Innuendo (11 page)

Once he heard the front door open and shut, Todd was pulled out of bed by the rich smell of coffee, the lure of which he could rarely resist. He slipped on his dark maroon terry-cloth bathrobe and headed down the hall to the kitchen, where he saw not only the red light of the coffeemaker still burning, but his favorite mug, a tall, thin black and white one with a large handle, which Rawlins had set out for Todd. For Todd's perusal, Rawlins had also left today's issue of the
Star Tribune
on the middle of the counter. And he'd fed the cat. Yes, thought Todd as he surveyed the scene of seemingly domestic bliss, it certainly looked like just another day.

“Good morning, Girlfriend,” said Todd, when the cat looked up from her kibbles.

As he poured himself his first cup of coffee he realized that he felt, well, numb, his insides heavy and his limbs weak. He wasn't much interested in the idea of breakfast. Actually, the thought of going back to bed sounded best of all. Okay, Todd, he told himself, face it: You're depressed.

Carrying his coffee, he slowly made his way back down the hall, through the bedroom, and into the bathroom. He reached into the shower stall, turned on the water, then slipped off his robe. Mug in hand, he stepped into the shower and just stood there as the hot water pounded on his back. Shit, he wondered, taking a sip of coffee, what was this all about? And what the hell was going to become of them, Rawlins and him? This couldn't be the beginning of the end, could it?

Unfortunately, the only thing he was sure of was that he couldn't lose control of the story of Andrew Lyman's murder. Which meant that he couldn't stay in the shower as long as he was tempted. Nor could he mope around the apartment or lounge on the balcony and stare out at the lake. Or crawl back into bed and doze away the morning. He simply didn't dare. It was approaching eight o'clock and WLAK’s daily editorial meeting started in just over forty minutes, with last night's murder surely at the top of the agenda. Forcing himself to move, he grabbed the pile of articles on Tim Chase from the dining room table, stuffed them into his briefcase, and was out the front door, his second cup of coffee in hand.

Rarely did it take more than twenty minutes to get anywhere in the Twin Cities. This morning it took him just over fifteen to traverse the ribbon of freeways and flat landscape to reach suburban Golden Valley and WLAK, a squat, mostly concrete structure that looked more like a war bunker than a successful television station. Immediately to the rear of the building were a dozen or so satellite dishes, and a parking lot filled with a fleet of trucks and vans and ENG vehicles, all emblazoned with WLAK’s logo.

Using his ID card to enter the rear glass doors, Todd bypassed the crowded and busy newsroom to his right, headed down a wide, dimly lit corridor lined with awards and photographs, and turned into a large conference room. Their yellow legal pads and morning coffee before them, a dozen people sat around a dark wooden table in the middle of the room.

It began this way every day at WLAK.

At eight-thirty every morning the news director, the five P.M. and six P.M. producers, the executive producer, a scattering of reporters, and the crew from the assignment desk, including the manager, the editor, and a couple of assistants, all filed into this room. First on the agenda would be feedback from the previous few days’ stories. Then those who had been up since the crack of dawn reading any and all newspapers, studying the wire services, and taking as many calls as came in would present a slew of story ideas. Next the general tug would begin as they hashed out what would be reported as the day's most compelling news, who was to handle it, and exactly how it would be covered. If you didn't get ownership of a story right here, Todd knew only too well, there was no telling which way an idea would go. That was exactly why Todd was here: some of the things these people came up with were absolutely nuts, particularly when it came to homosexuals and murders.

Rather than taking a place at the table, Todd leaned against one wall, ready to pounce on the Andrew Lyman story, determined to claim it as his own. He stood silent, half-listening as the news director, Tom Busch, opened the meeting and covered the usual items. As they discussed the ongoing saga of whether the omnipotent MnDot—the Minnesota Department of Transportation—was going to persevere in building a huge bridge over the St. Croix River, Todd decided on the angle he was going to take for his own story and just how he'd pitch it.

“The federal judge assigned to this bridge thing will be announcing her decision just after lunch,” said Busch, a burly guy with brownish hair and big round shoulders. “Any of you reporters want to pick it up?”

Carol Wyman's hand immediately shot up. “Yep. I'll take it. My parents have a cabin on the St. Croix, so I'm quite interested in this.”

“Fine, it's yours. Just remember, I want equal coverage of the issue. ‘MinnDOT’s’ all worried about traffic congestion, and the Department of Natural Resources is concerned about the quality of a national scenic waterway.”

“I'd like to get something in there about the bridge encouraging urban sprawl, which it certainly would do,” said the attractive, slim reporter, her brunette hair clipped short. “I mean, if they build a four lane bridge from Minnesota to Wisconsin you can bet the subdivisions are going to sprout like weeds over there.”

The executive producer, Bill Summers, a lawyerly looking type with silver hair, looked up and coolly said, “Just keep it even.”

“So what are we talking here?” asked Steve Carlson, the assignment editor, who figured prominently in all these meetings. “A sixty second package?”

“No, we covered this one pretty extensively about two months ago,” said Busch. “I think a thirty second live report just about the judge's decision would be enough.”

“How about I do it from Stillwater?” suggested Carol. “We can get a downstream shot of the river.”

“Fine.”

“Okay, it's a go,” said Carlson, writing it down. “A thirty second live shot from Stillwater. We're talking for both the five and six, right?”

“Right.” Looking up at Todd, Tom Busch said, “Now, what about this kid who was killed last night? What's the story there, was or wasn't he gay?”

Todd, who had correctly assumed the story would come up on the early side of the meeting, stepped away from the wall, and said, “I couldn't report on it any more directly last night because the police haven't released it, but Andrew Lyman, the kid who was killed, was most definitely gay.”

“That a factor in the murder?”

“I'm pretty sure it was. He was found in bed at eight-thirty in the evening with his throat slit. From what I was told by one of the homicide investigators, chances are he'd just had sex with someone,” said Todd, knowing that this was it, his pitch to obtain complete control of the story. “Andrew was a runaway, and he grew up on a farm somewhere outstate. I think it was in western Minnesota, actually. From what I understand, his parents found out he was gay and kicked him out. I met him at the Domain of Queers, the gay/lesbian youth center where I gave a talk.”

“Did you know him well?” asked Summers, scrutinizing him.

He was asking, Todd knew, if it was going to be a conflict—which of course it would be for a host of different reasons.

“No,” replied Todd. “I met him just a couple of times. But that's enough, of course, for me to be able to put a personal angle on this thing.”

Busch said, “So we got a gay murder on our hands? Is that how you want to come at it?”

“Absolutely not. First of all, I think just about every other station is going to use that tack. Second, I want to give the story more depth, if for no other reason than it raises some very complex questions. I want to start out by talking about a young, healthy kid who happened to be gay. I want to talk about a kid who was lost and looking, a kid whose parents threw him out because of his sexuality. And I want to work this in with the Domain of Queers and how they're trying to provide a sense of place and direction for kids with poor self-esteem and nowhere to go.”

Carlson, always wanting to keep things focused on who was doing what and when, asked, “What are you thinking? A package at five?”

No, Todd wanted the big one. He wanted the six P.M. All of this, though, was simply a matter of negotiation.

“No, I'm not sure I can be ready by then. I want to get as much from the police as possible, and I want to try and dig up something on the parents too. The more time I have the better.”

“Then how about a VOSOT at five?”

Perfect, he thought. He could easily do one for the five o'clock, which would in turn give him exposure on both evening shows.

“Sure,” he replied. “Then I can front a package at six.”

“Okay,” said Tom Busch, looking around the room, “then let's make this our lead story on both the five and six. Do we agree?”

“Sure,” replied Carlson.

Bill Summers nodded, which prompted a few more heads to go up and down. And then it was all set. Todd's work for the day was cast in stone.

As they launched into a discussion about the proposed merger of two area banks and how it should be covered, Todd grabbed his briefcase and ducked out. In the hallway he passed several reporters just now heading into the meeting, and then he turned into the newsroom. It was a large space filled with cubicles and dominated by the assignment desk, which was elevated and looked out over everything, functioning much like flight control. Only a handful of producers were at their desks, some hammering away at keyboards, a couple yammering on the phone, as producers, of course, were wont to do.

Todd passed a dark hallway of glass edit booths, wound his way around, and turned into his glass-walled office. As always, the first thing he did was hit a couple of keys on his computer and check his e-mail. There was not much of significance—notification of a joint birthday party for four coworkers at five this afternoon, a message from one of the producers that she'd submitted one of Todd's pieces for an Emmy, and a staff-wide notice about vacation procedure. He then picked up his phone and listened to his voice mail, finding that three tip callers had phoned in last night to tell him about the murder, then someone else had phoned this morning from one of the local gay organizations wondering if Todd had any more information. The last call was from a man asking if Todd knew anything about a recall on blue cheese. There was nothing from Rawlins, which Todd didn't know how to take.

While he worked almost exclusively with Bradley, whom he considered to be their best photographer, not to mention the easiest and most flexible, Todd didn't have his own researcher/producer. Last month the news director, Tom Busch, had told him he could have such a person, but Todd had been and still was reticent. Perhaps he was being both foolish and selfish, but he didn't want to be tied down, just as he didn't want to be responsible for filling another person s day. In the past when he'd needed either research assistance or a producer he'd always simply commandeered someone. It was times like now, however, that were making him reconsider. Not only would it be good to have someone to bounce ideas off of, there were a myriad of questions that had to be answered today. Exactly how old was Andrew? Was he previously in any kind of trouble? What were the names of his parents and what was their phone number? Exactly who was Andrew working for here in town? And, of course, had the runaway with no assets except his body ever hustled?

Todd was just reaching into his desk when the phone rang. Hoping it wasn't someone else calling about a blue cheese recall, he picked it up.

“WLAK, this is Todd Mills.”

A bright female voice said, “Hi, Todd, how are you?”

“Ah… fine.”

“I hope I'm not calling too early.”

Uncomfortable with her personal tone, he hesitated, then said, “No.”

“Oh, good. Listen, I just wanted to check in. Do you have a couple of minutes?”

She was young-sounding and definitely energetic, but who the hell was she? Another crackpot caller? Her voice didn't sound the least bit familiar.

He asked, “I'm sorry, but who is this?”

“Oh, how stupid of me. It's me, Melissa. And I'm just calling regarding your request.”

“My request?”

“Yes, it was faxed to me last week. Sorry it's taken me so long to get back to you.”

Todd stretched his mind this way and that, but he couldn't quite get a handle on it. Just as he didn't know her voice or her name, nor did he know what in the hell she was talking about.

Melissa said, “So do you have a couple of minutes to visit with me?”

This wasn't making any sense, and he said, “I'm sorry I'm not tracking you here. You're calling regarding a fax?”

She laughed in an almost too familiar way. “No, no, Todd. I'm calling you regarding the interview with Tim Chase. They faxed me your request from Hollywood. I'm Mr. Chase's publicist.”

Suddenly Melissa, who was obviously not Minnesotan at all but oh-so-casual Californian, had Todd's complete attention. He sat forward in his chair and cleared his throat. Just sound cool. Just sound collected. And intelligent.

She continued, saying, “Didn't anyone from L.A. call to let you know I'd be in contact?”

“Actually, no.”

“Oh, I'm sorry! And here I'm calling out of the blue and babbling on and on.”

“That's okay. I'm just pleased someone's calling me back. Thank you very much.”