Makeovers Can Be Murder

Chapter 30

My story about Antoine aired on the late news Sunday night. Early Monday morning, I walked into a firestorm of criticism. A string of irate messages was waiting for me when I arrived at the newsroom at eight a.m. The worst of them was from Luke Petronella of Durham Homicide.

″What the hell got into you last night, running that tabloid trash about Antoine Hurley?″ the detective′s message began. ″Don′t you know that every gangbanger in the world claims that he was ′coerced′ into going along with the crime? Shit. It was your friend he killed, Kate. Are you out of your mind?″

As I cringed back in my desk chair, Luke continued his rampage. ″So listen up-from now on, I′m not giving you shit about my investigation, ″ he said. ″You want a comment about a story, you call Public Relations. And you can go fuck yourself while you′re at it. You were way out of line to let some shiny-suit lawyer raise questions in public about my case. Fucking lawyers. You′re shit on my shoe, Gallagher. Total shit!″

I′d never been raked over the coals like that by someone I respected like Luke. And there was much more like that to come. The nicer callers implied that I was shilling for Antoine′s defense. The nastiest one said my mother should have aborted me in the womb. Most of the callers simply implied that I′d earned my journalism degree from an online school for hacks.

Good grief. They hated me. Maybe Evelyn had had a point when she said I was clinically depressed. I′d never felt so low, so barely alive. It felt as if my body′s vital signs were registering in the zombie zone.

I was hunched over the phone in my cubicle, sipping coffee and scribbling notes about each call, when Beatty appeared at the opening to my cubicle.

″Hey-you need to listen to something on the police scanner,″ he said, nodding toward the assignment desk.

I slunk along in my boss′s wake, mentally girding for the worst.

A bunch of news reporters were leaning around the assignment desk, monitoring the police scanner. The assembled crowd included Dutch Kramer, the sportscaster.

″Hey, Kate,″ Dutch said, tossing me a loopy looking grin. ″You′re the hot topic this morning on the squawk box.″

″Oh, yeah, Dutch? How′s that?″

″They′re saying you should get a big hairy one up the ass for that story you did last night about Antoine Hurley.″

″Thanks for sharing that.″

I rested my knuckles on the desktop and listened as disembodied cops′ voices squawked over the scanner.

″That hit piece she did last night was a complete piece of crap,″ one cop said. ″They oughta fire that Gallagher woman′s fat ass.″

″The whole thing′s bullshit, man,″ another responded. ″Whose side is that reporter on, anyway? The f′n shooter′s?″

The cops in the squad cars had to be aware that we monitored their exchanges over our scanner, as did every other media outlet in town. They undoubtedly meant to be overheard. I was being skewered in a most public, graphic way. It was more than a bit disconcerting, especially since the case involved my friend′s murder.

Just great. I hadn′t wanted to do that story in the first place, and now I was being blamed.

I stood by my story-it was a solid piece-but still, the anonymous criticism by the cops raised the hair on the back of my neck: Whose side is that reporter on, anyway? The f′n shooter′s?

My colleagues were chattering and bouncing oddly energized looks off me. There′s nothing that gets the adrenaline going for journalists like provoking the wrath of police officialdom. But you better not get caught making a mistake in your reporting. That would be a job killer.

″Hey, I love being tarred and feathered in public, ″ I said, trying to make light of the situation.

I waited with bated breath for Beatty to render his verdict. You never knew which way the news-directorial wind would blow.

″Way to go at ′em in that piece last night, Gallagher, ″ Beatty said finally. ″You′ll notice that they aren′t challenging your facts. If they were, the chief of police would have been crawling up my ass already by now this morning. They′re just pissed off we ran something for once that didn′t parrot their side of this story.″

The news parrot in question-Lainey-stood a few feet away. She was staring intently at the cable TV monitors on the wall. But I could tell by her defensive body posture that her ears and reporter′s ego were burning. Too bad.

Beatty was pleased with my story about Antoine Hurley. In maritime terms, a nod from the Big Boss was the equivalent of starting the day off with a fair wind and a following sea.

″Hey, Kate!″ Frank called out. He was standing near my desk. ″Phone!″

I dashed to grab the phone, even though it was probably just another caller who couldn′t wait to describe how my reporting had stunk up the airwaves.

″Hi, Kate. It′s Belmont Miller. Jana′s brother.″

It took me a moment to connect the name with the identity.

Jana′s brother, Belmont. When we′d last spoken, Belmont had been on his way to the Bahamas, taking Shaina with him so she could recover from her carjacking ordeal and the death of her mother.

″Hi, Belmont -are you all still in the Bahamas? ″ I asked him. ″How is Shaina doing? How′s her recovery coming?″

″Shaina′s doing fine. But I′m calling about something else. Did you hear about what we found out about Jana′s autopsy?″ Belmont′s voice rose with emotion. ″Goddammit, they′re not going to get away with this. Someone in the police department is going to pay!″

My mind flailed about, trying to figure out what the heck he was talking about.

″Wait a second-slow down, Belmont,″ I said. ″What are you saying about Jana′s autopsy? What′s happened, exactly?″

″We just heard back from the firm we hired to do a second, private autopsy on her,″ Belmont said. ″They told us that Jana′s body was mutilated. ″

″Mutilated? I don′t understand. The police already did a standard autopsy. Is that what you′re talking about?″

″Something was done to her body after the police autopsy but before we got the body, according to my people. While she was still in the custody of the medical examiner′s office, someone surgically removed some tissue from her body.

″They stole her heart valve. It′s missing from her body.″