“Now we’re talking,” Bobby Land whispered to himself, nodding, as he watched the woman in the black Audi argue with the cop. He recognized her, all right. That was Jane Ryland, the reporter, the one who had been fired or whatever, but she was still a hotshot, and hot, too, for someone her age. Was she his ticket to a new life?
He couldn’t hear her, or the cop, but their bodies showed they were all about arguing. It was like watching one of those old silent movies, where you knew what was going on just from how they were acting. Jane had pulled up to the crime scene tape in front of the University Inn and was leaning out the driver’s-side window, pointing toward the park. The cop was taking off his sunglasses, giving her grief, waving her off. She showed him something from her wallet, sticking it out the window. The guy shook his head again, pushed it away with both hands, turned to the other cars.
What was the big problem? Jane was a reporter, the real thing, every-fricking-body knew that. Obviously needed to get to the “scene of the crime.” She called out to the cop, yelling at his back. Now she’d opened the door and got out, engine running, and walked up to the cop, still talking. Chick had balls.
“Let her through, moron.” Bobby spoke out loud, since the cop couldn’t possibly hear him. This could be Bobby’s big break. He could see it now—Jane would go over to check out the dead guy. Bobby’d go up to her, tell her the deal. Say what he saw. See if she’d be interested in seeing his photos. Correction—in buying his photos. If they were any good.
His whole entire future might be contained in his little camera.
He must have gotten something. He didn’t actually think about what was on the other side of the lens, not while he was shooting, he just click-click-clicked and checked later for the results. In this kind of on-the-spot breaking news, the action was so fast you couldn’t take the time to think. Just point, shoot, and hope.
He watched Jane continue to negotiate with the cop. He felt like he could call her Jane, he used to see her on TV when he was still in high school, and they’d watched her online story about bad adoptions in his journalism class and—hey. From the corner of his eye. Now what?
He watched two obvious cops, leather jackets dead giveaways, sidle through the crowd, moving quickly and deliberately. Where were they going? Seemed headed toward that alley by the bank. Maybe better to follow them? What if they were on the way to a big takedown, and he could get the whole thing on camera? That’d make his career, right there. Oh, yes, I got photos of it all, he’d say to Jane. How much will you pay me for them? Two hundred dollars, maybe. Three.
He checked his battery, fine, plenty of juice. Now Jane was handing the guy a cell phone, maybe she’d called someone to convince the cadet to let her through. Maybe she didn’t need his help and he should—where did the two plainclothes cops go? He eyed the crowd till he finally saw them, the skinny one and the preppy one, poised on the curb, focused down that alley. Someone, or something, was back there, no question. No one else seemed to care about those two, all the morbid onlookers still fascinated by the dead guy. But he, Bobby Land, had the eye. His mother always said so.
Cops? Or reporter? Which would be more useful to follow? Which would give him the faster claim to fame?
* * *
With the help of a credential-confirming phone call from the Channel 2 assignment desk, Jane finally negotiated her way to the perimeter of the crime scene. She’d left her car at the University Inn, given ten bucks to the hotel’s valet guy to watch over it.
She paused, taking it all in. A nothing day, early June, lunchtime. That shockingly blue sky Boston sometimes lucked into. There was always the first moment at a murder scene, always having to juggle the stress of getting the story with the realization that someone’s life was over. Her job was to report what she saw, what she heard, what she could discover. An odd career choice, really, to be the eyes and ears of the public. Observer, always, never a participant. And because it was “news,” she had to do it as quickly as she could. A constant series of assessments, decisions, choices. Perceptions. So much of reality wasn’t what it seemed at first glance.
Cadets had grouped spectators into packs of five or six, obviously taking names and info. That meant each and every one of those people was a potential eyewitness. A potential interview.
She’d record their sound on the Quik-Shot, the little video camera the station had given her. The size of a cigarette pack, unobtrusive, but wide format and surprising quality. The days of the hulking photogs lugging huge cameras were over—Jane could point and shoot and get it on the air, what they called a one-man band. The photographers’ unions weren’t happy about it. But it sometimes made things easier.
Jane pulled out the Quik-Shot, crossing mental fingers. Nothing like the first time using unfamiliar equipment. Nothing like trying it out with no practice. At a murder. If the red light was on, was that good, the universal signal for “camera rolling”? Or bad, the universal sign for “warning”? Jane would roll off a few shots, then check for audio and video quality.
They hadn’t moved the victim yet, good thing. She got as close as she could, pushing through the looky-loos, then pointed the lens, rolling off thirty seconds as close up as appropriate—no blood allowed on Channel 2 News, so medium tight was all that would air. Then a wider shot, showing all the medics, then even wider, showing the crowd. Pan across to reveal the number of people. Tight shots of a few on their cells, a few others clicking off photos.
She was taking pictures of people taking pictures. Very twenty-first century.
The medical examiner was already there, meaning someone had died. Kat McMahon might slip her some inside info, if she could get to her. The two women still weren’t sure of each other, still skittish about their conflicting responsibilities—Jane’s to tell and Kat’s not to—but Jake had let it slip that Kat and DeLuca were an item. So there was some solidarity in mutual professionally iffy behavior.
What had happened here? Jane would need to ask around, see if any of the onlookers saw anything revealing. She’d look for tweets, too, and Facebook posts. She could imagine the texts. OMG, I’m at a murder! The cops were certainly trolling for video, too. And they had dibs. Unless Jane got lucky.
Wide, medium, tight. Pan of the crowd. Establishing shots. She hit the double backward arrows—that had to mean rewind—hit Stop, then the one forward arrow, and after half a second of snow and a twist of color, saw the whole thing again on the tiny screen. Okay. It worked.
She stopped for a moment, the sun hot on her hair. An empty brown paper bag caught the breeze, fluttered, and flapped away. Someone had left a big phone book on the bench. Cops were everywhere. Was there anything she’d forgotten?
Across the street sat the grotesque gray stone façade of the monolithic Boston City Hall, a controversial and unattractive expanse of concrete and double-tall plate glass. She shot the exterior to illustrate the irony that this crime occurred right under the noses of the city officials. She zoomed in to one window in particular. The mayor’s office.
Mayor Elihu Holbrooke—or someone in his office—could probably have seen what happened right from that window.
She tucked that thought away for later. This wasn’t going to be her story, she reminded herself. She was a per diem. A freelance. A TV temp. Not that anything in TV wasn’t temporary.
Now the interviews. She scouted the onlookers. Saw a possibility.
“I’m—” Jane began.
“Yes, I’ve watched you on TV, Jane,” the woman said.
Bingo. Jane aimed the little camera.
“Could you tell me what you saw?” Jane had chosen the woman—khaki linen suit, possibly-diamond stud earrings, and leather briefcase—because she was reasonably well dressed, looked like she spoke English, didn’t seem in a hurry. Profiling, sure, but the key was to get usable sound bites, articulate, containing actual information. Emotion, if you were lucky. Jane was also careful about diversity. It all mattered, requiring more judgment than simply sticking a mic at some random face. Unless that was your only option.
“I suppose so,” the woman said.
To keep the context, Jane composed her shot so the circular park and the wide-open doors of the ambulance were in the background. This time of day, the sunlight was impossible. The only choices were squinty eyes or glary backlighting. Jane opted for sun on the woman’s face.
The woman blinked at Jane a few times. Took a step away from the camera. Jane stayed put. No need to crowd her.
“Ma’am?” Jane said.
“I was getting lunch at the corner, at the counter,” the woman began.
Cor-nah, coun-tah, Jane heard. So, a local. Good. “Then what?”
“I heard yelling. There’s always commotion around here, with the traffic and tour buses and all, and my office is up there, on the third floor of the bank.” She gestured behind her. “I’m used to it, so I got my takeout, as usual, assumed it was a…”
Jane let her talk, tried to keep her camera steady, hoping something usable was coming. The woman’s back was to the murder scene—if it was a murder—so Jane could keep track of any changes while the woman talked and shift the camera if necessary. In the viewfinder, the video appeared black and white, which made it a pain to keep track of individuals. Still, the main attraction would easily recognizable: the one laid out on a stretcher. Jane had to get the money shots, the one of the victim getting loaded into the ambulance and of the ambulance driving away.
She supported her threatening-to-be-weary camera arm, holding her elbow with her left hand.
Nothing could stop her now.