Hodgson killed a homeless man who had tried to rob him.”
The legal department at the TV station had carefully vetted Alison’s script. It was true that Hodgson had killed a homeless man, but the lawyers cut out any reference to the fact that he’d been tried for murder.
She was standing on the sidewalk in front of Hodgson’s enormous house. Now, as she’d rehearsed a few minutes earlier with Krevolin, she turned and pointed while he followed her arm with his camera.
Alison kept speaking: “After Hodgson divorced Melissa Copeland, he obtained a court order to prevent her from coming back to her home or from seeing her daughter. Sadly, Melissa, once a top lawyer at one of Toronto’s largest firms, ended up on the street. Homeless.”
Krevolin panned the camera back to her. Alison put on her most serious face.
“Three homeless people murdered in the Humber Valley, just blocks away from where I’m standing. Right now, people in this neighbourhood, and the estimated ten thousand homeless people across the city, are living in fear. Reporting live, on scene, this is Alison Greene.”
She stared directly into the camera and waited for the red light to go off. The approved script read “the city’s homeless,” but she’d added the phrase “estimated ten thousand” on her own. If she was going to do her job, which meant she was going to have to exploit this situation, she was going to make sure she made a statement.
“Well done,” Krevolin said, pulling the camera off his shoulder.
Alison unpinned the mic on her shirt. “It feels dirty.”
After her dad gave her this scoop, even though it was the middle of the night, Alison had called her boss and told her what had happened.
“Hodgson’s ex-wife? Murdered?” Persaud had asked, immediately alert. “At his golf club? Are you sure?”
“Yes. My source is totally reliable.”
“Wow. And you say she was a lawyer who became homeless? This story’s going to go viral.”
“I’ll get Krevolin and rush over to the golf club for a live hit.”
“Absolutely not,” Persaud said. “You’ve got this amazing scoop. Hodgson’s ex, homeless while he lives in a mansion. The big house—that’s what people want to see. This is TV. Images tell the story.”
“But what about their daughter? She’s only eleven.” Alison knew how it felt to suddenly lose your mother and could imagine the horror Britt was about to go through.
“Like it or not, she’s part of the story.”
“But her mum was just murdered. She’ll have to wake up to that terrible news. It will be awful enough. She doesn’t need our van parked outside her front door.”
“Alison,” Persaud said, “this news is going to get out in the next hour if not sooner, and the other stations will descend on that house like a pack of hungry wolves. Do you want to be there first, or do you want to be stuck in the crowd?”
Alison sighed.
“Listen to me,” Persaud said in a stern voice. “I took a chance on you last year because I thought you were going to be a fearless journalist. Sometimes you have to do the dirty stuff.”
Alison knew she was right. A year earlier she was a journalism school dropout who had stumbled upon the high-profile murder of one of the city’s top condominium developers. Persaud believed in her enough to let her run with the story, and Alison did such good work, it had led to this job.
“Okay,” she said, “but I’m not mentioning their daughter’s name. That’s where I draw the line.”
“Agreed,” Persaud had said before she’d hung up.
Alison looked back at the Hodgsons’ home. She had to admit, filming here made the story. All the curtains were drawn across the many windows. She hated to think of what was going on inside and the emotions of Britt, who just last night was the star of a party held in her honour.
“Time to go,” she said, helping Krevolin pack up his gear. “I don’t want that little girl to look out her window and see us parked right outside.”
“Noble of you, but it won’t matter.” He pointed down the street.
Alison saw two other TV station trucks zipping up the road. Behind them were a bunch of cars with radio station logos plastered all over them.
“Here come the hairy hordes,” Krevolin said.
Alison grabbed one of Krevolin’s bags. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” she said. “Pronto.”
She stepped in the TV van, and her phone buzzed. An incoming text. It was from Burns.
“Well done!”
“Thanks,” she typed back.
“The ten thousand homeless. Right on.”
She nodded. She had come up with an idea for a story and was determined to do it. He could help her.
“I want to do a story on homeless women in the city. When can we meet?”
“In an hour.”
“Where?”
“Fahrenheit. I’ll take you to a nearby women’s drop-in centre.”
“I can’t wait.”