Writer, Comedienne, Speaker
KILL-TV BLURB, BOOK EXCERPT, ORDERING INFORMATION
Here's a link to an article that appeared in the The Union recently:
http://www.theunion.com/article/20080428/NEWS/886731563
KILL-TV BLURB
It’s April Fifteenth. Tax Day. And while this is not, traditionally, a source of merriment for any citizen, K-I-L-L TV adds a new twist to Ben Franklin’s axiom about “death and taxes” by telling the humorously suspenseful tale of news director, Leslie Lloyd. Fateful timing finds Leslie foraging around for a tape in the television station control room when she notices something is off besides the lights; station manager Lincoln Delaware Bradley III is dead. Unfortunately, our alliterative heroine was known to disagree with the head honcho publicly, loudly and frequently and the fact that Leslie and Lincoln had one humdinger of an argument a mere day’s worth of hours before Lincoln’s death doesn’t escape anyone’s attention, least of all the police. As if that isn’t enough, Leslie’s husband, that rat-bastard Bob, is leaving her, her income taxes haven’t been filed, and she’s in desperate need of an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting—or ten. An unexpected diversion in the form of a love connection with policeman Jared Stanford provides a welcome breather, even as a veritable Lombard Street of plot twists envelope her. The song title chapter headings set the tone for the intrigue as we get a closer look at Leslie’s life, friends and struggle to stay on top in the uncompromising world of broadcast journalism, as her story plays non-stop on every station, including K-I-L-L TV.
PRESS RELEASE
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
FORMER BROADCAST JOURNALIST UTILIZES RÉSUMÉ IN NEW MYSTERY NOVEL, K-I-L-L-TV, FEATURING APRIL FIFTEENTH—TAX DAY—MURDER
Grass Valley, California – The hilarious author of the babyboomer anthem to parenthood, Maternal Meanderings, and the humorous mystery featuring quaint Nevada City as its setting, Last Call, now brings us a new mystery that takes deadly aim at your funny bone—K-I-L-L TV.
K-I-L-L TV highlights author Dean-Epps’ humorous flare for comedy and creation of likeably unique characters. Drawing from her own personal résumé, having worked at an NBC-affiliate television station for six years, Dean-Epps presents fictitious television station, KQPT-TV, as an exciting backdrop for the plot providing just the right touch of realism and details which place the reader directly into the story. The alliterative female protagonist news director, Leslie Lloyd, is a recovering alcoholic who grapples with the dual challenges of working a high-pressure career and a high-pressure murder case. The plot begins with the murder of KQPT’s insufferable station owner, Lincoln Delaware Bradbury III, on April 15th. Tax Day. Who knew that Old Ben Franklin’s old axiom about, "death and taxes” would provide a one-two punch introduction to the plot of K-I-L-L TV?
We are pulled into K-I-L-LTV’s action when we learn that Leslie was known to disagree with the head honcho; publicly, loudly, and frequently. It doesn’t escape anyone’s attention that Leslie and Lincoln had one humdinger of an argument a mere day’s worth of hours before, least of all the police. The fight leaves Leslie distraught, causing her to forget to file her tax return on her way home from work, leading her to become the girl most likely to be incarcerated for the murder of her boss and income tax evasion.
As if that isn’t enough, Leslie’s husband, that rat-bastard Bob, is leaving her and she’s in desperate need of an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting—or ten. An unexpected diversion in the form of a love connection with policeman, Jared Stanford, provides a welcome breather, even as a veritable Lombard Street of plot twists engulf her. The song title chapter headings set the tone for the intrigue as we get a closer look at Leslie’s life, friends, and struggle to stay on top in the uncompromising world of broadcast journalism. She does this with style, intelligence, and clever asides, all while the killer watches and waits at…K-I-L-L TV.
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Chapter 1
“Something to Talk About.” Bonnie Raitt
Omigod, omigod, omigod, omigod. No one is ever going to believe I didn’t kill him. Instead of KQPT-TV’s, “Where the news comes first” tag line it would now be using, “Where murder comes first.”
Look at him. Even in death he’s ruining my life. I just came in to get the “big rig” fire videotape I needed for tomorrow’s newscast and I was almost home free too when it dawned on me that something wasn‘t right. I had to go and find him. Catching a glimpse of his inert frame, I had jumped so far that I had banged my shin on one of the swivel chairs. I rubbed my shin as I looked over at KQPT-TV’s head honcho and waited for him to pounce on me yelling, “Aha! Caught you trying to remove station property from the premises.” No dice though. No pounce, just jump—from me.
I glanced over at Lincoln Bradbury Delaware III again, inching my way toward him crab-like, quietly, in case he was sleeping. I was now no more than a foot from him. Nope. He didn’t look like he was sleeping. Certainly not a regular nap. More like a dirt nap. Shouldn’t there be some sort of R.E.M. movement, twitching, or general air flow? I had never quite seen that set to his face. He looked so—lifeless—which gave rise to my hysteria. “Shit!” I yelled and then I clapped my hand over my mouth. I was scared spitless.
Before I could think I continued my tenuous journey toward him, but then at the last moment I veered toward the exit sign. Where were rubber gloves when you needed them? Wait a minute. I wasn’t raised that way. The Lloyds are a wonderful people. My people help. We are helpmates. We even used Hamburger Helper we’re so damned help-conscious. Maybe it wasn’t too late for him. Should I look for a mirror? No. Wait. Be logical. How would that help him? I could see if he was breathing, but what I really needed to do was check for a pulse. I looked around in a panic, seeking a quick exit. I couldn’t just leave. That would be so wrong. So, I’m on a tax deadline, having a marital crisis and in a sticky situation. Hey, wait why is this floor sticky? Never mind for now. What, is this predicament inconveniencing me because I‘m almost late—again—with my taxes? Yes, goddamn it!, the bad angel on my left shoulder answered. It’s tax day and if you don’t get your ass out the door in twenty minutes you can say hello to late fees and good-bye to any prayer of a good night‘s sleep. Remember that you hate this guy and nothing good can come from you being in this room right now. As always happens, the good angel chimed in, Oh, yeah, like she’s really going to sleep tonight after this. Get real! That good angel. She’s a spunky one.
Reason kicked in, followed by a spurt of clarity. For a moment I got a whiff of my own bravery. I needed to lend a hand. This is a human being. Granted, he’s been masquerading as our resident prick of a boss, but he is a human being. All right. Breathe. Focus. Sympathy. Death. April 15th—Tax Day. Death. Taxes. I wondered if my earlier fiddling around with the electronic on-line tax filing program could have possibly put me in the clear with a successful filing? What was I saying? I just found the body of my boss. Death trumps taxes, right Mr. IRS Guy?
This would go down in the book of, Worst Days Experienced by Human Beings, as THE worst day ever. My boss looked dead. Let’s say he is dead. That would be enough excitement, but let’s add more drama. It’s tax day. I owe money to the IRS. And that rat-bastard husband of mine, Bob, dumped me because he needed to “find himself.” I had wanted the authorities to find him and all parts of “himself” all over the city. I guess you could say I’m a bit bitter. One of these occurrences would have sufficed as punishment for my thoughts of revenge against Bob, but all of them?
Bob had always been a man behind his times, his departure spiel harkening straight out of the seventies as he told me he needed “room to grow” and “space to breathe.” I had not been exactly surprised that a slug-like guy like Bob used references that could be applied to plant life, but Bob was a habit. My habit. I had spent five years of my life with him and he was broken in like a comfortable, but slightly rundown sofa. I had been with him, in the main, because he was stable. He was so there, never possessing enough energy to grapple for the remote control that was his birthright, let alone the energy to leave me. But leave me he did, the son of a bitch. He walked in trailing promises and ambled out trailing those son-of-a-bitching sunflower seeds he was so fond of.
My higher power has a great sense of humor. I specifically remember asking that Bob turn up dead by some horrifying means. Not Lincoln. I hadn’t liked either of them, but at least I hadn‘t been filing a joint income tax return with Lincoln, just resentments.
Oh, crap. Lincoln. Lincoln looked decidedly unlively. I must be in shock, standing here in “whoa-is-me” mode, putting off confirmation of his death. Not the reaction one would expect. I ran over to Lincoln, overcame my revulsion, jumped in his lap and started beating on his chest in some semblance of CPR I had seen on ER at one time or another. Or was it Scrubs? I’m not particularly medical, but I do enjoy a good humorous send-up, so Scrubs was more likely. And if I didn’t do something real quick here I’d be sent up the river for murder if anyone saw me on top of him, attempting to get a pulse. It looked like I was attempting to get something, all right.
I listened for breathing. There was none. Same for the pulse. Nothing was moving, pulsing, dripping or oozing either, the latter two being of the good news variety. Maybe I’m just inept at this checking vital signs thing. Was that someone walking by, outside the control room? Reinforcements. Good stuff. The only problem was I seemed to be entangled in Lincoln’s goddamned tie clasp. Oh, for pete’s sake. My knitted shirt had seemed like a good idea this morning when I put it on, all smart and stylish. Now it was all tangled and stuck on Lincoln. How was I supposed to know that some simple fibers could hook onto a tie clip tighter than abalone on shale?
I rocked in and out, attempting to get myself off the hook, as it were. I looked up in the midst of my impalement and met the eyes of a potential supporter. Uh-oh.
Judging by the lascivious smile on station manager Jim Daly’s face he could most definitely see me through the tinted glass of the control room. And then it dawned on me. This was a lot of dawning for one day. He thought I was screwing the boss. From his viewpoint I was in the boss’ lap, looking for all intents and purposes as though I were riding a sexual carousel for all I was worth. While the real action was decidedly up north from where it appeared I was working, it didn’t matter. Television is a “never say it, if you can show it” kind of business and, evidently, Jim got the story on this one. Why else would I be on Lincoln’s lap? Oh, right, determining if he was alive, right after I disengaged my designer clothing from his equally chic tie clip. It was so obvious?!
Jim just kept right on walking as I kept right on rocking. I finally ripped the blasted shirt off of the tie clasp and jumped off of Lincoln. Where was I going? I gritted my teeth and swiveled back around to look at him more closely. Throughout all of my – efforts – there had been no movement on his part at all. Yuck! Gross.
I needed to get help, but help just kept on walking. Wait a minute. Let me think. If I could just explain things to Jim I’m sure he would understand. Right. I’m alone in the control room, it’s almost midnight and I’m on Lincoln’s lap, riding him like Seabiscuit. Some definite understanding would occur there, wouldn’t it?
I stepped over and in, really looking into Lincoln’s face. One thing was for sure. My boss was not breathing and, now that I had been up close and personal, he had gone decidedly Sara Lee on me, being devoid of heat. As if that wasn’t problematic enough, there was now a witness who had gone away thinking that it was promotion time again at the Okay Television Corral and I was bucking for a big one – raise that is.
Should I run after Jim for help? Who cares how this looks. Something is horribly wrong and I am not going to take the fall for this. And that’s when it happened. That’s when I fell. Blacked out. Out like a light. Lights out. Goodnight Irene. For this I shaved my legs?!
♫
April 15th. Tax Day. Never a banner day in anyone’s daybook. Even when you don’t owe money, tax day looms on the calendar. I’ll bet that when Old Ben Franklin came up with that axiom of, "In this world, nothing is certain but death and taxes,” he hadn’t exactly envisioned it being applied to a suspicious death centuries later. Who knew that, for me, April Sixteenth would be so much worse? Worse being defined by the crime scene tape barricading Control Room “A” of the television studio, proving that Lincoln Delaware Bradbury III was dead. I bit my lip while I waited for the rest of the story. Usually, having the inside track as a news director was the way to go, but not this time around. I knew more than anyone else, which was squat, as it related to the actual circumstances of Lincoln’s death. I was biting my lip so hard I could taste blood, along with my J.A.N.E. mocha-flavored lip gloss. Dynamite combo.
Stunned silence met Jim Daly as he provided everyone else with details and me with an ulcer. “He was found in the control room, just sitting there, facing the blank monitors. Nobody had wanted to bother him because he was looking at air check tapes. You know how it wasn’t unusual for him to put a tape up for himself and view it?” he asked as he looked around the room. Was that a wink? Did he wink at me? Oh, crap. This is not happening. I moved on from my lip to my cuticles, but remembered I’d used those up last night, so I converted the move into a casual crossing of the arms.
I watched Jim with forced attention, trying not to look guilty as hell, as various producers, writers, directors, and reporters nodded their heads in unison as he spoke. I shuddered at the visual image of cold Lincoln Bradbury, sitting in that cold control room, stone cold dead. And me rocking up and down on him. Oh, geez. I needed to burn that shirt. Would that be destroying evidence? Whoa there, Leslie, let’s just take it easy. I employed some deep yoga breathing and instead began to hyperventilate. I needed to reel it in here. Half of this room constituted my employees and I couldn’t afford to go hysterical female—ever—not even in this situation. I joined Jim’s monologue in progress. “We’d just gotten the numbers back from the latest ratings book. He’d been talking about putting together some Magid focus groups, so he was studying tapes of all of our news shows.” Ah, yes, Magid, the industry focus group gurus. In this business they were viewed as gods who were powerful enough to decide whether someone’s career lived or died. Life. Death. Lincoln was dead and I had had a monster of an argument with him in front of dozens just last night as if the midnight encounter hadn’t been bad enough. Seven-ish last night I believe the argument occurred. And now I was rapidly headed toward suspect status, I thought. What had I done when the going got tough? I had left in a hurry after my ungainly fall in the control room. Belly crawling out of the control room if truth be told. Not good.
Jim went on, repositioning himself closer to me as he said, “I was headed in to drop off some sales projections when I noticed he didn’t look…” Jim struggled uncharacteristically for words and I knew why, the bastard.
“I don’t know. He didn’t look right.” He stopped, seemingly in an effort to gather his emotional resources. Usually he was the kind of guy who not only had his resources gathered, but catalogued and filed too. I knew what he was really doing…making me sweat.
If this were a regular situation I could be fair here. It made sense Jim would be shaken up by Lincoln’s death. After all, the deceased was responsible for Jim’s employment in the business, let alone making him second in charge – make that first in charge now – of a twentieth market television station. Be that as it may, this was no regular day. Jim, just like Lincoln, was not a “feelings” kind of guy and for a feelings kind of girl like me this had spelled trouble in many a situation here at KQPT-TV/Channel 8.
I contemplated the ramifications of Lincoln’s death applied to the fact that my dislike of the man was well-known around these parts. That could become an issue meriting great interest from the authorities in the future. I shifted my weight from my left to my right foot. I was twitching. Was this how George Michael came up with that song, Guilty Feet?
After a moment or two Jim managed to regain his composure and he resumed acting as though he were talking about deleting a program from the television viewing schedule, rather than his bosses’ deletion from the planet’s survival schedule. Good old Jim. “Just-the-facts-Jim,” is what we called him behind his back, “JTF” for short.
“Anyway, I’ll let you know about the services,” he finished dismissively, without a trace of any of the previous emotional bleed-through. Just when I thought I might be able to simply do my job and explain myself later, his next words laid the groundwork for what surely would be my nervous breakdown.
“Oh, and one more thing. Don’t feel you need to protect the station when you answer questions from the police. They’re treating this whole situation as a murder investigation until evidence proves otherwise. Tell them any details you can think of—nothing is too minor to mention. Any information you have or can get your hands on will be helpful. Anything,” he added for good measure, giving my guts the extra punch they needed.
He then established eye contact with each of us standing in a semi-circle saying, “Getting the whole story is what we do and it’s the least we can do for Lincoln. I told the police that you would all cooperate fully,” he emphasized, pointedly looking at me. I had the good sense to stow away my usual spirited retort for the time being and attempted an all-knowing smile.
My uneasiness was rapidly turning into full-blown dread. I might be a suspect faster than you can say, “What size county-issue overalls would you like, ma’am?” I paused my fears, angst and doubts as I finished listening to Jim’s wrap-up. His skills as a former anchor were evident in his segue.
“Anyway, you still have a newscast to put together this morning, so I’ll let you get back to it.” With that he about-faced on his snazzy Italian loafers and made to depart. Except I wasn’t about to be that lucky. Nope. No driving to a local Indian gaming parlor to try my luck. It obviously wasn’t in.
Jim wiggled his index finger toward me and said, “A word with you Ms. Lloyd.” Oh, God. Here it comes. He’s going to tell me that he knows I killed Lincoln. He knows I can’t stand Lincoln and I’m not all that fond of Jim either, so it‘s a slam dunk that he‘ll turn me in. No time to pack my desk or fluff my hair. Buzz those policemen in now. Murder. Would he accuse me of murder? Last he knew, Lincoln and I were engaged in the rocking chair mambo, so maybe he thinks I gave him a heart attack? What a disgusting thought. No chance to ponder all of that now.
Jim beckoned me to follow him into one of the editing bays located just off of the newsroom. As I trailed behind him, he shut the sliding glass door, not bothering to turn the lights on and pressed up against me. Wasn’t he afraid people would see us?
“Uh, Jim. Little close in here. Wouldn’t you rather talk out there?” I pointed toward the wide open spaces of anywhere else and turned to open the sliding glass door and make my escape. His words stopped me in my proverbial tracks.
“I know what you were doing and I want a piece…,“ he snickered suggestively “…of the action.”
“What are you talking about?” I croaked as I turned around, knowing exactly what he was talking about. He was going to have to say it for two reasons. Number one: I was stalling and number two: I was petrified.
“You know,” he picked up a piece of my mostly natural auburn hair, rubbing it between his fingers and giving it a tug before he laid it back down. “I think we should continue the same type of…working…relationship you had with Lincoln. I never knew you were so…open.”
This was getting old really fast. “Listen. Jim. I don’t know what it is you think you saw…”
Suddenly, he seemed to completely fill the small room and his look was devastatingly black. “Oh, what it is I think I saw,” he cut in. He was so close I could feel his hot, coffee-tinged breath in my face. “Good one. We both know what I saw. There was no mistaking a scene like that.”
Before I could lose my nerve I said, “So, let’s just cut to the chase. Are you turning me in to the police?” I was mortified that my voice actually shook.
He laughed mirthlessly. I decided on the spot that laughter may make the world go ‘round, but it can certainly stop it in its tracks too. “I’m not going to tell anyone anything. Yet,” he added, lest I feel hope of any kind.
“Sounds quite a bit like blackmail, Jim,” I said as I backed up into the editing machine, hitting what sounded like the fast forward button with my rearend.
He closed in on the last centimeter between us, speaking with a sadistic smile. “Blackmail. That’s a terrible word. We’re just going to have a closer—and better—working relationship.”
I lost it. I couldn‘t help it. “Jim. Cut the crap. I am not—was not—screwing Lincoln and I will not be screwing you. Take your best shot. Tell anyone anything you want. It‘s your word against mine. Hello, and aren‘t you married anyway, Jim? To one of our major advertisers, no less?” I emphasized the words I thought he would understand best.
My short run at empowerment had done nothing to disarm my piece of poo boss because he looked calm, but pissed and was about to say something else when, thank God, my best friend, Rob, slid the door wide open, jogging in with a tape that needed to be edited for air—pronto. Rob gave us a cursory glance, punching up the tape for viewing and slamming himself into a wheelie chair.
“We’ll talk again,” Jim hissed as he slithered out of the editing bay. Let’s hope that was an empty threat. I all but collapsed into a rolling chair myself and rolled right on into the opposite wall. Struggling to gain my mental and physical balance I was too aware that my list of problems were growing exponentially. Sunflower Seed Bob was now the least of my worries. Add tax evasion, insubordination and murder. We’re really cooking with gas now. The scariest part was that I couldn’t tell anyone what was going on. Too risky. Too weird. I needed to handle this myself. Whatever “this” turned out to be. If I told anyone the details I would be putting them into, at the very least, a bad situation and, at the very most, danger. I’d have to deal with JTF, the authorities and my need for a manicure all by myself. I are a big girl.
I let out a whoosh of air, only just realizing that I’d been holding my breath long enough to cruise the underwater regions of the Golden Gate Bridge and surface way on out Alcatraz Island way, without taking a new breath.
“Rob. That’s it. I’m swearing off men for good. I’m going gay. I could be gay, couldn’t I? Is it wrong to want to be gay? Argh! What am I saying?” I flopped backwards in my chair in the land version of deadman’s float. His concentration was so intense he didn’t even register my minor outburst or the content.
I attempted to pull myself together as I watched Rob expertly set the in and out positions on the digital editor and perform a quick edit. The whole process took him one minute—tops. He was amazing; the best editor and my best friend, but he couldn’t help me. He quickly finished the process and stood waiting for the tape to eject.
“You okay, chica?” Rob asked as an intern came in and Rob handed the tape off like the broadcasting quarterback that he is. He followed me as we relocated out to the newsroom, so that the editing bay could be utilized as intended. It was rare for one of them to stand empty for long, which made it all the weirder that JTF would use one for the kind of conversation he had initiated with me. How could his timing be so good and mine so bad?
“Yeah, I guess. Weird stuff, this whole Lincoln thing, huh?” We began walking back toward my office, putting ourselves into the middle of the thoroughfare that is the newsroom.
No one had liked Lincoln Delaware Bradbury III, but who was going to admit it now? It would be tantamount to standing on the television station roof, next to Channel 8’s Action Copter, shouting to the police, “Pick me! Pick me! I had a motive. I hated his guts. I should be a suspect. Ask me where I was when Lincoln was killed and I won’t pretend to know. I’m bringing my own handcuffs too. Oh, and by the way, I’ve already read myself the Miranda rights. I know a shortcut to the jail, so let’s go!”
I momentarily felt a sadness that a human being’s life had been snuffed out by nature’s continuing life-sized version of “Survival of the Fittest.” I have to admit the moment was brief because, truth be told, I can’t—couldn’t—stand Lincoln Bradbury. Death doesn’t erase love and I suppose it doesn’t do much to erase hate either. Should I act hypocritically and make noises like I cared about him? For my own good?
One of the established elements of survival in this business was gaining immunity to the usual emotions that surround tragic circumstances, but I knew this went well beyond. Actually, “couldn’t stand” was a light term for how I felt about Lincoln. “Despised, disdained and detested” were more apt descriptive terms.
People were looking at me. Staring, really. I looked down and checked my zipper which had been known to be down a time or two. I noticed something that should never happen, and hardly ever does happen in a newsroom. Silence. Library-like silence. They all knew about my fight with Lincoln. Crap! That meant I needed to immediately launch into my Leslie Lloyd “Female News Director Castrating Bitch On Wheels” role to establish leadership—again—and be the bad guy, lest the work suffer and people think things weren’t normal. Normal. Hah!
I turned and addressed the news staff. “All right, everybody. It’s still business as usual. We’ve got a newscast to produce and there are plenty of details left undone. The tanker spill story obviously drops to number two position, the lead becomes Lincoln’s death.”
I pivoted toward our legendary anchor, Steinman Gentry, who was in early, subbing for our vacationing sunrise anchor man. “Stein, go ahead and get some B-roll, some on-camera reaction shots and interview footage.”
Now I rallied the rest of the troops, turning to one of our producers. “Gwen, you take care of getting reaction sound bites from the employees. Gil, you go ahead and pair up with Stein. Make sure you get some tight shots of KQPT employees reacting to the news of Lincoln’s death. Let’s get to it everybody. It’s still just another news day for our viewers.”
On cue, the noise level elevated back up to the white noise that indicated normalcy in a newsroom and everyone scattered. I couldn’t help but notice a few surreptitious looks being shot my way. I winced at my use of the word “shot,” given the current circumstances. Had Lincoln been shot? No, surely Jim would have said something and I would have seen blood. He’d said Lincoln had looked normal. When I saw Lincoln he had looked normal, if dead were a normal part of the scene. Oh, boy, and talk about scenes. I’d had a beaut with Lincoln the same night of his death. If I didn’t watch it I’d be subpoenaed for my own thoughts and have to testify against myself.
Okay, Sybil. Lighten up on the internal guilty monologue. Just because I had had a high volume, high-profile argument with the highly deceased station owner mere hours before his estimated untimely demise didn’t mean that anyone would think that I had anything to do with his death, did it? I swallowed hard. I felt as though I had a roll of Bounty paper towels in my mouth because all of the moisture had been sucked right out of there.
It occurred to me that if Lincoln hadn’t turned up dead I could very well have turned up unemployed because he might have fired my butt after our last verbal altercation. His death gave my position new life. And new motive. Was that what everyone was thinking? That I had, at the very least, killed Lincoln by giving him a heart attack? It had certainly crossed my mind a few times, the fact that he could have simply died from a heart attack. I knew stress could create angina, but had I caused a fatal heart attack? It must be a medical possibility.
Come to think of it I realized Jim hadn’t mentioned how Lincoln had died. I had left so quickly I hadn’t bothered to examine Lincoln or the control room for clues.
Call it a reporter’s hunch, call it paranoia, but I had the distinct impression that Lincoln’s death was more than a suspected murder—there might be just a few more preliminary details to take care of before the police called it a murder but it had all the hallmarks of one.
I had probably corrupted the murder scene. That thought made my knees weak. Can you leave fingerprints on a body? An autopsy would be crucial. Alibis would be established. Questions would be dodged. Prozac would be ingested; at this rate, the latter three all by me.
Damn! With everything going on I had forgotten to check on a story. My memory played out for my viewing pleasure as I headed back toward Editing to look at tonight’s innocuous video package on “How to Avoid Late Fees on Those Late Taxes.” Obviously something I needed in my own personal library.
I thought back to the words Lincoln and I had exchanged just yesterday. He had been bitching at me about the ratings and the fact that I still hadn’t downsized the news staff, even though he had handed down the edict to do it weeks before. I had been stalling until I could come up with an alternative that he would go for and he had been livid.
I entered Editing Bay Number Two, purposely a different one than JTF had chosen earlier, and sat down heavily, feeling the weight of the situation settling over my body. As I inserted the tape into the deck and hit rewind I couldn’t help but hit mental rewind at the same time, replaying that very argument with Lincoln.
“Lloyd, you just don’t get it, do you? You’re not in podunk fucking Oklahoma anymore. You’re management and you’re working in a top 20 market now. Act like it!” Through gritted teeth he said, “Lower the ax on that overstaffed mini dynasty of yours, or I’ll lower it on you.”
I was trying very hard to keep my temper, but his patronizing tone was making my shoulders so tight that a sumo wrestler wouldn’t be able to massage the kinks out of them.
I attempted a reasonable tact of persuasion, indicating the need for us to get out of the middle of the newsroom—the equivalent of the fast lane on the freeway by pointing to the far wall. We were becoming a way more interesting story than the assigned ones the staff was working on.
“Look, Lincoln. I fully realize what you’re saying...”
“You don’t realize shit!” he snapped at me as he took a threatening step toward me, mid-stride to our new location.
I felt my initial anger turn into a raging heat that rampaged up through my spine and out my mouth. I put my hand up in a defensive mode. “Hold on a minute, sir. This is your station, I know, but you made me responsible for the news shows and I need to be given full rein here, not be micromanaged at every turn.”
By now we had managed to get out of the way, but we were right next to the assignment editor, where everyone would have a pretty good excuse to visit if we remained this intriguing. I didn’t care at this point. I practically stamped my foot when I screamed, “Goddamn it! I did not sell my soul to you.”
I knew I was stepping over the line, but I felt all control and good judgment snap like an old girdle on an obese matron. I had taken his insults for a multitude of months—years—and I was unstoppable now. I hardly noticed the fascinated staff now seemingly motionless in their gathering interest.
“You hired me because I know the business. I’ve been in the business since I was 16 years old. I allowed myself a foray into self-aggrandizement as I raged on. “I’ve won two Emmys, worked every job in the newsroom from intern to reporter to news director, been profiled in a half dozen industry magazines and I’ve even been the keynote speaker for the National Association of Broadcasters conference three years running. I think I know what I’m doing. You know how to make money and I know how to produce a successful newscast. I may have come from ‘podunk fucking Oklahoma’ as you so succinctly put it, but I won industry awards all five years while I was there and my staff liked me. How about yours?” Lincoln’s face had gone from passive pink, to rageful red, to apoplectic purple inside of six seconds. Though I wasn’t done I had gotten as far as I was going to get, maybe ever.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a small group of newsroom voyeurs watching from Control Room “B.” I imagined some resourceful technical director rolling tape upon getting wind of this exclusive storm brewing inside our very own facility known for its state-of-the-art weather equipment almost as well as its news. Lincoln was rarely without a vicious defensive comeback, though more often he specialized in the offensive attack, and this time was certainly no exception.
“Lloyd, you’ve gone too fucking far this time,” he warned ominously. “Do you think you’re the only news director who’s won awards? We were interested in you because a female news director was a novelty act in our business. We thought it would play well in the market. If you ever speak to me that way again you’re out of this station, this town and this business. Do I make myself clear?” he demanded, as he jabbed his finger at my chest repeatedly. When I didn’t respond he rasped, “Do you?”
At that moment I hated his ultimatum and him. I wanted to kill him. I was furious, but I swallowed the words that came to my lips, along with my lump of pride. Lunch for one. I almost choked on the swill-like combination. The taste was worse than a trough drink.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I threw over my shoulder sarcastically as I spun on my heel and made for an exit. Any exit. I felt it was necessary to save face with my newfound audience in Control Room “B” and beyond, so I figured a neat pivot turn would do it. I also mumbled “asshole” under my breath for good measure.
I’d gotten in the last
word only because Belinda came running up, Lincoln’s faithful, but oblivious
toady, with notification of some transatlantic phone call for him. Probably the
family plastic surgeon was notifying him that his trophy wife was ready to be
picked up from her recent installment of “touch-ups” on her hideous
countenance. I was immediately contrite that my anger had me, mentally at
least, lashing out at people who hadn’t even hurt me. Had I possessed a crystal
ball I might have traveled a different conversational path altogether, but who
could have known that my attempt to stick up for myself and my co-workers would
get so out of hand? That my anger would set me up so perfectly as the girl most
likely to kill? That I would be the first to find Lincoln dead? The tape deck
clicked loudly on “stop,” snapping me to the present. I viewed the one-minute
package, deeming it ready for air by signing off on the log sheet. Exiting the
editing suite, I greeted editors and photographers along the way, making a big
show of acting “as if” it was a day like any other day. The acting, “as if,”
method had served me well in life. I’d never applied the concept to something
as serious as the looming specter of arrest for murder, though. It could work,
couldn’t it? As if!
END OF EXCERPT
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