The first bombs didn’t even wake me up. Years later, I’d think back on that and laugh. Right now, however, it was kind of disconcerting. It has been two months now since they started. Always at night. Always three bombs. No pattern found yet by the police. Except the night part. This is exactly what the police spokeswoman said to me when I asked about a pattern. “Nothing, except the night part.”
It’s strange to be a reporter again. Especially covering the biggest story to hit this place, most likely ever. How the powers that be saw me as the most qualified, I’ll never understand. But, it’s given me a voice, an audience, and a chance that I had not had in quite some time. Plus, when this is over, I’ll be able to write my ticket out of here. Finally.
I kid myself when I say I don’t know why I got this story. I was in the office over Christmas vacation when it happened. The news reporter there was at a parade 30 miles away. The editor, a 25 year old with little to no ability to make a decision, didn’t know what to do. I stepped up and said, “I’ll go.” The office was awful that day, and I figured it was fireworks. The initial little leaks were of “light explosions” in a warehouse.
Jumping into my car, I felt a little bit of nothing. I had a name of a police officer at the scene - “Veronica Stephens” - and that was it.
When I arrived at the warehouse, there were the remains of a car, smoldering after the fire department had put it out. The local television stations had already packed up their cars and were leaving. I trudged over to the woman, about 5 foot 8, 130 pounds with red hair. Of course she was a redhead, I remember thinking. Thank god she was a redhead, I think now.
We exchange pleasantries and I explain my lack of formal knowledge of news in general in the area. She gives me the lowdown of the “explosion.” Someone set a car on fire. It had a gas can in the back. It blew up. I asked who the car was registered to. This brought an eyebrow wrinkle from Miss (I found this out later) Stephens.
“It belongs to a Mr. John Franco,” she said matter-of-factly.
“The relief pitcher for the Mets?” I said with a chuckle.
“Exactly,” she said, not laughing.
“Really? Now that’s a story!” My sports instincts kicked right in. Veronica smiled when she saw me open up my notepad again.
“I thought so too,” she said. “The TV reporters didn’t even bat an eyelash when I said his name.”
“Have you contacted him yet?”
“It seems that Mr. Franco disappeared from his house in New York four days ago,” Veronica said. I noticed myself glancing at her lips and then her eyes. Not really paying attention to the story she was gift-wrapping for me. She had hazel eyes. The kind that can make the stars turn to stone. I had yet to figure out if she knew it or not. “And records indicate he’s been here in North Carolina the last two.”
“Records indicate?”
“Credit card receipts and such,” she said.
“And such?”
“Well, he bought this car at the Stephenson Toyota lot yesterday. We talked to a car salesman, Mr. Whittaker, and he was just excited to see the former Met here in North Carolina.”
“So, he definitely knew it was him.”
“Yep. He even got a Poloroid taken with him,” she showed me the picture. It definitely was John Franco. I thought about the 1987 Fleer baseball card set I had that I was attempting to get every card autographed. Did I have a John Franco? Probably not.
“This is awesome.”
“It is isn’t it?” she replied. “My dad was a huge Mets fan, which made me a huge Mets fan. Used to go see games at Shea all the time.”
“You from New York?”
“Is that going to be in the story?”
“Just for my own personal file.”
“Ha. Well, let’s just save that for another time,” she said handing me her business card. “You’ve got a story to write. See you soon, I hope.”
“Well, sure.”
“You have a card?”
“Well, like I told you before. I’m not even a reporter. So, no. You have a cell phone?”
“Yes.”
“A personal one?”
“Yep,” and she pulled it out of her pocket.
“You don’t keep that in that utility belt somewhere?” What an awful joke. Batman belts. Policewomen. Fuck.
“I usually store it in my invisible jet.”
That made me smile. She’s a dork too.
“Can I hold your phone?”
“What is this grade school?”
“Just hand it over, officer.” That may have crossed the line. But no one else was here to hear it. And she did.
“Here’s my number.” I punched in the digits with my name. “Call me sometime.”
“About the story?”
“Eh. If that’s all you want to talk about.”
She smiled, got in her car and left.
I went back to the office. Wrote up the story. Called a few people I used to know in the sports writing business. Got John Franco’s agent. A brief comment on his “missing status” and plopped the story in the queue.
The next day, I got a call from Veronica.
“Randy, let’s meet up.”
“So soon? I hardly know ya.”
“This is business. Not pleasure.”
Such is life, I thought. Or did I think it. I often worry that I say things out loud when I shouldn’t. Never really knowing if I did or didn’t.
“I heard that,” she said.
“What?”
“You do mumble out loud. Noticed it last night. Something about my eyes.”
“Oops.”
“Meet me at the Waffle Hut in 10 minutes.”
I said OK and quickly got dressed. I ran back inside when I realized I hadn’t brushed my teeth. Was I actually chasing a story again? Was I actually falling for a cop? This could be fun.
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