Crime Beat Read Free

victim’s name was an exercise in blood-pressure management, and the chore had only gotten harder with the passage of federal privacy laws that allowed everybody to avoid giving out health-related information.
    Privacy laws were just an excuse for cops, crooks, and politicians to hide even more stuff from the public, but the laws were packaged as “civil liberties,” so the poison pill went down sweet.
    But this time truth and justice carried the day.
    In his first trip to the plate, Moretz had scored not only the name and police report, he’d been on the scene of the crash while everything was still fresh. His copy was full of those tiny details that really bring a story alive for the reader: the University of North Carolina coffee mug that had flown from her Subaru sedan upon impact, an anonymous eyewitness who suggested Carleena had been exceeding a safe speed, a photo of the sedan’s interior showing the empty beer cans.
    He even had a shot of a single white hand fallen softly open in the twisted wreckage, as if Carleena had been asking a higher power why she’d had to die so violently.
    I probably wouldn’t run the beer or corpse pictures, but it was nice to have them just in case. I usually stayed within the bounds of good taste whenever possible, even though bad taste sells more papers.
    We wrapped it up and the Picayune hit the street by early afternoon the next day. The reporters sometimes go out for lunch after the paper is done, especially since they’re nearly cross-eyed from proofing and aren’t ready to stare at their computer screens yet. Fred Lance, the sports editor, was up for Tres Hombres Mexican Restaurant, but then Lance was always up for burritos and imported beer.
    The trouble was that his notorious and chronic flatulence tended to clear the office within two hours of our return, so I subtly suggested a trip to the Waffle House instead. Moretz blew us off, saying he had to check on something at the courthouse.
    I had a crime dog in the making. A reporter who would pass up a meal for a story was a definite keeper.
    The waffle house did us right, except I discovered Spanish omelets had the same unfortunate effect on Lance as Mexican food did. Must be a Hispanic thing. He’d probably go off on a jar of olives or a Ricky Martin song. Perhaps any excuse would do for Lance to bathe the world in his odor.
    But the afternoon wasn’t a total dark cloud: Moretz had scored again while we were out. I was about to close my office door and enjoy the relatively wholesome air when Moretz rushed in.
    “Drug fatality, Chief,” he said.
    “Overdose?” Like most community papers, we downplayed suicides. It was too easy to trigger copycats and, despite the press’s reputation for wallowing in the worst of human behavior, we occasionally had respect for the grieving family.
    But most importantly, suicides didn’t sell papers. They just depressed people instead of enticing them into dropping quarters.
    “Better than that. A drug deal gone bad. Gunplay.”
    On his first story, I’d had to resist an urge to hug Moretz. Now I had to turn away before I gave the guy a full-fledged peck on the cheek. Drug deal gone bad. Murder investigation. Only one thing would make the story better…
    “Sweet,” I said, maintaining my editorial composure. “Is there a female involved? Or a puppy?”
    “Some college kid. A real Mister Nice Guy, according to witnesses interviewed by the police.”
    “County or town?” Sheriff was an elected position, so Hardison was more likely to pose beside the murder scene for a photograph. The Sycamore Shade police chief was appointed by the town council, and therefore pretty much had the job for life unless he managed to get caught in illicit business.
    Smart cops rarely got caught but they made golden copy when they did, guaranteeing increased circulation and press awards. I wouldn’t wish such a thing on any community but mine.
    “The body was county, but the kid lived in town.”