Steve Martini - Compelling Evidence

There’s the sound of sirens outside on the street, a fast-moving patrol car followed seconds later by the lumbering echo and diesel drone-a fire pumper. An emergency medical team headed to the scene of some fire or accident.

Eli tilts his glass toward the sound in the street, a salute, then downs the last gulp.

‘Too bad,” he says. “A tragedy,” he says.

“What’s that?”

“You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?” I wait for the latest bit of unconfirmed gossip. The stuff of which most of Walker’s columns are composed.

“Ben Potter,” he says.

Walker, I suspect, is brokering information on the high court nomination. Probably third-hand hearsay, which he’s spreading faster than typhoid from a cesspool.

“He passed on,” says Walker.

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean he’s dead- muerto-mort -fish food,” he says.

The words push me perceptibly back from the bar. I turn my head and stare at this old man in stony silence.

“Heard it on the police scanner in my car. They were callin’ in the EMTs, the paramedics.” He looks at his watch. “Can you believe it? Over ten minutes ago now. Get a coronary in this town, you’d better call a taxi,” he says.

Suddenly I catch his meaning, the sirens in the street. Walker thinks they’re responding to some tragedy involving Potter.

This conversation is surreal. I want to tell him that Ben’s going to come walking through the door behind us any second. I look again at my watch. He’s just late.

I compose myself. Walker’s pulling some scam, trying to flesh out information on why I left the firm. Feed me some crap about Potter’s death to see if I’ll defame the dead. It’s the kind of dirt that Walker would slip into a column.

“What did you hear, exactly?”

“Dead at the scene,” he says.

Try as I do, there’s some psychic staggering here. There’s no hesitation in his responses. Even Eli Walker would have a hard time confusing the manifest line between life and death.

“An accident?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“Heart attack?”

Walker slaps his glass on the bar, a satisfied grin on his face. He finally has my undivided attention.

It’s clear, Walker’s not talking until he has another drink. I call the bartender. Having humored me with scotch, Walker now orders a double bourbon. I ask for the tab and pass the bartender two twenties.

“Gunshot,” he says. “His office.”

Shock and disbelief are registered by the fire I feel all the way to the tips of my ears. He reads disbelief in my eyes.

“It’s true,” he says. “I swear.” He holds up a loose victory sign, like a confused Boy Scout.

“What happened?” I ask.

He shrugs his shoulders. “They don’t give out news bulletins over the police bands.”

This is Eli’s idea of dogged journalism. Hustling drinks at a bar with tidbits of information. I wonder what part of the police transmission he didn’t hear or failed to interpret.

“Do you have a press pass?” I ask.

“Sure.”

“Let’s go.”

“Where we goin’? Our drinks haven’t come yet.”

My hand grips his elbow like a vise, pushing him along ahead of me.

“Haven’t you heard, Eli? Alcohol keeps.”

All the way mere, Walker’s making like an echo in the seat next to me as I drive. He’s babbling some nonsense about having to meet a source back at the bar.

“Sure, Eli, what’s the guy’s name? Johnnie Walker?”

“No, really, I’ve got a meeting back there.”

“I’m sure he’ll wait for you. I’ll take you back later. Just relax. All you have to do is get me past the police lines.” Assuming there are any.

Hope finds refuge in the improbable crackling transmissions of a police-band radio as interpreted by Eli Walker. But my expectations sag as I pull to the curb on the mall in front of the Emerald Tower.

Minicam crews from channel five and eight are already assembled outside the entrance, jockeying for film advantage. The vans, sprouting microwave dishes and me small spiraled antennae of cellular telephones, are parked at the curb like prodigious wheeled insects in search of carrion on which to feast. Two patrol cars have driven to the fountain on the cobblestone plaza in front of the building. The driver’s door on one is still open, and the light-bars of the units flash amber, red, and blue, the reflections glinting off the emerald glass of the structure in a surreal symphonic light show. The cops are stringing yellow tape across the building’s entrance.

There’s a third vehicle-navy blue in color and lower than the minicam vans-nesded between the two bigger vans. Its flashing emergency lights flicker against the dark azure of a Spielberg sky. On the side the words COUNTY CORONER are printed in bold white letters. I begin to have a new respect for Eli Walker.

We scurry up the broad cement concourse toward the towering green glass edifice. I’m pushing Walker all the way. This is a reporter who’s never been to a fire. The only heat he’s ever felt is booze in the belly.

“Give me your pass, Eli.”

He fumbles with his wallet and drops it on the concrete. I pick it up and riffle through it and quickly find the pass. I look at the laminated plastic card. There’s no picture. I’m in luck.

“I’ll do the talking. Just keep quiet.”

We reach the door and a uniformed cop, young, part of the traffic division I’m sure, challenges us. I lay on a flurry of the working press in a hurry, flashing the press card under his nose. He waves us through. Television crews are assembled here in the building’s lobby. Another cop is stationed at the entrance to the elevators. I’ve run out my string with Walker’s press pass.

Walker and I huddle.

“Know any of these guys?” I nod toward the media moguls wandering about the lobby.

He takes a quick glance around, then shakes his head. Walker’s well connected.

“Stay here.”

I walk over and cozy up to one of the cameramen, who’s checking out the jungle of tropical plants near the indoor fountain.

“What happened?”

The guy’s chewing gum, a huge wad. He looks at me.

“Ugh du no.” This erudite response is accompanied by a shrug of his shoulders as the gum snaps in his mouth. He nods toward a better-dressed colleague standing a few feet away.

“What’s up?”

“Some guy bought it,” he says.

“Who?”

“Beats me. Cops won’t give us anything.”

“How did you find out?”

He looks at me like I’m crazy, then touches the pager strapped to his belt. “How do I find out about anything?”

I’m back to Walker. He’s getting bored. Wants to leave. I’m hearing more about his meeting back at The Broiler.

There’s the single tone of a bell, one of the elevator cars reaching the lobby. Klieg lights zero in on the elevator door like antiaircraft in me London blitz. The doors slide open. A solitary figure stands in the center of the elevator car blinded by the lights and inundated by a stream of concurrent, incoherent questions.

Elbows go up to shade the light. “You’ll have to get mat from me police. I’ve got nothing to say.” The cop at me elevator eases several of the cameras back away from the door. “Get mat damn light out of my eyes.” In a grudging sequence, the lights go dim and me crowd at the elevator begins to dissipate, wandering back to the corners of the lobby.

He’s halfway across me lobby headed for me door when he sees me. George Cooper’s eyes are still adjusting from me media bombardment. He carries a small black satchel containing the instruments of his dark calling.

“Coop.” My voice echoes just a little in me cavernous lobby.