Rick Mofina - If Angels Fall

“Just a crime reporter? Sensitivity is a quality aliento people like me, is that what you mean?”

“No, I mean, I-“ This was not going well. “I thinkI’ve made a mistake coming here.” She stood to leave.

“Your work deals with victims of tragedy, itssurvivors. Right?”

“It’s somewhat more complex than that, but yes.”

“I deal with victims, too, and probably in greaternumbers than you’ve ever experienced. So I resent having to prove to you that Iam qualified to write about your work.”

“I am protective of the sensitive nature of myresearch.”

“But the bottom line here, Doctor, is you want tomanipulate us.”

“Excuse me?”

“Set aside your work. You need us to keep your programafloat. That’s why you’re here. It’s obvious from your letter. It dictates thetype of story you want us to write, in accordance to the conditions you’velisted.” He withdrew the letter from his breast pocket, unfolded it, and read:“You may interview only the subjects I’ve selected and I have editorialapproval.” Reed stared at her. “What do you think this is, the churchbulletin?”

Martin closed her eyes. Leave. Leave now, she toldherself.

“I don’t know who in the business you’ve dealt withbefore, but it just does not work this way.” He let her letter fall on thetable.

“And just how does it work, Mr. Reed?”

“If we do a story, we’re going to examine your groupand your research, not promote it. You say your work is valid. How do we knowthat? You could be with a corporation poised to establish such programs in achain of clinics and are looking for a story as a source of advertising. Thathappens. You could simply be seeking personal glory in your field. We don’t know.You came to us.”

“I resent what you’re implying. You don’t know me ormy work.”

“And you don’t know me, or mine. You send us ablueprint of what you want and glide in here on a cloud of academic arrogance.You see me and your jaw drops like you’ve stepped in something disgusting.”

This was a disaster. Martin sat down and consideredcanceling everything. She had handled this poorly. The program was doomed nomatter what she did. She cupped her chin in one hand, studied the dramatic newspictures, then Reed. He had a dangerous, exciting air. Judging by his passion,he was likely as committed to his work as she was to hers. She drummed herfingers against her cheek. “Perhaps I’ve become too comfortable in the ivorytowers of academe, Tom.”

He chuckled. “If we had a couch in here…” Reedscanned the room.

“Yes?”

“I’d tell you my miserable problems. The last fewweeks have been tough ones for me, Doctor.”

“Kate. Call me Kate. How about that coffee?”

“Then we’ll rewind the tape and take it from the top?”

“Agreed.”

Reed returned to the room with coffee in two ceramicmugs bearing the Star’s logo. “Today was supposed to be my day off,” hesaid. “I apologize for being so hard on you.”

She sipped, waving away his apology. “I’m the one whoshould apologize.”

“I checked you out with our education reporter. I readyour biographical notes in the university directory. You’re well respected inyour field and certainly didn’t deserve the grilling I gave you. Your letterhit a nerve. Being suspicious comes automatically.”

She gave him another appraisal. Maybe he wasn’t such aself-important ass after all.

“I want to do a story about your work. I’m just notsure what shape it will take. Tell me about it.”

Martin explained her bereavement research, what thegroup was, how it functioned, and how her study differed from others in theobservations she was able to make.

Reed asked questions and made notes.

“I’m wondering, why did you choose this field,psychiatry?”

She tugged at the cuffs of her blazer. “That’ssomething I’d prefer not to discuss, if you don’t mind. It’s personal.”

“I see.”

“The real inspiration for the study came when I wasasked to help the two girls who found Tanita Marie Donner last year.”

“That was you?”

“Yes. It was then that I asked police if any help hadbeen offered to Tanita’s mother. I began seeing her and the idea for the groupand the research was born.”

“What about Angela Donner? What’s happened to her?”

“She’s a participant in the group.”

“Really?”

Martin nodded.

“Your letter says fourteen volunteers participate insessions.”

“Yes.”

“Are they aware of your coming to us for a story?”

“Yes. Most of them support it.”

“Tell me something about the deaths of the childrenhere.”

Martin removed a file from her briefcase and beganrecounting fourteen tragedies. In some instances, the children had been killedin front of relatives, or died in their parents’ arms, or their bodies had beendiscovered by them. When she was finished, Reed was engrossed.

“I’d like to sit in on the next session and profilesome the parents. The program is about them. Their stories would convey theimportance of your work and its impact on their tragedies.”

“I’ll start making calls tonight,” Martin said,passing Reed a page with the time and place of the next session. “Goingdirectly to press, as I am doing, is a violation of the department’s policy.I’ve put my job at the university on the line.”

Reed’s eyebrows shot up.

“This program is invaluable and I’m determined to saveit. Not for me-for the people who are being helped by it.”

“I understand.”

They shook hands. Martin snapped her briefcase closed,smiled, and left. Reed sat alone in the room, thinking.

He removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes. His headached. Yet things were brighter with Ann. And he was sure he had inadvertentlyfound Tanita Donner’s mother.

Last year, after Tanita’s murder, her mother haddropped out of sight. Now, with the anniversary of Tanita’s murder coming up,the press would be looking for her. In the wake of Danny Becker’s kidnapping,they’d be more determined. But he knew where Angela Donner was. And soon, witha little luck, he would be talking to her. Martin’s work was secondary.Angela’s story juxtaposed with Danny Becker’s case, would make a great read.

And, there was more.

He had covered many of the cases Martin described,reciting the names he knew. He’d get the library files before he went to thesession. The guy whose kids drowned before his eyes had to be one of the worse.Reed couldn’t recall it. He’d do some digging on that one.

On good days, warm memories of his wife yielded Sydowski sufficient will topropel his life another twenty-four hours. On bad days, like this one, when hefelt alone and could not accept the fact that she was gone, he contemplated hisGlock.

Take the eternal sleep and find her. Be with her.

What time was it back east? The luminescent hands ofhis watch glowed 1:29 A.M. Three hours later where his daughters lived. Toolate to call. Wearily he found his way through the darkness. He knew his house,every tick and creak of it. In the kitchen, he snapped on the light and heatedsome milk for cocoa.

It had been six years since he saw the monitor aboveBasha’s hospital bed flitter, then flat line. The young doctor and nurserushing in, telling him to leave. Battling against a killer no one couldstop-not even him.

The beast slowly ravaged Basha’s nervous system withmuscular rigidity, condemning uncontrollable tremoring upon a gentle woman whohad dance at her daughters’ weddings. It consumed her by degrees, devouring apiece at a time. She could not feed herself, she could not have intelligibleconversations, she could not go to the bathroom without help. Ultimately shewore diapers. The final insult: she could not be trusted to hold her infantgrandchildren. She watched through her tears and he cared for her. A couple oftimes he swore her bed was empty, she barely visible under the rumpled sheets.Carrying her emaciated body, her fragility terrified him. She weighed nothing.She was dying in his arms.