11

From: Casey Cheng

To: Rose Armitage

What about this for series title, or is it too corny?

“The Shooters Among Us—A News 9 Special Report”

Also, pulled this bite from a network package from May, can we arrange to use?

CHYRON: Professor James Ferrer, UCSD Global Health Gun Violence Working Group

FERRER: Mass shootings of the kind that get the lion’s share of media attention are a very small percentage of gun deaths in America—we have to stop looking at these incidents as the template on which we base our gun policy, because they are relatively rare. We can’t just look at one aspect of this problem. It is multifaceted and complicated, and we need to come up with a variety of strategies to effectively address it.

B-roll, I’m thinking ambulances, police tape, shots of victims. Think we need to not just pull from Morena shootings. What do you think? Am I going too big fat wide here?

–Case

Thomas Ricci’s sigh was audible through the phone. “Okay,” he finally said. “You come down, I’ll talk to you. You can talk to the other employees too. We’ve got nothing to hide. Just … can you keep it on the down low? I don’t want to freak out the customers.” Then he laughed. “Though truth is, we’ve had more people showing up here since the thing with Alan. Pretty sad, right?”

But typical, Casey thought. She was just taking Diego; no need for Rose on this shoot. Rose had other stories to work on, and there was no hit time for their package yet.

It was such a luxury, having this amount of time to work on a story, something she’d never experienced before. One of the benefits of getting shot. Also pretty sad.

She’d polish up her script based on what they got today, and with any luck they’d cut something together tomorrow. And if Jordan and Gloria liked it, they’d do a few days of promos and slot it in a prime spot on the six o’clock news.

Of course they’re going to like it, Casey thought. She’d gotten Helen fucking Scott on camera, talking about her son. No one else had done that.

We’ll wrap this one up and on to the next, she thought, as Diego pulled the car over to the curb about a block up from Highsmith’s. She was getting back into the flow, she could tell, the fog clouding her brain burning off, the pain receding to the background.

“What are you smiling about?” Diego asked.

“Just … we’re kicking ass on this, aren’t we?”

“Pretty much.”

And it felt good she thought. She felt good.

Nearly ready for surfing bulldogs, even.

They’d use a GoPro for the interior shots of Highsmith’s, if Ricci would let them shoot in there at all. Casey wasn’t sure they’d even need the footage. A bunch of old furniture, who cared?

“Alan worked on the thrift store floor, primarily.”

Ricci looked to be in his fifties. Graying hair, weathered face, and forearms that suggested he spent a lot of time outside when he wasn’t buying and selling dead people’s belongings. They sat in his small office, which, if Casey had to guess, was decorated with items plucked from various estates, most with Tiki themes—mugs, statuettes, some retro surfing prints on the wall.

“What kind of employee was he?” Casey asked.

“Reliable. Meticulous. Most of what he did was sorting and shelving. He worked really hard trying to keep things in some kind of order. I’ll be honest, there’s a lot of junk up there and new stuff coming in all the time, but he did his best to keep it neat.”

Casey thought of Chastain’s room, of its tidiness and lack of clutter. His mother had said she’d put things back the way he liked them. Well, being neat doesn’t mean you’re crazy. And even if he was OCD or what have you, that didn’t make you go out and shoot people.

“Did Alan have any close friends on the staff?” she asked.

“Not that I know of. He seemed to like working on his own.” He shook his head. “It’s the biggest cliché, right? Quiet kid, kept to himself. Never caused any trouble.”

Until he did.

All the other employees said variations of the same thing. He was quiet. He worked hard. We went out for beers after work once.

Nothing earth-shattering, but good for a couple of quick hits.

After, she decided to poke around a bit as Diego shot some B-roll. Physically, she was still feeling good, the best she’d felt since The Event. Maybe she could get a better sense of what the creep’s workday here had been like.

Downstairs was the “estate” section, the bulk of it taken up by furniture. The store was big, bare-bones with concrete floors, undecorated save for framed paintings and prints on the walls that were also for sale. Most of it didn’t look particularly special: the kind of matching bedroom sets you bought on sale at a low-end department store. A few customers wandered around, checking out the prices. Two workers in red T-shirts, guys she’d already talked to, hauled boxes into a freight elevator.

In the center of the floor there was a square of counters with a cash register and some glass display cases. Jewelry. Watches. Were those wedding rings?

She kept walking. On the other side of the display counters and cash wrap were ranks of industrial shelving filled with … stuff.

Lamps. Figurines and statuettes. Souvenir ashtrays. Dolls. Vases and pitchers. Hamilton Mint plates. Clocks. Old cameras. Glass and ceramic vases. DVDs and CDs. Portable heaters. Boom boxes. Cat-shaped bookends. Cloisonné salt and pepper shakers. A couple of clay busts that she guessed were the work of high school art students. Matching mugs signed Dave and Laura, decorated with twining flowers and hearts. Oversized nutcrackers, an Elvis and a Santa Claus. A giant bottle of champagne—what was it called, a double magnum?

Bought for a celebration that never happened, she thought.

All this stuff, cleared out of dead people’s homes. What among these objects had been meaningful to their owners? What was just random clutter that had built up over time?

If I’d died, what things of mine would have ended up on shelves like this?

Her side had started to throb. She really didn’t want to look at any more of it.

But I should go upstairs, she thought, and see where the little asshole worked.

Upstairs were rows of low metal shelves sitting on worn linoleum, overflowing with more stuff. San Diego Padres giveaways, bobbleheads of players that were long gone, old hats and cheap gym bags and backpacks with cracked vinyl trim. Broken-up sets of cheap dishes, giveaway glassware, bins of mismatched silverware, pots with the lid knobs missing, piles of clothing, old shoes and battered toys and cheap skateboards. Dust was everywhere—on the stuff, on the shelves, in the closed air.

How could you possibly keep this in order? Had there ever been any order to begin with?

I have to get out of here, she thought. Get outside. Go lie down.

She decided to wait for Diego in the Highlander. Quarter after four and I’m done for the day, she thought. She walked slowly up the empty block toward the car.

The marine layer was coming in, June Gloom on schedule. Shorts and zip-up hoodie weather.

I’ll go home, get into my PJs, and call for some takeout, Casey thought. Maybe Thai. Or maybe pizza. Pizza actually sounded wonderful.

Another good thing about stepping back on the oxy: her appetite returning.

They’d parked the car in front of a gourmet coffee roaster, closed now. Too bad, she thought briefly, she could use some good beans. She got out the key fob for the Highlander and heard the lock click open.

“Hey, are you Casey Cheng?”

Her heart slammed in her chest, and she almost dropped the fob. She turned, off-balance, half stumbled, felt the car door at her back.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

White guy. Mid to late twenties. Stocky, even a little overweight. Brown hair cut short. A sprinkle of pink acne across his cheeks.

She straightened up, gripping the cane tightly. He wore sunglasses, so she couldn’t see the intent in his eyes.

If he takes a step closer, scream. Hit him with the cane. Right in the nuts.

“The street’s so quiet,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting … wasn’t expecting anyone.”

He gestured down the block, toward Highsmith’s. “Were you talking to them about A.J.?”

“A.J.?”

“Alan Jay. That’s what he liked to be called. Alan Jay or A.J. Not Alan Chastain.”

“You knew him?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I work at the Quik By. He’d come over for sandwiches.”

Her heart was still pounding hard. “It sounds like you two were friends.”

He shrugged. “I guess, maybe. We ate lunch together sometimes.”

Do your job, she told herself. “We’re putting together a story about Alan. Would you be willing to be interviewed?”

She could read the hesitation in his face, even behind the sunglasses. But there was eagerness too. Like there was something he wanted to say.

“Because I know there was more to him than … than what he did. We’d like to find out who he really was.”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“You wouldn’t have to be on camera if you don’t feel comfortable with that.” They could film him in silhouette, maybe. Or worse comes to worse, she’d just quote him in a voice-over or stand-up.

He shifted back and forth. “I guess I’m not really comfortable talking about him,” he finally said.

“Well, look, let me give you a card.” She had several stashed in her blazer pocket. You never wanted to fumble around in a purse in situations like this and give them too much time to turn it down. “Just email or call if you decide you’d like to talk. We can handle it any way you want.”

He took the card. Looked at it a moment and shoved it in his pants pocket.

She glimpsed a tattoo on his forearm. A circle with two crossed lines inside, like a plus sign, with a little star in its center, woven lines snaking around the inside of the circle. Where had she seen something like that before?

“What’s your name?” she asked. “So I’ll know it’s you?” She smiled at him. A little extra charm never hurt.

“Lucas,” he said. “My name’s Lucas. I’ll think about it.” He smiled back, a little awkwardly. “I promise.”

He probably won’t call, she thought, watching him cross the street, heading toward the convenience store. Which on the one hand was too bad. She thought he was telling the truth, that he really did know Chastain and was friendly with him. She had a feeling he might even have something interesting to say, something beyond Alan kept to himself and was a hard worker.

And he’d approached her, hadn’t he?

Which led her to the other hand: the panic she’d felt when he’d surprised her. She rarely sweated like this, the drops rolling down her back, soaking her blouse, collecting around the abdominal binding she still wore. She leaned against the car door, feeling utterly drained.

I am getting better, she told herself. It’s okay and understandable to be a little jumpy. You don’t always know with strange men, what their intentions are. And if he really was Alan Chastain’s friend, who knew what he was like?

Lucas who works at the Quik By. Easy enough to remember. Worth a follow-up if there was time, she thought. As much as even thinking about that made her stomach lurch.

He had one good beer left in the fridge, a Sculpin. He wasn’t a big drinker anymore. Tonight was the right night to have it.

He popped it open and sat down on the couch. “Here’s to you, A.J.,” he said, lifting up the bottle. He took a long pull. It tasted so good.

It was so fucking tempting. It would have been easy.

He felt around for the master control unit and found it between the couch cushions. Switched on the TV. A Viking show on the History Channel; that would work.

She’d been right there. Right there! It would have been awesome to finish what A.J.’d started. To fucking shoot that stuck-up cunt between her slant eyes.

Or better—in the gut. So she’d have time to bleed out and feel her pain, feel her life ending.

The Vikings were attacking an Irish village. The battle scene wasn’t half bad for the History Channel. Plenty of extras. Lots of swordplay and real-looking blood. Some good deaths. The decapitation looked a little fake though.

His hand grasped the grip of the 9mm SIG PRO in the concealed carry holster tucked in the front of his work khakis. Nobody knew he had it. It was against the law. Against company policy. Which was bullshit. Convenience stores got robbed all the time. If someone came into his store with a gun, he wasn’t pushing any alarm, he was shooting the motherfucker.

Not that he’d have to worry about that for much longer.

Killing that bitch would have been stupid. She was too high-
profile, and he would have been right in the frame.

But he knew he needed to practice. Find a target he could hit and not get caught. So he wouldn’t hesitate when it was time to rise.