Innuendo (5 page)

“Love you, Jack!”

“Love you, Daddy.”

With a small, but warm smile, Tim stepped into the hall, followed by his wife. God, he'd hated being away from them. And, dear God, he was glad they were here now.

“I missed you,” he said, taking his wife's hand.

“Me too,” she said, pulling the door shut with her free hand.

She was beautiful, he thought. Several inches shorter than him, Gwen was one of the most regal young actresses around, her chinalike skin offset by soft brown hair. She had a small mouth, lips that were full and always plush with color, and long legs. Although her father was American, she claimed her mother's homeland, England, as her own, and in fact she had lived almost half her life there. Though she could convincingly play any kind of American, she was a natural for English roles, and just last year she'd been nominated for an Oscar for her part in a Jane Austen adaptation.

Standing there in the hallway, Tim reached out, took her into his arms, and kissed her. “Hi.”

She came into his arms without a wisp of resistance. “We worked everything out this afternoon—we'll be able to stay for the rest of your shoot.”

His lips touched her forehead. “That's great.”

“Are you okay? Is something the matter?”

“No, I just need to talk to Vic, that's all.”

“Where'd you go earlier?”

He shrugged and grinned. “Out.”

Eyeing him suspiciously, she said, “Tim?”

“It was my first time off, the first time I could get away since I got here. I just wanted to escape… so I did. I just drove around, that's all.”

She rolled her eyes knowingly and shook her head. “I just hope to hell you were careful.”

“Aren't I always?”

“Yes, but…”

“But what?”

“This is a new city. The people are different here.” She shrugged. “Did you take Vic with you?”

“No, I didn't need to.”

“Oh, Tim. I don't know. Anything could happen. I just worry about you so, that's all, particularly since that creep started stalking us.”

“Don't worry, we're in the Midwest now and there's nothing to be afraid of. You just have to trust me, Gwenny. Believe me, I love you, I love our son, I love our life together. I'm not going to screw that up.”

She took a deep breath, ran her slender fingers through his hair. “Okay, then, my hero.” She kissed him. “Good night.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Will I see you for breakfast?”

“I think I need to sleep. How about Maggie, Jack, and I drop by the set sometime late morning?”

As he headed off, knowing he had to find Vic before going to bed, Tim Chase said, “Sounds great.”

A good reporter was
never afraid and never excited, just prepared.

So as Bradley drove Todd's Cherokee to the live shot, Todd sat in the passenger seat scribbling away in his reporter's notebook, one of those elongated pads. He was writing it all down in detail, exactly what he'd say in those thirty-five seconds of voice-over, though of course he knew from experience that he wouldn't end up reading it word for word. Somehow it just never turned out that way, somehow he always ended up punting. After all, as they said whenever there was a screwup, why do you think they call it live TV?

But how was he going to come at this thing? In many ways Todd had the perfect situation, the best of both worlds. Not only did he have the crime scene footage, which viewers always wanted to see, but he was going to be shooting live from this other location. In other words, he would have something no one else would, not to mention an entirely different angle. But he was going to have to be careful. On the one hand the police hadn't officially released details of Andrew's sexuality, yet on the other Cindy Wilson already knew. And whatever was in her head would come out her mouth, of that Todd was sure.

Fortunately it was only a matter of eight blocks to the live shot, straight out to Lyndale, then directly north to Franklin, and finally a left. Two blocks down, on the same corner where it had stood for nearly sixty years, was Oak Drugs. And above that neighborhood fixture of medications and Hallmark cards was the neighborhood newcomer, the Domain of Queers, which had moved there just over a year ago. To the surprise of many, there had been no resistance to a gay youth center opening in the neighborhood, and the DQ now included a small handful of meeting rooms, a coffee bar, and a large, old ballroom used for Friday night queer teen dances. It was here that Todd and Rawlins had first spoken to a group of young gay people, and it was here that they had first met Andrew.

As Bradley pulled up, Todd looked at the second floor windows draped with rainbow flags, saw the big pink neon triangle framing the initials DQ. Yes, it would provide a great backdrop. And their ENG truck, the mast raised high, the microwave dish aimed toward downtown, was parked exactly opposite the building, just as Todd wanted.

“Perfect,” said Todd as the truck came to an abrupt stop.

“Looks like I lost,” said Bradley with a laugh. “We've got all of about fifty seconds.”

Todd liked to have anywhere from eight minutes to a minimum of thirty seconds, although the latter was cutting it rather tight. And now leaping out of the Cherokee, Todd and Bradley went into armylike action, charging across the street, and then, with the help of Jeff, who emerged from the ENG, setting up. Cables were dragged out from the rear of the truck. Cords were attached. A single light stand thrown up. And then seconds later Todd was standing in front of Bradley's camera, which was now poised atop a tripod. As Jeff hopped back into the ENG and started to adjust the transmission levels, as Bradley placed a small monitor at the base of the tripod, Todd simultaneously grabbed a stick microphone and an earpiece, which he slipped into place. No sooner had he gotten the small plastic thing in his ear than the news director called out.

“Voice check, please.”

Todd lifted up the mike, said, “Good evening, this is Todd Mills reporting live from—”

“Got it.”

The line producer came on next, saying, “What's your roll cue, Todd?”

He glanced at his pad. “Ah… ‘Night of darkness and mystery.’”

“Check: ‘Night of darkness and mystery.’” A moment later he advised, “Ten to the top.”

Todd rolled his neck from side to side, gave it a small crack. Just as he couldn't reveal Andrew's name until the authorities released it, nor could he come right out and say Andrew was gay, at least not at this point. Yet while he didn't know if Andrew's sexuality would ever prove to be relevant to his murder, he couldn't ignore it tonight, not simply because he had to give viewers a reason to watch him, Todd Mills, but because Cindy Wilson and WTCN were already clued in. Which left Todd precious little room in which to maneuver. Therefore, it would be best, not to mention safest from a legal standpoint, to speak from his personal contact with Andrew.

Via IFB transmission, Todd heard the line producer give his final count, “Five to the top.”

Todd adjusted his black leather coat, then glanced down at the monitor that was aimed up at him from the base of the tripod. The screen flashed from an herbicide commercial—after all, this was the Midwest and this was the late news, when every farmer tuned in if not for the news, then certainly the weather—to the
10@10
logo. Next filling the screen was the face of WLAK’s star anchor, an indisputably handsome man with a long face, dark hair gone quite salt and pepper, and an unwieldy ego that was, fortunately for WLAK, invisible on television. Gaining stature as the most valued and watched anchor in the Twin Cities, he'd recently demanded and gotten a new contract paying him just over a million bucks a year. Such was the value of those white teeth, the even cadence of his speech, and the trust that he could, with cool professionalism, turn on in a second.

“Good evening and welcome to
Ten at Ten.
I'm Tom Rivers, and we have a number of stories tonight, from a problem with the Teacher's Pension Fund to a cancer-fighting enzyme recently discovered at the University of Minnesota. We begin tonight's coverage, however, on a very serious note, that of the murder of a young white male in south Minneapolis. Just over an hour ago Minneapolis police received a call reporting the crime. Here with a live report of this still-developing story is our investigative reporter, Todd Mills.” Tossing it, he said, “Todd?”

Holding the stick microphone in a tight grasp, Todd stared straight into Bradley's camera. Yes, that's how these things went. Anchor toss, reporter in full-on camera, VO, reporter tag, ad lib. All of it back-timed to the second.

Todd forced every thought out of his head, and then let it flow back, evenly and precisely. All you have to do, he told himself, is walk your viewers through this, one steady step at a time.

“Tom, this story is still evolving, very much so, and the police have been reticent to release what little information they may have. What is known at this point, however, is that a young white male, whose name is being withheld pending notification of family has been murdered in his basement apartment in a building at 25th and Bryant Avenue South. I've been told by residents of the building that the victim was recently employed there as a caretaker. And I do believe that that job represented the first major step for a young man embarking on a dream. Unfortunately, it was a dream that has now dissolved into a night of darkness and mystery,” said Todd, giving the roll cue.

The video, which had been edited down from Bradley's footage to precisely thirty-five seconds, began to roll, and Todd's eyes fell to the monitor. Nine times out of ten, he helped edit such things, and, of course, wrote the script for them, marrying video and sound into a single prerecorded package. Tonight, however, he was simply going to have to watch the monitor, try to read what he had prepared, or, more likely, simply talk to the pictures.

Seeing footage of marked units, flashing lights, and cops in their blues, Todd looked at his notes and said, “After receiving a frantic call from a building resident a little over an hour ago, the Minneapolis police were quick to arrive at a small apartment building at Twenty-fifth and Bryant Avenue South. As you can see, there are a number of police at the scene, along with homicide investigators and the team from the Bureau of Investigation. Both the front and rear entrances to this building have been sealed off, and a barricade has been set up to keep the crowd at a distance. The authorities are now going over the apartment, searching for any evidence that may be relevant, and the medical examiner has yet to remove the body”

The video cut to an image of the rectangular, redbrick structure, and Todd said, “I'm told that the victim only recently moved into this building, a two-and-a-half story walk-up located in a neighborhood known as the Wedge, and that he lived in a small basement apartment at the rear of the building. He was employed here as a caretaker for this and several other apartment buildings on the block.”

His eyes flicking between the monitor and his notes, Todd now saw a crowd of neighbors milling around, gawking and gossiping. Most of them, he knew, were as horrified as they were entertained.

“As you can see, Tom, quite a crowd has gathered here, primarily neighbors who are both upset and worried by the crime. The Wedge has a very strong and active neighborhood organization, and they've spent a considerable amount of time and effort in maintaining the safety of—”

The news director, via the earpiece, said, “Three seconds.”

“—their neighborhood. Naturally, this comes as quite a shock.”

Todd looked up, staring into Bradley's camera, which was now live on him. “As I said, Tom, little information has been released on the victim, but he was known to frequently visit the Domain of Queers, which is a center for gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender teens. I'm currently standing just across the street from this center, which you can see is located on the second floor of that building, just above Oak Drugs. It moved to this location just over a year ago, and has been very successful, serving not only local teens, but a number of runaways as well.”

Tom Rivers cut in, his voice deep and luxuriant, and said, “Todd, was the victim simply employed at this center as well, perhaps as a caretaker or janitor, or was he there as a teenager to use and enjoy the facilities?”

Todd knew damn well, of course. When Rawlins and he had spoken at the DQ, Andrew had not only been in the front row, he'd been sitting there holding hands with some other guy. With a bright, eager grin, he'd asked lots of questions, laughed, and gotten a veritable debate going regarding—what was it?—the feasibility of a gay relationship. Right. And later on, of course, he'd met with Rawlins.

“I do believe, Tom, that the victim came here for the center's services. As a matter of fact, I first encountered the victim two months ago when I was here giving a talk to gay youth.”

“Does that mean for a fact he was gay?”

Rawlins was going to give him shit for this, but Todd had no choice, and he said, “Well, the Domain of Queers, or the DQ as it's commonly called, is a center to serve gay teens. Whether the victim was indeed gay and/or possibly a runaway will soon, I'm sure, be officially known.”

Even though Todd always tried to focus every bit of his energy and attention on the camera, out of the corner of his eye he saw a tall figure come hurrying around the corner. It was a young man, his head bent, his long, silky hair bouncing with each of his long, awkward strides, and Todd recognized him immediately. And the kid, seeing the camera and the lights, looked up, his eyes red, his cheeks still wet with tears, and froze in surprise. An odd, almost fearful look washed over him, and then he turned and quickly hurried off.