The Guilty - Jason Pinter [8]
spent the better part of a year trying to live down my own
story, and now it was time to return to what I did best. To what
I was born to do. Find the stories nobody else could.
I looked back at the crime scene. Saw where the body had
fallen. A ballistics expert used a pencil to trace an invisible
line from the top of a brownstone several blocks away to the
spot where the bullet had struck Athena. This club had
security cameras outside, meaning Athena's death had undoubtedly been captured live and in color.
All those cameras. All those witnesses. No doubt a dozen
people or more had taken cell phone photos and videos of her
murder. Who knew how many ghouls would post them publicly? Whoever had killed Athena couldn't have picked a more
public place. It was as if the killer wanted people to see it, to
record it, to spread his mayhem. It didn't make my job any
easier, that's for sure. There would be a cacophony of noise
tomorrow, and I needed to find a pitch that could rise above it.
I looked at the brownstone being eyed by the tech. Checked
my watch. Under an hour to find a story. Didn't have to be
the whole ball of yarn, just a strong thread. Sometimes a
thread was all you needed.
4
I pushed my way through the throng of eager reporters. Felt
more than one elbow jab my ribs. I wasn't naive enough to
think they were accidental. Much of the NYC press corps still
burned because of the publicity I'd received from my murder
rap. Grizzled vets who resented the book and film deals I'd
turned down. It was a Catch-22. They would have hated me
just as much if I'd taken the money. The spotlight of fame
exposed every jealous and spiteful emotion from those who
wished they had it, and from those who wanted nothing to do
with it.
I saw Curtis Sheffield on the cop side of the tape, holding
back photographers and issuing "no comments" like they
were going out of style. Curt Sheffield was a young black
officer, two years out of the academy and the kind of cop
who'd be one of New York's finest for years to come. Fit, tall,
with a smile that got female witnesses offering more than their
side of the story. I'd interviewed Curt a few months ago for
a story on the NYPD's developing new body armor, how the
upgrade was long overdue, and how based on gunshot wound
studies the new vests, when implemented across the country,
would likely save up to thirty lives a year.
34
Jason Pinter
Curt was glad the department finally kicked in the dough
to save lives, but offered sincere remorse for the lives that had
already been lost. He'd been honest and eloquent, and it was
clear the public good was his passion. The department had
recognized this--and recognized that his face would look
good on a poster--and within weeks Curt was the centerpiece
of a new NYPD recruitment campaign.
Despite our naturally combative professions, I considered
Curt a friend. He was a great source because he knew any information he passed along would be treated with respect. A
few weeks after the recruitment drive started, Curt admitted
that most cops weren't big fans of do I know you looks. They
don't like getting recognized in movie theaters or getting
asked for autographs. So we had something in common.
Curt saw me as I battled the wave of gawkers barricaded
behind police tape. He walked over fast, a stern look in his
eye.
"Hey, back off," he said, approaching a grizzled paparazzo
trying to sneak his camera beneath the tape. He eyed me,
popped his head to the left. Come over here.
I followed him off to the side. Another cop held back the
masses so we could talk in private.
"You believe this shit?" Curt said. "Don't know what's worse,
cleaning up this mess or having Athena Paradis's stupid song
stuck in my head while her blood is drying on the sidewalk."
"I'd say they're both pretty bad."
"Yeah. Pretty bad," he said, distracted. He was chewing
gum. His jaw was working overtime, anything to keep his
mind occupied.
"So you assigned to this mess?"