The most exciting part of my job at the Plain Dealer was when I received a tip from an unknown source.
It was when I knew that an investigation that I’d been working on was about to take a turn, usually in such a way that it would crack wide open.
The scariest part of my job as a journalist is having a clandestine meeting with an unknown source offering a tip.
This morning I’d received a message through my blog that someone had information about my investigation into Tia Wetzel. They want to share it with me, but only in person. I’m pretty gutsy, but fear of assault and death was real. Not everyone who claims to be helpful is. On top of all that, it could well be a ploy by Pope to get me in a dark corner of Cleveland to:
Warn me.
Scare me.
Intimidate me.
Eliminate me.
I shook my hands, trying to get rid of the tremors of fear. I needed to let down my guard and pull out the big guns—literally. I picked up my phone from the dining room table where I’d been trying, unsuccessfully, to trace the anonymous email on my laptop.
“I know I probably shouldn’t call you,” I said when Loren Logan answered, “but I need your help.”
“You’ve never called me before.” I couldn’t tell if he was happy or annoyed.
“I’m sorry,” rushed out.
“No need to apologize.” Logan was brusque. I had to wonder if he was surrounded by other cops in the bullpen. “What do you need?” he asked, finally.
“I got a call from an anonymous source,” I started, then paused realizing how crazy it probably appeared.
“Like Watergate?” he asked confirming how cloak and dagger I sounded.
“Hopefully not like Watergate. They asked me to meet.”
“Where? When?”
“The Flats. In forty-five minutes.”
“You want me there?”
“Can you? Be there, I mean? I’m supposed to go alone. But you’re a cop. Surely you can somehow find a place to lie low. Just to keep an eye out. I’m about ninety percent sure it’s legit. But if it’s ten percent craziness, or even a Pope setup. I don’t want to die. Not for a story.”
“Tell me where and when. You won’t see me, but I’ll be there.”
During my career, I’d once reported a statistic on American mortality. The likelihood of living to tomorrow is ninety-nine point nine percent for all of us. Somewhat reassured about the likelihood of me seeing the morning, I increased the chances that I could die by nine hundred percent once I got in my car and drove from the east side of Cleveland to the corner of Elm Street and Washington in the center of the Flats, a warehouse district restored.
As I walked on Elm toward the underside of the bridge called the Superior Viaduct, I tried not to think of the horror movie that shared the same street name. I didn’t want this to me a nightmare.
I zipped my moto shearling up to my neck, trying to keep the snowflakes from melting on the back of my neck. I should have worn the parka, but I wanted to be both warm but have my legs free to run if it came to that. I had no plans to go down like a horror movie victim, my legs pinned down by stuffed nylon. Everyone knew black women died first.
“Blake Tatum?” The voice was male, gruff, older, startling me from thoughts of my demise. I turned to see the source. But he was hiding in the shadows. Probably couldn’t have picked him out of a lineup, if Logan asked later.
“That’s me.”
“I read your blog.”
Was I supposed to say “thanks”? I couldn’t decide, so did what I did best, remained silent.
“You’re never going to get Lori Pope. She’s like a house mouse. She gets in and out, only leaving damage behind,” he said.
“So why are you here? Did you build a better mousetrap?” I waited a beat, couldn’t resist asking what I really wanted to know. “Why do you think we’re targeting the county prosecutor?”
“In the future, you’re going to want to firewall your blog. TypePad is easy to hack.”
“Hack?”
“I’m the kind of person who reads the back of the book first. So I made a way in to read the blogs before you publish them.”
I had no way of knowing whether this guy was telling the truth of whether my site was vulnerable, that my TypePad host didn’t have proper protections in place.
Didn’t make much of a difference because there was nothing I could do while wind blew off the Cuyahoga River, and snow continued to dust my hair, shoulders. I’d left my hat in the car.
“Either you have something or you don’t.” I called his hand.
The man held out a large yellow envelope, the generic kind every stationary shop sold, untraceable. I stepped forward, grateful I’d at least had the presence of mind to put on boots with some kind of traction, and took the envelope.
“Is there some way to contact you?” I asked flipping the envelope, blank on both sides.
“No need. It’ll be everything that you need.”
“So justice is your reward?”
He laughed. “Something like that. You better be getting home before the weather turns bad.”
“I hope my thanks are in order.”
He gave a two-finger salute, spun on his heel like a soldier, and disappeared right into the shadows. If I hadn’t been holding that envelope in my hand, I’d almost have thought I dreamt the whole thing.