Jack Cavanaugh - Death Watch

“Yes, well,” Sol said. He was ready to move on. “Over here we have. ”

“Helen, did you hear me? It’s a crime scene!” Sydney said the instant he was gone.

“Our guest seems quite taken with you,” Helen said, looking amused.

Sydney dismissed the comment. She wasn’t interested in Hunz Vonner of EuroNet. She wanted to tell Helen about her news story.

“The accident outside?” she said for the third time. “Not an accident. It’s a crime scene, though the police are trying to keep it under wraps.”

Finally, Helen was listening. Sydney told her about the unattended vehicle, the telegram, getting caught, Officer Pollard’s blunder, and the resulting disclosure.

“Exactly what did the telegram say?” The newshound within Helen Gordon stirred. Sydney had seen it happen before, but this was the first time she was the one poking it to life. It was exciting.

“I wrote it down.” Sydney flipped open her notepad. “It said, ‘You have been selected for death. Stop. Precisely forty-eight hours from the time of this transmission you will die. Stop. This is an official death watch notice. Stop.’”

A voice came from behind her. “What did you say?”

Sydney looked up to see Hunz Vonner turning his back on Cori Zinn, who was in the middle of telling him there was a vacancy in the prime-time broadcast and how she was being considered for the slot. Vonner wasn’t listening.

“What was that you said?” he said again to Sydney.

He looked at her notepad. Reached for it. She pulled it away, pressing it flat against her chest.

“Did you pick that up off the wires?” Vonner’s eyes were sharp, demanding. His voice had an edge to it that a television audience would never be allowed to hear.

Conversations around them stopped. Everyone was looking at him. At them.

Sol Rosenthal jumped between them. “What is this all about?” He glared at Sydney as if she’d done something wrong.

Helen said, “How about if we take this into my office?”

Hunz and Sydney stood face-to-face. He, insisting on an answer; she, protecting her story.

“What did you say to him?” Rosenthal demanded.

“In my office,” Helen said again, this time with authority.

Helen led the way. Sydney was right behind her. Hunz Vonner and Sol Rosenthal trailed, with Sol attempting to smooth over any ruffled feathers.

Sydney didn’t hear everything the producer said, but she did hear Rosenthal say, “If she’s offended you in any way, she’ll apologize. You have my word on that.”

Entering Helen Gordon’s office, the producer stepped past Sydney, shooting her a murderous glare.

Sol Rosenthal began speaking the instant the door was closed. His intentions were obvious: Exert his authority, and smooth everything over with Hunz Vonner.

He turned first to Vonner. “I apologize if our staff has done or said anything to offend you.” Then he frowned at Sydney. “I think an apology is in order.”

Sydney and Hunz stood in front of Helen’s desk like children in the principal’s office. Helen took her seat at the desk.

“It’s not what you think, Sol,” Helen said.

“I’ll take care of this, Helen,” Rosenthal barked. “Hunz? What did this woman say to you?”

“She has a death watch notice,” Hunz said.

Sol Rosenthal didn’t know what to do with that. Perched on the edge of Helen’s desk, he raised his hand to his chin, nodded gravely. “Is this true, Sydney? Did you threaten Mr. Vonner’s life?”

“Oh, for crying out loud, Sol,” Helen said. “You’re making a fool of yourself. Mr. Vonner, do you know about this?”

“If it’s what I think it is, yes.”

“Know about what?” Sol asked.

“Sydney, let him see it,” Helen said.

Had Sol Rosenthal asked her to show this foreigner her notepad, she would have refused. Had he threatened to fire her, she would have walked out and started looking for another job. Helen, on the other hand, had been a reporter and had, as an assignment editor, when needed, fiercely protected her reporters.

Sydney handed her notepad to Hunz.

The room fell silent as he read it, then read it again.

“What? What is it?” Sol craned his neck to see what was on the pad.

“Is it what you think it is?” Helen said to Hunz.

“Where did you get this?” Hunz asked Sydney.

Sydney shot a questioning look to Helen, who nodded her consent.

“What’s going on here?” Sol shouted.

“Shut up and listen, Sol,” Helen said. “Sydney’s stumbled on a news story that apparently has farther-reaching implications than we thought.”

At Helen’s request, Sydney told the story of how she came across the telegram notice of death. Hunz Vonner listened intently.

“Officer Pollard said it was the seventh death in LA this morning linked to notices like this one.”

Sol Rosenthal demanded to see the notepad. His eyebrows rose as he read it.

“Mr. Vonner, do you know something about this?” Helen had let him in on their story; now she expected the favor to be returned.

He took a moment before answering. “Just before I left Germany, a story was breaking about an alarming number of people who had received death threats. The wording in every one of the threats was identical.”

“Identical to this notice?” Sydney asked.

Hunz nodded. “That was two days ago. This is the first I’ve heard of a death that’s related to the notices. We thought it might be a hoax. If people are dying here as a result of these notices, there are probably reports hitting the wires all across Europe.”

Sol Rosenthal went to the door. He shouted at a passing intern to get him the most recent printouts from the major international news services.

Minutes later, with Hunz looking over his shoulder, producer Sol Rosenthal read aloud the names of cities that were reporting deaths associated with similar notices: “Berlin, Paris, Rome, Madrid, Brussels, Warsaw, London, Moscow, Beijing, Cairo, Jerusalem, Sydney, Tokyo.” He went to another sheet. “Here in the United States, Associated Press is reporting deaths in Phoenix, Austin, Cleveland, New York, Philadelphia, Miami, Nashville, Tulsa, Bismarck, Denver, Portland, San Francisco .

“Good Lord,” Sol Rosenthal breathed, “we’ve stumbled upon the mother of all news stories!”

Sydney, write up what you have for the noon newscast,” Helen said. “Incorporate the information we have from the wires.”

“We’ll lead with it,” Sol Rosenthal added. “Better yet, we’ll break into programming with a teaser. This is going to make a splash. Sydney, get a quote from Hunz, something about the European angle on this, and make sure you mention he’s working with us on the story. Hunz, of course you won’t actually be working on the story. We’ll keep to our schedule.”

“Forget the schedule,” Hunz said. “This story is too important to pass up.”

With his best diplomatic smile, Sol said, “No can do, big fella. Your week is pretty much booked. Did I tell you you’re meeting the mayor on Wednesday?”

“Cancel it. Cancel everything,” Hunz said. “I’m not going to sit around spreading jam on biscuits while the biggest news story of the millennia is breaking. Either I cover the story here, or I cover it in Germany.”

“You know,” Sol said, not missing a beat, “this could be good for ratings!”

When it came to bootlicking, no one ever accused Sol Rosenthal of being inflexible. He had the backbone of a wet noodle.

“All right then. You’re in!” Sol slapped Hunz on the back.

“Who will I be working with?” Hunz said. “I’ll need someone who knows their way around.”

“Grant Forsythe, naturally,” Rosenthal said. “He’s our senior news—”