Scrolling down, Chloe reached the end of the microfilm, and then slapped the side of the antiquated projector with an open hand. She’d missed the date she wanted to read by one stinking day. Although the microfilm box said it was here, it was inaccurate. One day. Her frustration wasn’t just with the process of loading and threading the old microfilm, but with the fact that many of the boxes had been mislabeled and misfiled over the years. In a day and age when almost everything pertinent to anything had been transferred from this archaic example of a manual, inefficient system to a navigable website, she was amazed that the City of Lansing hadn’t followed suit. She understood budgets, but this was ridiculous.
Added to that was the fact that she was exasperated and delayed in finishing research on Alan Gordon’s murder. One thing she’d learned, and learned over time, was that local stories and information dealing with a specific historical event had better insight, at times, than the cops.
Most reporters had their sources, even the bad ones, and speculated far more than law enforcement.
Admittedly, journalism had evolved to the point that most of it was irresponsible and codeless. In the past, reporters tried to protect the subjects of their articles as much as possible. Not in this day and age. Reporting had become blood in the water, let the sharks loose, and to hell with the consequences sensationalism with an almost intentional disregard for the total truth. Another reason she’d almost completely stopped reading newspapers.
But what she was seeking was far more personal than the current-day definition of journalistic reporting.
There was more information somewhere, and her experience, if not her intuition, whispered that it was so. She simply had to find it. That was why she was going through this total pain in the ass method of searching old newspapers. She wanted to see what the locals had written about the horrible murder. Maybe some local reporter had had better luck than the cops turning up something.
With another sigh, Chloe took out the next microfilm from the dilapidated, discolored box, looked at the date on the roll, and loaded it into the wobbly reader’s feeding slot. She turned the black knob and watched the header go up the screen until wonder of all wonders materialized. The screaming headline told her she’d hit pay dirt. Her elation was quickly exchanged for a creepy, disconcerting reality.
LOCAL STUDENT FOUND VICOUSLY MURDERED
Funny. She’d read a thousand headlines and not many had struck her with its pure authenticity like this one. Behind this headline was far more than print and yellowing paper, but a young man whose promising future had been stolen from him. Alan Gordon may have lived a simple life, raising a family and growing old with the woman of his dreams. That was probably likely, on some level. He would probably have experienced his fifteen minutes of fame, but chances are, nothing more, at least as the world sees fame. Yet, what if that wasn’t true? What if he’d been the one that God had designated to cure cancer or bring about a world of peace or discover the way to visit other galaxies with the flip of a switch?
She continued to stare at the screen. Manny’s voice quietly added to her own. She could imagine him saying that hundreds of kids die each day and any or all of them could change the way the world does business. But we can only help the ones who let us. Nothing more, nothing less.
Chloe shook her head, bit her lip, and scrolled down to the main story, praying that stories like this one would eventually disappear, for eternity.
The reporter was a name she recognized. Eric Hayes was the reporter from the Lansing paper that Argyle had killed on a cruise ship just before they’d captured him two-years ago, or maybe he’d captured them. At any rate, she wouldn’t have remembered except for the terrible crime scene pictures of the long, bloodied knife sticking through one side of Hayes’ neck.
Great. More pleasant memories strolling down serial-killer lane.
Reaching the main article, she dissected each word. Hayes had written a decent piece. His facts were close, with the usual small, detailed inaccuracies of getting information secondhand or from the infamous “source,” but he did the story justice. He’d even thrown in a few quotes from first responders to the scene.
Turning the knob, the next frame came into view.
Chloe frowned. Below the end of Hayes’ story was an editorial with the caption: COPS FAIL TO STOP VIOLENCE.
It was written by a staff reporter. Generally, when the term staff reporter was on the tagline, the commentary was written by someone who didn’t want to be named or a newbie who was being given the opportunity to dip into the world of reporting.
She leaned closer to the dim screen and began reading. There was no question that this person had a proverbial hard-on for the LPD. The writer used the terms incompetence and favoritism, and even claimed the police in Lansing had been instructed to ignore certain complaints coming from rich-bitch areas of town that contributed heavily to political concerns on the force.
The commentary seemed to be an angry rant, and she was about to go back to Hayes’ story to see if she’d missed anything when the next line of the editorial forced her to read on.
. . . Take the murder of poor Alan Gordon. This reporter interviewed several bystanders and subsequently the two people who’d found his body. They were visibly shaken by what they’d stumbled upon, yet were also puzzled by the LPD’s lack of interest in what they had to say. When they began to offer information, including the fact they’d heard a motorcycle roar down the street opposite the park just as they stumbled upon the body, a detective, later identified as Gavin Crosby, asked the woman to stop speaking and set up an appointment to come down to the station. He told her to get her story straight then come and see him. She said he then walked away, talking with another detective about how many kids he knew with motorcycles without even asking her name. Good citizens of Ingham County, this is what I’m . . .
The article finished how it started with almost incoherent ranting, yet Chloe had gotten something. Something she hadn’t counted on. Something Gavin had said.
She reread the part of the article that portrayed Gavin walking away. The alleged quote by Gavin bothered her. One key word more than the rest.
Why would Gavin say what he said regarding how many kids he knew with motorcycles?
Kids? Why not just people? Was it just a generalization? A slip of the tongue? Or had he known something else?
There was only one way to find out.
After she packed up her bag, she turned off the machine and headed for the door. Chloe felt her anger grow, even though she was trying to control it. She felt betrayed with the lack of Gavin’s total honesty, as she saw it.
Her Irish ire wasn’t going to let this one rest. There was no mistaking in her mind that Gavin had more knowledge about this case. It was time to find out what.
As she reached the front door of the library, she walked outside, pulled out her phone, and dialed.
It was time for another talk with her boss, and this time, she wanted the truth.
*****
Gavin’s phone vibrated, and he took it from his suit-coat pocket, expecting it to be from someone in the office. He was almost right. Chloe Williams’s number flashed on the bright screen, begging him to answer, it seemed.
He’d been right to turn her loose on this file. Manny would say it was to resolve a deep-seated injustice and to help him reconcile a sense of guilt. He’d be half right. The injustice was never very deep, never far from his thoughts, even when it should have been, but he did want to set the record straight. No, he needed to set it straight.
Watching the screen, he reached out his forefinger, hesitated, and then declined the call. He switched off the phone, sat back in his chair, and waited. He had never been particularly philosophical; he just simply did what it took to get the job done over the years. Yet, if he’d learned anything during his life as an officer, he’d learned that escaping what was rightfully yours, what your actions truly owned, was impossible. Karma could be a bitch, as they say, but it was far more than that. He supposed there were other words for Karma, but in the end they all meant the same thing.
Fate, destiny, truth, even God’s will were all in the mix for what the next few hours held, and he was accepting of that.
Chloe’s work had made that easier.
Picking up his briefcase, he left the room.