Cindy stared up at the creep Tyler had forced her to take under her wing, wishing that she could make him disappear just by looking at him.
“See how you feel about this,” said McGowan. “I roughed out the profile of the first victim.”
Cindy knew a lot about Roger Jennings, the ballplayer who’d been killed at the Taco King. She and Jeb had seen the car, the pregnant wife who’d been spared, and the hole punched in the windshield by a bullet before it killed the Giants catcher. Thanks to Richie’s friend Kendall, she had a photo of the word Rehearsal written in the dust of the Porsche’s rear window.
It had been verified that the veteran ballplayer had sold recreational drugs to his teammates. That wasn’t even news. She’d assigned Jeb to writing victim profiles, so now he was saying he’d done it.
It was put-up-or-shut-up time for McGowan.
“Let’s see it,” Cindy said.
McGowan placed a sheet of paper on her desk and stood watching her.
“It’s a first draft,” he said, “but I want your early read on the tone.”
“Be quiet and let me read,” she said.
Jennings’s name was at the top of the sheet.
The text read:
There’s more than one kind of head shot.
Some head shots are close-up photos that can get you a part. Another can drop you to the mat in the eighth round. Others you catch and throw back to the pitcher. Those are known as high, hard ones.
Roger Jennings was versed in high, hard ones. He knew they were coming because he would call them. He didn’t do it often—it wasn’t his style—just when he needed to ruffle a hitter.
As a batter himself, he was quick to react. He could duck or fall flat to the ground. He was seldom tagged as the target of pitches, let alone those thrown at his head.
But the head shot that killed him wasn’t a baseball. It was a bullet, and he never saw it coming.
Cindy looked up at Jeb, who’d been nervously watching her read.
He said, “And then his bio, thirty-eight years old, survived by his wife, Maria, twenty-nine, blah, blah, blah—”
“It’s good, Jeb. It’s very good. Poetic. Evocative. Compelling. And yes, I like the tone.”
“Really? Thanks, Cindy.”
“You’re welcome. Keep going. Make sure you mention that witnesses report that Jennings was selling drugs. Maybe that’s the kicker at the end of the piece. Maybe it’s a refrain or a summary. Try it a few ways.”
“Can do.”
“Good. We’re looking for eight more profiles and counting.”
“Right,” Jeb said. “I’ll have those for you before we close for the day.”
“Go get ’em,” said Cindy.
And when he was gone, she dialed Tyler’s extension.
He picked up his phone.
“It’s Cindy,” she said. “Hold a spot on the front page for this: ‘Anonymous Shooter Confesses.’ Sending you a draft in five.”