Vengeance Road. Rick Mofina
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Styebeck?”
Styebeck nodded.
“Jack Gannon from the Buffalo Sentinel.”
“The Sentinel? You guys never cover our games.”
“I’m not here for that, sir.”
Gannon nodded to an empty picnic table by a tree, thirty yards away from the first-base line.
“Can we go over there for a moment?” Gannon asked.
“I’m kind of busy. What’s this about?”
“Bernice Hogan.”
“You better show me some ID.”
Gannon produced his press ID. Styebeck examined it, gave it back, then went to the picnic table with Gannon.
“What do you want?” Styebeck folded his arms across his chest.
“I need to ask you a few questions for the record.”
Gannon extended his small recorder.
Styebeck looked at it but didn’t move.
“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