FRIDAY 10:38AM
Jerry sat in The Chronicle’s dark basement, Darla’s flowery scent hanging in the air. Both times they talked, she sucked all the oxygen from the room, becoming the absolute focus of all his thoughts. And now they were going to dinner? Being honest with himself, Jerry found her interest in him surprising and unexpected. They didn’t appear to have much in common. But she was cute. No, more than cute; Darla was a knockout. And her lack of self-awareness? Jerry found that amusing, almost charming.
And Busby really shouldn’t have slapped him. Yeah, Jerry got sidetracked trying to find out what happened to Rick, but in the last month, Buzz had become more erratic and less fun. Did she do him a favor by breaking up with him? Jerry doubted he would have the guts to dump her.
His thoughts returned to Darla. What were her parting words? Jusqua seekay new new retrovision? He typed the phrase and variations into Google Translate but came up with nothing.
He powered off his phone. Back to work.
The Chronicle didn’t publish on Sundays. The next paper after Peggy’s death was Monday the 16th, where he found her obituary. Peggy was a townie from East Stuyvesant, but no information on how she died. He scrolled through the rest of the week but learned nothing.
Jerry booted up his laptop and checked the website of the local newspaper, The Stuyvesant Whig. But their free archives only went back six months.
Jerry used his phone to take a photo of Peggy’s obit, and an idea occurred to him. He checked the 1984 calendar. The year had three Friday the 13ths: January, April, and July.
He grabbed the microfiche roll covering March and April 1984 and inserted it in the machine. He scrolled to the April 14th edition. His heart skipped a beat. Another death!
Franklin “Frank” Hearst, a junior and business major, died on campus the previous day. Again, no details on his death. Frank’s obituary appeared in the following Tuesday paper. Another local who had lived in Fulton County, the next county over.
Jerry swapped out rolls, moving onto the January. He scrolled to the 14th. His throat tightened as he read about yet another death. This time it wasn’t a student: Wayne Copeland, 52, an employee of the university’s physical plant, who lived in Stuyvesant. Jerry scoured the next three editions of the paper, but no more information on Copeland’s death was forthcoming.
Three deaths, all on Friday the 13th, and no details. Surely, Vanessa would approve the cost of subscribing to The Whig’s archives. Or he could see if the U library had a subscription or copies.
Jerry scanned the microfiche for 1983 (May) and 1985 (September and December) but he didn’t find any additional Friday the 13th deaths.
He had two, maybe three stories. The article Vanessa wanted: a historical look at the deaths at Van Buren. But he had discovered, with Darla’s help, the connection between superstitions and the recent deaths on campus, and the three deaths from 1984. He began composing one massive article that covered all his research.
Jerry was deep in thought, typing away, when a voice called out, “Williams, you down here?”
“Darla, is that you?” Jerry kicked himself mentally. She wouldn’t call him Williams. The voice was Busby’s distinctive eastern Tennessee drawl.
The lights flicked on. Busby stood at the bottom of the stairs wearing a gray Van Buren sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers, her hair up in a messy bun.
She crossed her arms. “Who’s Darla?”
“Uh, nobody.”
Busby eyed him suspiciously. “And why are you hiding down here in the dark?”
“I’m not hiding. I’m working on a story for The Chronicle. Why are you here, Buzz?”
She blew out her breath. “I wanted to apologize about last night. I overreacted. Sanchez, of all people, helped me see that. But you aren’t easy to find. You’re not answering your phone or replying to my texts.”
Jerry held up his phone. “I turned it off, so I could focus.”
“What else is new?” Busby frowned. “Anyway, last night I was upset and with good reason. I was worried about Rick, but I shouldn’t have slapped you. Or said what I said. I lost it, and I wanted to apologize for my behavior.”
Jerry absentmindedly rubbed his cheek. “That’s okay, Buzz. I understand. It was a stressful situation.”
“No,” Busby snapped. “It’s not okay. Normalizing violence is never okay.”
Jerry wasn’t going to argue. “You’re right. I accept your apology.”
“Is there anything you want to say to me?”
Jerry studied Busby’s demeanor. Her lips were pressed tight, head tilted, arms still crossed. She wanted to hear the same from him.
He shrugged elaborately. “I’m sorry that I got caught up in the story. I should have been more attentive to your needs.”
Busby grinned. “That’s my Williams.”
She stepped forward and started to loop her arms around Jerry, but he put up a hand and stopped her. “I forgive you for slapping me, but when you said we were through—”
“It was in the heat of the moment.”
“I get that, Buzz. But you can’t expect me to hear that and it not have an effect.”
Busby crossed her arms. “You’re saying you want to break up?”
“I don’t know what I want at the moment, Buzz. I’m dealing with a lot. Noah and Cassie and—”
“And Vince.” Her voice became small. “Yeah, I get it.”
Busby’s phone buzzed. “That’s my parents. They want me to meet them at the hospital. Rick’s getting discharged, and we’re taking him back to his dorm. I’ll text you later?”
“Sure.” Jerry shrugged.
Busby dashed toward the door, stopping at the stairs. “Do you want the lights on or off?”
“Off is good.” Once again, Jerry was plunged into darkness.
* * *
In The Chronicle newsroom, Jerry watched the faces of the staffers huddled around his terminal, reading his story. Fallon furrowed her brow. Laurie squinted through her glasses; her blue eyes filled with disbelief. At 6’ 6” Brandon towered over the others. He suppressed a smirk.
“Well?” Jerry looked at his colleagues.
Fallon laughed. “Remember when you said that you didn’t think Vanessa would publish my review? Well, your chances are a hundred times worse.”
Jerry scowled. “Are you saying there’s something wrong with my writing?”
Fallon shook her head. “Of course not. You’re the best writer on staff. Except for me.” She used her feet to push her roller chair back to her desk. “The historical research about World War I and Prohibition is a significant find and would make for an interesting sidebar. But that other stuff...”
“Other stuff what?”
Fallon puffed up her cheeks and blew.
“What about the rest of you?” Jerry counted on his fingers. “Three deaths on Friday the 13th? Doesn’t that pique your interest?”
“It’s a coincidence.” Brandon shrugged. “People die every day. It would be weird if no one died on Friday the 13th.”
Laurie shook her head. “And it’s a shame about Noah. But it’s not bad luck to carry an umbrella with a metal shaft in a thunderstorm. It’s common sense.”
Jerry spread his arms wide. “What about Cassie, the cheerleader? She split the group and now she’s dead.”
Fallon arched an eyebrow. “Split the group? What does that even mean?”
“It’s some cheerleader superstition, I think. Anyway, it’s bad luck. Then there’s Vince.”
“What about Vince?” Brandon replied.
“He spilled salt on the table when we were at lunch yesterday. Then he didn’t pick up a pinch and throw it over his shoulder.”
Laurie bit her lip. “Are you listening to yourself, Jerry? You sound like you should be on The Alex Jones Show ranting about chemtrails.”
“This is all true. I can’t explain it, at least not yet. But the facts are clear. These incidents preceded these deaths. There may be more. I’m going to keep checking the archives.”
Vanessa stepped into the newsroom. “Jerry, can I see you in my office?”
The newsroom fell silent. Fallon pretended to look at her monitor. Laurie stared at her phone. Brandon leaned over to tie his shoe. Jerry stood and followed Vanessa into her office, where she closed the door, and they sat.
“Jerry, I appreciate all the hard work and research you put into this article, but I can’t run this in its current state.”
“Fix it up. You’re the editor.”
“This is beyond a little tightening and word choice.”
“Why?”
Vanessa let out a weary breath. “Bad luck? It’s not real. This is superstitious nonsense. How can you even ask?”
“But it’s all true. The three cases from 1984 were all documented by The Chronicle itself.”
“And from a historical context, that’s fine, exactly what I wanted. But in your rewrite, drop all references to Friday the 13th.”
“Vanessa, that’s the day that they all died.”
“And it’s not relevant to the story. It’s titillating and sensationalizing, and that’s not the sort of newspaper that I’m running. We do real journalism. The Chronicle has a storied history. We’re not some clickbait BuzzFeed wannabe.”
“And what about the material I uncovered about Noah, Cassie, and Vince?”
“That also has to go.” Vanessa waved her hand. “I’m a little disappointed with you. That’s not reporting. You’ve inserted yourself into the story.”
Jerry raised his voice in frustration. “I didn’t insert myself. I was a witness. But not the only one. Fallon was there when Noah opened his umbrella. A bunch of us saw Vince spill the salt. Plus, I wasn’t even there when Cassie split the group.”
“This is one level above the chain emails my great-uncle Claude forwards me.” Vanessa drummed her fingers on the desk. “I changed my mind. Obviously asking you to do a rewrite is problematic. Give Brandon your research, and I’ll have him tackle it.”
“Brandon?” Jerry leaned forward in his chair. “This is a solid story. It doesn’t need a rewrite. It has to be published. Not only that, it requires more investigation. I want you to expense a subscription to The Stuyvesant Whig. Their free archives only go back six months. I need to see what they wrote about the 1984 deaths.”
“No, Jerry. You’re not going forward with this, and I’m certainly not spending any money chasing down ghost stories.” She paused and looked at him with concern. “This morning you came in here all depressed, and that’s understandable. But now you’re all manic and wild-eyed. Talk to one of the grief counselors. You don’t need to make an appointment.”
“What does that have to do with my story or anything else?”
“The story is over, Jerry. Forget it. If you don’t want to talk to someone, I can’t make you. But I think you need some time off. Clear your head. Enjoy the weekend. Come back on Monday, and we’ll talk.”
Jerry stood, placed his hands on her desk, and leaned forward. “There’s nothing to clear.” He couldn’t believe that Vanessa was killing another of his stories. He remembered what Sam claimed about his article on the fast-running parking meters. “Did the administration tell you to kill my story on the parking meters because they were afraid another scandal would hurt fundraising?”
Vanessa’s eyes filled with rage. “You know what? Take next week off too. Come back a week from Monday with a better attitude and maybe I’ll find you an assignment.”
Jerry opened his mouth to object.
Vanessa jabbed a finger at him. “Do you want to take the entire month off?”
Jerry closed his mouth. He glared at Vanessa and silently exited the office.
* * *
Once Jerry closed the door, Vanessa waited twenty seconds to make sure he wouldn’t pop back in. Jerry was a gifted reporter, and she admired his tenacity. But when he was aimed in the wrong direction, Jerry could be nothing but trouble. Vanessa had an obligation to the paper, the college, and to her future career to make sure things didn’t spiral out of control.
She picked up the phone and hit #3 on the speed dial. “This is Vanessa Howley at The Chronicle. I need to speak to the chancellor.”