Jason Pinter - The Darkness

“Spent most of my time in Laos,” Jack said. “Worked a lot with a great photographer named Eddie Adams. You enjoy photojournalism?”

“A little. Back in Oregon,” I said. “Before I was old enough or smart enough to really understand history, I used to love flipping through old magazines just for the photo inserts. A great picture can be a snapshot of a time or place that words could never fully describe.” Jack nodded, agreeing. “I used to really admire a photographer named Hans Gustofson. I remember he took this fantastic photo of President Reagan standing next to the ‘You

Are Leaving’ sign that had just been removed from along the Berlin Wall.”

“Great eye, Gustofson. Didn’t he die a few years ago?”

“Yeah,” I said, shifting uncomfortably. “Badly.”

Jack nodded.

“Eddie Adams,” I said. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

“Nguyen Ngoc Loan,” Jack said.

“Excuse me?”

“General Nguyen Ngoc Loan. Chief of the National

Police of the Republic of Vietnam. You say you liked historical photographs, you might remember that one. Loan was the commanding officer during the arrest of a Viet

Cong political operative. The national police mistakenly identified the prisoner as having plotted the assassination of numerous Viet Cong police officers. And so on February first, nineteen sixty-eight, in the middle of a des-110

Jason Pinter olate street in Saigon in broad daylight, with the unarmed man’s arms tied behind his back, General Loan took out a pistol, put it to the prisoner’s head and pulled the trigger.

Eddie Adams was the man who took that photograph.

That one snapshot, taken right as the bullet entered the innocent man’s brain, was one of the catalysts that singlehandedly changed American perception of the war in

Vietnam.”

“I remember that picture,” I said, feeling a chill, remembering the first time I’d seen it in Time magazine. “I remember the prisoner was wearing this plaid shirt. And the look in the general’s eye…like the man he just killed was nothing. Had meant nothing.”

Jack nodded. Then he said, “In the background of that picture, just over the general’s left shoulder, there’s a man. You can’t really make out his face or what he’s doing, but he’s there.”

I looked at Jack. The lines in his face, veins in his hands, a body that had seen more than I might in two lifetimes.

“That was you,” I said. “You were there that day.”

“It was actually my wedding anniversary,” Jack said with a slight laugh. “When my first wife asked where I was that day, I showed her the picture. Suddenly she didn’t feel so bad about my not being able to spend it with her.”

“Why do you still do it?” I said. “Once you’ve been a part of these…these…moments that change history. I mean, that’s what every reporter dreams of, right? Being there at the right time. Casting light on something that was covered in darkness. Once you’ve done that…how do you stay motivated?”

“I was never looking for those moments,” Jack said.

“If they came, they came. If not, I went right on working. But a real reporter doesn’t seek out those moments.

We don’t judge what’s happening in front of our eyes.

History creates those moments. All we can do is share the truth through our words. And if we’re honest, and there’s a story in that darkness, the moments come.

But I never sought them out. I sought the truth. And if you keep digging for it, under every goddamn rock in this world…you’ll find a few of those moments.”

“If I die having had just one of those moments,” I said,

“I’d die a happy man.”

“Maybe you already have, Henry,” Jack said. “You just don’t know it yet. Maybe this story is even it.”

“Well, if it is, Brett Kaiser sure isn’t going to make it any easier.”

“Well, let’s try the good old-fashioned ambush method.”

“What do you suggest?” I said.

“I’ll go to the firm’s office, buy myself a big old cup of coffee, sit in the lobby and wait for Mr. Kaiser to leave.

If security doesn’t want a fellow such as myself loitering, I’ll simply wait outside. And if they tell me to leave,

I’ll tell them to kiss my wrinkly old ass.”

“And my job?”

“Why, you’re going to wait at Mr. Kaiser’s Park

Avenue apartment building and do the exact same thing.

You might even try sweet-talking his doorman. You have no idea how much information those guys have, and what they’re willing to tell you if you treat them like human beings. Unlike Park Avenue tenants who usually treat their doormen like they’re one step above pond scum.”

“And what if Kaiser shows up?”

“Simple,” Jack said. “You tell him what we have, and ask him to discuss it with you. Guys like this, these alpha male pricks, hate hiding behind publicists and lawyers, even if they are one. They don’t like being shown up by punks like you.”

“Punks like me?”

“Yes,” Jack said, arching his eyebrow. “Punks like you. At least that’s how he’ll see you. Actually, I’m kind of hoping he does see you first. Young guy, you’re less of a threat. Probably figures you write for the school newspaper. If you see Kaiser, you don’t walk away with less than something we can print that doesn’t rhyme with

‘Woe Bomment.’”

“I think I can manage that.”

“Good. Keep your cell on. I’ll call you if anything happens on my end.” I got up to leave. Jack put his hand on my shoulder, said, “Good luck, Henry. Get this.”

I nodded, went over to my desk and packed my things.

I arrived at Brett Kaiser’s apartment at just after two o’clock. There was a Korean deli on the corner where I bought a cup of coffee and an energy bar.

I walked over to the building, a bright Park Avenue complex that by my count was twenty stories high, with beautiful western views where you could see all the way down for miles. There was one doorman on duty, a man in his early forties wearing a blue uniform and the kind of top hat you only saw in movies about the 1920s. He was slightly heavyset, the beginnings of jowls on his face, a fresh razor burn under his chin.

A cab pulled up, and the doorman approached, leaning down to open the car door. A slender blonde in her forties slid out, thanked the doorman and went into the building.

The doorman watched her as she entered the building, holding his gaze just long enough for me to know that had she turned around, she wouldn’t have been pleased.

When the woman disappeared into the elevator, I approached.

“Afternoon,” I said.

The man nodded. “Can I ring someone for you, sir?” he replied.

“Not yet,” I said. “Is Mr. Kaiser home?”

“I haven’t seen him yet today.”

“Ah, let me guess, you’re on the eight a.m. to four p.m. shift. I guess that means Mr. Kaiser is up and at work early.” The doorman looked at me oddly.

“Sir?”

“No sweat, just making an observation. Name’s

Henry,” I said, extending my hand. The doorman hesitated. “I’m a reporter with the New York Gazette. ”

If he’d considered shaking my hand before, that idea was now gone.

“As I said, sir,” he replied, his voice much colder, “Mr.

Kaiser is not home at the moment.”

“I know, you mentioned that. I have to ask him a few questions.”

“Questions?”

I had to stop myself from smiling. Here’s the thing about New York City doormen: they love to talk. Your average doorman opens and closes a door for eight hours a day, but barely gets more than two words from their tenants. If you stop to chat, they’ll talk your ears blue. So few people actually talk to doormen, that if you gave them an inch they’d take eight miles.