Jack Cavanaugh - Death Watch

But he was walking away. His sergeant met him. Sydney couldn’t hear what was being said, but by the way the sergeant was looking at her, it was obvious she was the topic of discussion.

Sydney decided now would be a good time to leave.

Billy Peppers pushed the dreadlocks out of his face as he leaned against the corner of Bennett’s Mattress Warehouse and watched the activity that surrounded the crumpled car in the intersection.

He was wearing all the clothing he owned in layers: three shirts, two pair of pants. His shoes were the newest addition to his wardrobe, a pair of black Converse tennis shoes. They were tattered, the tread was worn, and the left shoe had string for a shoelace, but they were better than his old pair of Nikes that had holes in the soles. Billy had traded for the Converse with Harold, the guy who slept on the back step of Ray’s Electronics. The shoes cost him a blanket and a crumpled Cup O Noodles that still had its cellophane wrapper.

As he watched the police photograph the accident scene, Billy rubbed a wooden cross he wore on a leather strap around his neck. The ambulance momentarily cut off his view, passing in front of him. Its emergency lights were dark, its siren silent.

“Ordained to die,” Billy mused. “Whatcha gonna do when you’re ordained to die?”

Billy’s attention returned to the leggy blonde who had been talking to one of the policemen. He watched her stride back to the television station, pull open the door, and disappear. She was the reason Billy was here.

He was told she’d be here. He’d watched her since she emerged from the station. He’d watched her give instructions to the big guy toting the camera. He’d watched her poke her head into the car. He’d watched as the policeman confronted her and escorted her out of the intersection. He’d watched as she placed a hand on his arm. He’d watched her return to the building.

“You didn’t tell me she was an angel,” Billy muttered to thin air, turning away now that there was nothing left to watch.

“You there!”

The side door to the mattress warehouse stood open. A skinny man in a suit with a skinny tie glared at Billy.

Billy had been chased away by him before. He was an employee of the store, the guardian of the parking lot. He came out here half-a-dozen times a day to smoke and drive off the undesirables.

“I thought I told you to stay away. Shoo! Shoo! Shoo!” The man flicked his hands at Billy with the same gesture he’d use to chase away a dog. “Go on, git! Git!”

Billy put a hand to his shopping cart that was packed with cardboard, a blanket, a jug of water, a Nike shoe box, and some pastries he’d found in a dumpster. He made his way across the mattress store parking lot to the alley.

He whistled as he walked.

Sol Rosenthal waved his hands over his head. He looked like he was gathering armloads of air. Responding to the sound of his voice, station personnel migrated from offices and the news set. They congregated in front of him in a loose half circle several layers deep.

Standing next to Rosenthal watching them gather was a man in his midthirties sporting an expensive haircut and wearing a flashy European suit.

Sydney’s first impression of the international newscaster was how the appearance of television personalities obviously transcended culture. He looked like every other news anchor in America. After that, she didn’t give him another thought. She was looking for Helen.

As Sol began his introduction, Sydney located Helen. She was on the far side of the room.

“If you will recall,” Sol Rosenthal began, using his professional speaking voice, the one the station purchased for him for three thousand dollars at a two-week public speaking seminar for CEOs. Now, instead of sounding like a squeaky clarinet, Rosenthal sounded like a loud squeaky clarinet.

Sol coughed, cleared his throat, and began again.

“If you will recall, last year it was my privilege to travel to Europe to observe the fastest-growing news station in the international market, the EuroNet Broadcasting System. You’ll also recall I came home quite impressed.”

“Helen!” Sydney whispered when she was within earshot of the assignment editor. “I think I’ve got something.”

Helen Gordon cut Sydney off with an upraised hand. “I want to hear this.”

“For those of you who don’t know,” Rosenthal squeaked, “EuroNet dominates the European market. Within five years of their inception, EuroNet attained their stated objective of establishing themselves as the number one source of news from a European perspective. They broadcast in seven languages—English, French, Italian, German, Portuguese, Spanish, and Russian. Launched in 1996, EuroNet provides their viewers the widest perspective of any news agency in the world.”

Sydney leaned close to Helen. “Your instincts were on target about that accident,” she whispered. “It’s a crime scene.”

Helen shushed her.

Sydney wouldn’t be shushed. She couldn’t hold it in. She had a real news story, one that didn’t involve animals or sex.

“While I was in Germany,” Rosenthal continued, “it was my privilege to observe EuroNet’s top newscaster. Having begun his broadcasting career at a small radio station in Munich, he has risen to anchor the number one newscast in Europe. And wait until you hear him speak! His English is better than mine, with no trace of accent.”

“I give full credit to video clips of American newscasters,” Vonner said with a chuckle. “I watched Walter Cronkite so much, I started sounding like him.”

Sol laughed the loudest. Then he said, “Please give a warm welcome to EuroNet’s brightest star, Hunz Vonner.”

The television crew’s response was cordial. Most of them were industry veterans, no longer awestruck at the sight of television personalities, especially one they’d never actually seen on the air.

When the clapping started, Sydney politely joined in. She thought Vonner looked like a men’s store mannequin, stiff and attractive in a cardboard cutout way.

“Hunz will be observing our operation here at KSMJ for a week,” Rosenthal said. “He will meet in turn with anchors, reporters, production personnel, and advertising. My secretary will coordinate with your schedules. Let’s do everything we can to make his stay in America a memorable one. I’m confident you will give Mr. Vonner every courtesy. Treat him as you would treat me.”

There was a smattering of laughter. Sol looked puzzled. He thought everyone loved and admired him.

The assembly dispersed. Everyone returned to work, but not too quickly.

“Helen, it’s a crime scene!” Sydney said, louder now.

Sol Rosenthal interrupted her. He horseshoed his way between her and Helen. “Hunz, I’d like you to meet our assignment editor, Helen Gordon.”

Helen offered her hand. Vonner gave it a quick pump and turned to Rosenthal with a what’s next expression.

“Helen will be joining us and the coanchors for lunch; you two can talk then,” Rosenthal said. He took Vonner by the arm, directing him toward Grant and Cori, who were standing nearby. “And over here we have .”

Vonner broke away. He turned to Sydney. “And you are?” He raised an eyebrow and gave her a smooth, easy smile.

Maybe it was because Hunz Vonner shared nationalities with the famous brothers Grimm, but Sydney got the distinct impression she knew how Little Red Riding Hood felt when greeted by the wolf.

Helen made the introduction. “Mr. Vonner, this is Sydney St. James, one of our reporters.”

“Miss St. James,” Vonner said, taking her hand with a slight bow.

Sydney had seen the bedroom-eyes expression on a hundred different men. The European version was no different from the American version. His voice, however, was impressive. Rich, smooth, confident, it was an instrument uniquely suited to news broadcasting. It could deliver stories of graphic violence while assuring viewers that despite what they’d just heard, everything would be all right. And his English was impeccable, not a trace of an accent.