The Guilty - Jason Pinter [29]
write that."
"He used a line from one of your articles after shooting
Athena, right?"
"Yeah," I said. "Not exactly flattering. I was worried for a bit
this guy had it out for me, but...guess he just liked my work."
"That make you feel better or worse?"
"Not sure," I said.
"Warm and fuzzy this guy is not."
I clapped Curt on the shoulder. "Listen, Curt, I really appreciate it."
"Just do me a favor, wait until Carruthers makes his statement before you use that quote. Do all the research you want,
just don't jump the gun," Curt warned.
"You scratch my back, I scratch yours. So now it's back
to protecting and serving and all that good stuff," I said.
"You mean posing with tourists and keeping the kids away
from my Glock. And you go back to being all fair and balanced and stuff," Curt replied.
"All the news that's fit to print," I said.
Suddenly I heard a crackling sound. Curtis looked at me.
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Both of our heads shot to his waistband where his walkietalkie was attached. A voice came over the speaker. I only
made out two words, and my blood froze.
"Shots fired..."
Curtis grabbed the walkie-talkie off his belt. The voice
crackled again.
"10-10, shots fired, repeat, 10-10, shots fired at the
Franklin-Rees building. All officers respond."
I looked at Curtis, saw a mixture of fear and determination in his eyes. "That's--"
"Four blocks from here."
Curtis turned and sprinted down the street, pedestrians
parting, holding their children and backing against the wall.
I had no choice. I sprinted after him.
16
I followed Curt Sheffield like a running back wisely trailing
a bruising fullback. Oxygen burned in my lungs, and I felt my
side tickle right below the scar where one year ago my perforated lung had to be inflated. Fear gripped me, my heart
hammering. Shots fired. Why the hell was I running toward
the shots? I heard sirens in the distance. Screams loud enough
to be heard over them. Men and women were running past
me. We were swimming against a terrified tide. And I saw one
man run by, blood staining his shirt.
The Franklin-Rees company published many of the country's most popular magazines. A multibillion-dollar corporation, its headquarters was a brilliant steel monstrosity with
enough security measures inside to stop a tank. But as I got
closer, I could tell that all the security inside the building was
useless to prevent the horror of what happened just outside.
I saw a dozen officers, guns drawn, massing around the
entrance to the Franklin-Rees building. Curt Sheffield was
barking into a walkie-talkie. I heard sirens. Cop cars. An ambulance seemed to be drawing near. I stepped closer. And
wondered why the ambulance was in such a rush.
A man lay on the sidewalk. A pool of blood was spread- The Guilty
93
ing around his head. Or at least what was left of it. When I
saw the piece of brain sliding down the polished glass door,
my stomach lurched and I felt dizzy.
Aside from the crowd of New York's finest, a small crowd
of onlookers watched from across the street. Several officers
were shooing away ghouls with cameras. I could see a tuft of
gray hair amidst the mass of blood and gore. Then the wind
caught it, and took it away.
The dead man was wearing a tailored suit. From the liver
spots on his hands, I guessed him to be in his late fifties or
early sixties. A white handkerchief, once tucked neatly into
the jacket pocket, now fluttered like a trapped dove.
When he put the walkie-talkie down, I approached Curt.
"What the hell happened?"
"Not now, Henry."
"Please, just one minute..."
"I said not now, " Curt said, pushing me away.
Not now didn't compute. I had to know. And if Curt wasn't
talking, none of the cops would. And enough people were
milling about that somebody had to know something.
Pushing the nausea aside, I walked across the street, right
into the mass of onlookers.
I took out my press pass and held it above my head.
"Did anybody see anything?" I shouted. "Please, we need
witnesses."
Nobody