04-08-2014, 12:50 PM
friday, 4 april 2014
"How in the hell did you pick this up before Bachman did?"
Nathan was sitting in his father's kitchen with his laptop and a slew of papers taking up a corner of the island countertop. Not even 24 hours had passed since he showed up at the old man's townhouse scared out of his fucking mind and even though he would have been able to accomplish more from the bullpen back at the Post offices he still wasn't convinced someone or something wasn't going to let itself in through a window when he wasn't paying attention.
The two symptoms that distinguish paranoid schizophrenia from other subtypes are auditory hallucinations and paranoid delusions. Hearing voices belonging to dead people and believing a shadowy undead creature could come after your family would certainly qualify if Nathan were to speak to a psychiatrist. But Nathan isn't speaking to a psychiatrist and he doesn't intend to. Ghosts and vampires won't go away just because he starts swallowing pills and attending psychotherapy.
His editor was having trouble comprehending how he managed to get on the Fern bombing before anyone else did. It had fallen within his coverage area but the kid had only ever reported on shootings and break-ins. This was a whole other league.
"Bachman's out of town," Nate said.
"What? When did that happen?"
"He said he was going to a concert, I don't know. I wasn't really listening."
"Kid, this isn't the blotter we're talking about here, or one of your little veteran fluff pieces. It's going on the front page. People are going to read it."
"Yeah. I know."
"You're going to have to talk to the FBI."
"Yeah."
"You drop the ball on this--"
"I know."
Nathan's editor didn't like him. He hadn't ever liked him. This wasn't a secret. But thus far other than a couple of hospitalizations that took him off the beat he hadn't done anything that would warrant a firing. The 27-year-old ex-Marine had only been on staff a year and if he had any promise in him he hadn't shown it yet.
If he dropped the ball on this he was getting shuttled over to local news where he could cover art walks and animal shelter adoptions until a second chance presented itself. He had more to lose than his editor did and they both knew it.
"Alright," said his editor. "I sure as hell hope you're awake. You've got two hours to get a draft in."
"Yes, sir."
monday, 7 april 2014
Between the fact that the headline and the article beneath it had gone on Saturday's front page and the fact that no one had read anything by this Marszalek person before by the time the weekend passed Nathan had hardly slept for the constant ringing of his phone. All of the leads he was chasing down calling him back.
It wasn't Pulitzer Prize material but Nathan had written an article that not only managed to be informative and impartial but gripping. Devoid of speculation or sensationalization. Even his editor hadn't been able to find anything in the finished product worth criticizing. But it was Monday morning and the middle-aged newspaperman had been chewing antacids all weekend. The air in the breaking news bullpen was ripe with stale sweat and cigarette smoke.
"MARSZALEK."
The shout came from the editor's door. No one stopped what they were doing. Everyone was used to the guy bellowing for whoever it was he wanted without getting up from his desk. Just an hour ago he had shouted for one of the veteran breaking news guys to get his ass in there and explain a phone call he'd just received. So Nate was prepared for a reaming when he pushed back from his desk and walked down the aisle to his editor's doorway.
"Yes, sir?" he asked.
"Get your ass in here." Nathan got his ass in there. "And close the door."
After he closed the door the reporter stood at attention before his editor's desk. The Monday edition of the Denver Post sat on his desk. The bombing coverage was still dominating the front page and the headline had morphed over the weekend. What started out as Explosion Downtown Kills 2 has become Fatal Car Bombing Now a 'Potential Terrorist Investigation'.
"Did you write this yourself?" his editor asked.
"Yeah?" he said.
"You wrote this yourself."
"Yes, sir."
"What the fuck. It takes something blowing up for you to show me you know how to write about something other than missing homeless people?"
Nathan lifted his eyebrows.
"I want you to keep following up on this," he said.
"Yes, sir."
"And while you're--"
Despite the fact that it made him look like more of a dork than he already looked Nate wore his work cellphone clipped to his belt. If he survives another year this may be the moment when he decided he was going to marry Carole Klein. The phone started to ring and he glanced down to see it was a landline coming from the Denver Police Department and excused himself from the room to his editor eye-rolling consternation.
"Nathan Marszalek," he said.
"Hi," said Carole. "It's Officer Klein."
"... hey. What's--?"
"I heard you were covering the car bombing."
"That... yeah."
"Look, I'm really sorry I haven't called, it's just been--"
"It's--"
"What?" she asked.
Out in the bullpen again it was difficult to hear her so he plugged one ear and walked out of the space. Ducked into the stairwell. In terms of temperature and acoustics it was like standing at the bottom of a mine but he was alone at least.
"Sorry, go ahead," Nate said.
"Oh. Well I just thought you'd want to know that the Feds are on it now. You know Deborah Vox?"
"Yeah?"
"Her assistant used to babysit for me."
"Is that information off the record, or...?"
She laughed.
"You're not funny," Carole said.
"What about Deborah Vox?"
"This part is off the record."
"Well I mean you're calling me on my work phone."
"So?"
"So anything you say on the work phone is part of the record."
"Well..."
"Maybe we should go get lunch or something."
"Oh, great, so you can record me with one of your little reporter-spy tape recorder gadgets."
"Is that a yes?"
"You know there's going to be a press conference at four o'clock, right?"
"No, I didn't get the memo."
Even over the phone he could hear her glower at him.
"Meet me afterwards and we can talk. If you're going to be an asshole and put what I say in the paper can you at least not name me as your source?"
"That would look pretty bad, don't you think?"
"Well, I mean..."
He waited.
"I figured you don't have to deal with a lot of high-profile... things... usually... I'm sorry, Nate, I'm an asshole."
"So you're gonna buy me a drink to make up for it."
Carole laughed and said, "Meet up with me after the press conference. I'll call you if I hear anything else."
Hours later he was throwing an empty Coke can at Doherty the sports writer when his phone rang again. The conversation lasted only a few minutes but in that amount of time Carole gave him one word that made him lean back in his chair. Nothing like having one's borderline-paranoid hunch proven right to make one feel as if the floor has just dropped out from underneath him.
"I don't know who ATF is looking into," Carole said. "No one I've ever heard of. I think they're called..." Rustling of pages. "Dogwood?"
"How in the hell did you pick this up before Bachman did?"
Nathan was sitting in his father's kitchen with his laptop and a slew of papers taking up a corner of the island countertop. Not even 24 hours had passed since he showed up at the old man's townhouse scared out of his fucking mind and even though he would have been able to accomplish more from the bullpen back at the Post offices he still wasn't convinced someone or something wasn't going to let itself in through a window when he wasn't paying attention.
The two symptoms that distinguish paranoid schizophrenia from other subtypes are auditory hallucinations and paranoid delusions. Hearing voices belonging to dead people and believing a shadowy undead creature could come after your family would certainly qualify if Nathan were to speak to a psychiatrist. But Nathan isn't speaking to a psychiatrist and he doesn't intend to. Ghosts and vampires won't go away just because he starts swallowing pills and attending psychotherapy.
His editor was having trouble comprehending how he managed to get on the Fern bombing before anyone else did. It had fallen within his coverage area but the kid had only ever reported on shootings and break-ins. This was a whole other league.
"Bachman's out of town," Nate said.
"What? When did that happen?"
"He said he was going to a concert, I don't know. I wasn't really listening."
"Kid, this isn't the blotter we're talking about here, or one of your little veteran fluff pieces. It's going on the front page. People are going to read it."
"Yeah. I know."
"You're going to have to talk to the FBI."
"Yeah."
"You drop the ball on this--"
"I know."
Nathan's editor didn't like him. He hadn't ever liked him. This wasn't a secret. But thus far other than a couple of hospitalizations that took him off the beat he hadn't done anything that would warrant a firing. The 27-year-old ex-Marine had only been on staff a year and if he had any promise in him he hadn't shown it yet.
If he dropped the ball on this he was getting shuttled over to local news where he could cover art walks and animal shelter adoptions until a second chance presented itself. He had more to lose than his editor did and they both knew it.
"Alright," said his editor. "I sure as hell hope you're awake. You've got two hours to get a draft in."
"Yes, sir."
monday, 7 april 2014
Between the fact that the headline and the article beneath it had gone on Saturday's front page and the fact that no one had read anything by this Marszalek person before by the time the weekend passed Nathan had hardly slept for the constant ringing of his phone. All of the leads he was chasing down calling him back.
It wasn't Pulitzer Prize material but Nathan had written an article that not only managed to be informative and impartial but gripping. Devoid of speculation or sensationalization. Even his editor hadn't been able to find anything in the finished product worth criticizing. But it was Monday morning and the middle-aged newspaperman had been chewing antacids all weekend. The air in the breaking news bullpen was ripe with stale sweat and cigarette smoke.
"MARSZALEK."
The shout came from the editor's door. No one stopped what they were doing. Everyone was used to the guy bellowing for whoever it was he wanted without getting up from his desk. Just an hour ago he had shouted for one of the veteran breaking news guys to get his ass in there and explain a phone call he'd just received. So Nate was prepared for a reaming when he pushed back from his desk and walked down the aisle to his editor's doorway.
"Yes, sir?" he asked.
"Get your ass in here." Nathan got his ass in there. "And close the door."
After he closed the door the reporter stood at attention before his editor's desk. The Monday edition of the Denver Post sat on his desk. The bombing coverage was still dominating the front page and the headline had morphed over the weekend. What started out as Explosion Downtown Kills 2 has become Fatal Car Bombing Now a 'Potential Terrorist Investigation'.
"Did you write this yourself?" his editor asked.
"Yeah?" he said.
"You wrote this yourself."
"Yes, sir."
"What the fuck. It takes something blowing up for you to show me you know how to write about something other than missing homeless people?"
Nathan lifted his eyebrows.
"I want you to keep following up on this," he said.
"Yes, sir."
"And while you're--"
Despite the fact that it made him look like more of a dork than he already looked Nate wore his work cellphone clipped to his belt. If he survives another year this may be the moment when he decided he was going to marry Carole Klein. The phone started to ring and he glanced down to see it was a landline coming from the Denver Police Department and excused himself from the room to his editor eye-rolling consternation.
"Nathan Marszalek," he said.
"Hi," said Carole. "It's Officer Klein."
"... hey. What's--?"
"I heard you were covering the car bombing."
"That... yeah."
"Look, I'm really sorry I haven't called, it's just been--"
"It's--"
"What?" she asked.
Out in the bullpen again it was difficult to hear her so he plugged one ear and walked out of the space. Ducked into the stairwell. In terms of temperature and acoustics it was like standing at the bottom of a mine but he was alone at least.
"Sorry, go ahead," Nate said.
"Oh. Well I just thought you'd want to know that the Feds are on it now. You know Deborah Vox?"
"Yeah?"
"Her assistant used to babysit for me."
"Is that information off the record, or...?"
She laughed.
"You're not funny," Carole said.
"What about Deborah Vox?"
"This part is off the record."
"Well I mean you're calling me on my work phone."
"So?"
"So anything you say on the work phone is part of the record."
"Well..."
"Maybe we should go get lunch or something."
"Oh, great, so you can record me with one of your little reporter-spy tape recorder gadgets."
"Is that a yes?"
"You know there's going to be a press conference at four o'clock, right?"
"No, I didn't get the memo."
Even over the phone he could hear her glower at him.
"Meet me afterwards and we can talk. If you're going to be an asshole and put what I say in the paper can you at least not name me as your source?"
"That would look pretty bad, don't you think?"
"Well, I mean..."
He waited.
"I figured you don't have to deal with a lot of high-profile... things... usually... I'm sorry, Nate, I'm an asshole."
"So you're gonna buy me a drink to make up for it."
Carole laughed and said, "Meet up with me after the press conference. I'll call you if I hear anything else."
Hours later he was throwing an empty Coke can at Doherty the sports writer when his phone rang again. The conversation lasted only a few minutes but in that amount of time Carole gave him one word that made him lean back in his chair. Nothing like having one's borderline-paranoid hunch proven right to make one feel as if the floor has just dropped out from underneath him.
"I don't know who ATF is looking into," Carole said. "No one I've ever heard of. I think they're called..." Rustling of pages. "Dogwood?"
Look. I have school. And RP. And all my other time is taken up by sheer, unreasoning panic. I don't have time for Reddit.
-- ixphaelaeon
-- ixphaelaeon