Vengeance Road. Rick Mofina
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Gannon said, “I need to confirm what I’ve learned. I think the suspect’s initial’s are K.S. and I need to clarify some details.”
After considering the situation, the caller said, “Jack, you have to guarantee that you will protect the source of this information.”
“You have my word.”
“You don’t give my name to anyone.”
“That’s right.”
“It’s true. Your information is solid.”
He stared at nothing. His breathing quickened.
“And this is from inside the investigation?” Gannon asked.
“Absolutely. I was at a case meeting today.”
“Who’s the cop?”
“A detective with the Ascension Park Police Department.”
“Got a name for me?”
“Karl Styebeck.”
Gannon thumbed the cap off of his pen, found a fresh page in his notebook and started writing, oblivious to the newsroom activity.
Styebeck.
“I’ve heard his name before,” Gannon said.
“Check your archives, he’s some kind of hero.”
“You’re absolutely sure we can go with this in the paper?”
“Dead certain.”
“Thank you.”
Pen clamped between his teeth, Gannon launched into a search of the Sentinel’s news databases, the archives of every community newspaper in the region, the Web site of the Ascension Park Police Department and various community sites online.
Soon, he had enough from community papers for a short biography.
Karl Styebeck was a decorated twelve-year veteran who coached children’s sports teams, volunteered for charity runs and gave stranger-awareness talks in Ascension Park schools. On Sundays, he went to church with his wife, Alice, and their son, Taylor. Occasionally, he sang in the choir.
This guy’s a saint.
Several years back Styebeck was off duty, returning from a Bills game, when he came upon a house fire. He’d rushed into the burning building and rescued four children. They’d been left alone by their parents who’d gone to a casino at the Falls. For his bravery, Styebeck was awarded a Chief’s Citation.
Now he’s suspected of murdering a nursing student.
Gannon had to confirm his information with the state police.
He called Clarence Barracks and asked them to convey an urgent message to Michael Brent, the lead investigator.
“What does this concern?” the duty trooper asked.
“Information about the Hogan homicide.”
“I’ll pass your message to him.”
Five minutes later, Gannon’s line rang.
“This is Mike Brent, New York State Police.”
“Thanks for getting back to me. Sir, I’m seeking your reaction for a story we’re preparing for tomorrow’s Sentinel that will report that Detective Karl Styebeck, of the Ascension Park Police Department, is the suspect in the murder of Bernice Hogan.”
Brent let several moments of icy silence pass.
“I cannot confirm your information,” Brent said.
“Is my information wrong?”
Silence.
“I would hold off writing anything like that and save yourself a lot of grief.”
“What? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“I can’t confirm your information.”
“But you don’t deny it?”
“I think we’re done here.”
“Sir, you have not denied the information that Styebeck is a suspect.”
Brent hung up.
Gannon circled the few notes he’d taken from Brent and weighed matters. Brent wouldn’t have warned him to hold off if his information was wrong. Because if it was wrong Brent wouldn’t have cared, which told Gannon that his information had to be dead on the money.
No way was he going to sit on a story this big and risk letting the Buffalo News scoop him.
There was only one more person to confront with the story.
Karl Styebeck.
7
Karl Styebeck’s address and phone number were not listed, a step most cops took to protect their families.
Gannon had a hunch.
After he finished eating his sandwich, he picked up his phone and punched an internal extension.
“Circulation, Ashley speaking.”
“Hi, Ash. It’s Jack in news.”
“Jack Gannon?”
He’d dated Ashley Rowe a few times after meeting her at the paper’s Christmas party. They got along but they didn’t think it would go anywhere. They’d parted as friends, or so he thought.
“Hello, are you there, Ashley?”
“I’m here, Jack. What is it?”
“Can you check a name for me? See if they’re a subscriber? Styebeck, Karl Styebeck. Karl with a K and last name spelled S-t-y-e-b-e-c-k.”
“You know it’s against policy for us to share the paper’s subscriber list.”
“I completely understand. But it’s for a story.”
Gannon heard an annoyed sigh then typing on her keyboard.
“I cannot tell you that yes, we do have a subscriber by that name and the number and address are as follows.”
Gannon wrote the information down.
“I appreciate this,” he said.
“I’m sure you do.”
Gannon called Karl Styebeck’s home. The phone was answered by a woman.
“No, I’m sorry, Karl’s not here at the moment.” She was pleasant. “He’s coaching the game at the Franklin Diamond. May I take a message?”
“No, no message, thanks.”
Gannon did not identify himself.
He made a copy of Styebeck’s photo from a recent profile of him in one of the community newspapers then drove to Ascension Park.
It was an established middle-class neighbourhood of streets lined with mature trees that arched over well-kept homes. Franklin Diamond encompassed a playground, basketball and tennis courts that were busy with activity. The bleachers at the ball diamond were sprinkled with parents cheering the players of a game in progress.
He neared the benches, getting close enough to scrutinize the coaches until he was satisfied he’d locked onto Styebeck. The cop was leaning against a chest-high chain-link fence, drinking from a can of soda, watching his players in the field.
“Let’s go, Bobbie!” he shouted to his pitcher. “Big swinger!”
Gannon sidled up to him then waited for a lull in the game. Styebeck pulled a rolled roster from his rear pocket when Gannon interrupted.
“Excuse me, Detective Styebeck?”
Deep-set