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“Sir, I’d like your response to a story we’re running tomorrow that will name you as a suspect in the murder of Bernice Hogan.”
Styebeck’s eyes narrowed.
“What? Is this some kind of joke?”
“I understand that you are a suspect in the murder of Bernice Hogan, the nursing student whose body—”
“I know who she is. I’m working the case with the state police. I don’t know where this is coming from, but your information is unmitigated bullshit.”
“I’m going to quote you, sir.”
Styebeck crushed his soda can in his fist just as two boys wearing jerseys emblazoned with Kowalski’s Towing, ran to them.
“Coach!” one boy said. “We’re up! Who bats?”
Styebeck glared at Gannon.
“T.J. is up, Dallas is on deck.”
“Coach, you’re bleeding!”
The twisted metal had cut into Styebeck’s fingers. Blood dripped from them, dampening the earth. Gannon looked at it, then at Styebeck, catching something cold threading across his eyes.
“I’m fine, fellas. Let’s get back to the game.”
Styebeck held back, leaned into Gannon and dropped his voice. “You better watch yourself, asshole.”
Styebeck returned to the game. Gannon stood alone, puffed his cheeks and exhaled slowly.
Then he checked his recording and walked to his car.
When he’d returned to the Sentinel, Tim Derrick was collecting his briefcase and throwing off to Ward Wallace, the night editor.
Gannon went to them and told them what he had.
“The prime suspect in Bernice Hogan’s murder is a detective working on the investigation.”
Wallace and Derrick exchanged glances.
“Christ, that’s a helluva goddamn story.” Wallace waved over Ed Sikes, the front-page editor. They used the empty city editor’s office for an impromptu conference.
Wallace removed his glasses, tapped them on his chin as other deputy and night editors joined them.
“This is dynamite,” Derrick said. “How’d you get it?”
“I picked it up when I went out to Clarence Barracks. Then I went to a good source who confirmed it.”
“Who’s your source?” Sikes said.
“They’re inside the investigation. I can’t name them.”
“Why not?”
“That was the deal.”
“Policy requires you give us a name, Jack. Even if we don’t use it,” Sikes said.
“I know, but this is deep inside. Come on. I gave my word and this is exactly how we broke the jetliner story. We were tipped by an unnamed source.”
“You also got the document that nailed it,” Sikes said. “Got any paper on this tip? A warrant? A police report? A memo?”
“No, not quite.”
“What do you mean, ‘not quite'?”
“My information is solid.”
“Jack, is your source on this information a cop?” Wallace asked.
“Yes.”
“With the New York State Police?”
“My source is a cop inside the investigation. That’s as far as I want to go. I gave my word.”
“This story’s huge,” Derrick said. “Who else did you call?”
Gannon told them.
“Christ.” Wallace ran his hand through his hair. “We need a story like this. He’s got the investigator on the record, and the suspect.”
“Alleged suspect,” Sikes said. His eyes were like black ball bearings as they bored into Gannon. “You trust your source with everything, Jack? Because with this kind of story, if you’re wrong, we could all pay dearly.”
Gannon took stock of the faces staring at him. Beyond the office, a few reporters raised their heads to look at the sombre group, curious about what was happening.
“I stand by my story.”
Sikes kept Gannon in his gaze for a long time.
“We’re taking a risk here.”
“I trust my source completely.”
“Write it up,” Sikes said. “I’ll take it for front. Better find a picture of Karl Styebeck.” Then he pointed his finger at Gannon. “You’d better be right about this.”
8
That night in a quiet neighbourhood of Ascension Park, Karl Styebeck sat alone before his television.
It was the only light in his darkened living room. Flickering images lit up the creases of his taut face. As he surfed from channel to channel, he chewed on his thumb while his wife descended the stairs after checking on their son, who’d gone to bed.
“Goodness, why are you keeping it so dark in here?” She swept into the room and switched on a light.
“Keep it off, Alice.”
“Why?”
“Just keep it off.”
“Fine, you vampire.” She smiled and switched the light off. “Don’t you think you’re taking this a little too seriously, Karl?”
“Taking what too seriously?”
“You lost the game and some of the parents got upset. Taylor told me what happened at the diamond.”
“No. It was a good game, could’ve gone either way. Nobody got upset.”
Alice retrieved her needlepoint from the sofa and tapped his shoulder.
“I’m going to need some light, here.” She switched on a low-wattage table lamp and he didn’t object. “Would you find something to watch. I hate it when you channel hop. Men. Sheesh.”
Styebeck landed on a local channel just as it offered a brief news update between commercials, reporting, “No new developments on the murder of Bernice Hogan, the former nursing student from Buffalo State.”
“That’s such a sad case,” Alice said. “Well, Taylor told me some guy you were talking to at the game made you mad.”
“No, it’s nothing.”
“Is it work? You’re awfully pensive these days.”
“Something like that. I’m getting a drink, you want anything?”
“Some water would be nice, thanks.”
In the kitchen Styebeck poured himself a glass of orange juice, stood at the window over the sink, looked out at his yard and continued ruminating.
Immediately after that reporter, Gannon, had confronted him, Styebeck made a round of calls on his cell phone to detective friends. It was odd. Few of them had time to talk, and those that did seemed cagey.
“Yeah,” a cop from Erie County told him. “There was a joint-forces case-status meeting today out at Clarence Barracks. Hush-hush. Mike Brent was running it. You didn’t miss much, just a bunch of wild-ass theories about suspects.”
“Any names come up?”
“Names? No, Karl, they had no names on the board. As far as I’m concerned, Brent’s a prick. They’ve got no evidence and the way he’s headed, he’ll never clear this. Sorry, Karl, I have to go.”
Why hadn’t he been called to that meeting?
Now, as he finished his glass, Styebeck asked himself again.
Why wasn’t he invited to that meeting?
He didn’t know Brent, but he’d talked to him and his partner earlier about his theories on the Hogan homicide. They’d come to him because he had a lot of confidential informants downtown.
That’s what they said.
Then this reporter, Gannon, bushwhacks him with this crazy allegation.
Where the hell was that coming from? What did he know?
“Oh, Karl, I forgot to tell you.” Alice entered the kitchen, startling him. “Some guy called for you when you were out.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say. He didn’t leave a message and the number didn’t come up. I figured it had something to do with the game and told him you were at the park.”
He said nothing.
It was likely Gannon, he thought. Well, he wasn’t worried. There’s no way the Sentinel would run a story based on that B.S. he was peddling. No one could possibly know what he knew about Bernice Hogan’s murder.
“Karl, is something going on? We’ve had quite a number of strange calls over the last few weeks. And you’ve been so edgy. Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Styebeck turned away from his wife and went back to searching the night through the kitchen window.
“No, Alice. It’s all work related. Everything’s fine.”
9
Jolene Peller surfaced through the haze of semiconsciousness.
A low monotonous rattling sounded in her head as memory and awareness fell upon her in ominous drops.
Where was she? What happened?
Bernice.
She’d had a bad feeling and had gone to help Bernice; had followed her into the night where she’d heard pleading.
Bernice begging in the confusion then a scream.
The man.
Jolene had glimpsed him in the chaos and he saw her; hit her with a blazing light, blinding her, locked onto her, chased her, hunted her.
She ran but could not outrun the darkness.
It was a nightmare. She’d had a nightmare. Okay, then wake up.
Wake up!
SHE WAS AWAKE!
