“Jack Gannon, WPA, New York. Can I get a moment with you?”
Morrow’s face flashed with disbelief.
He did not need this. Not now.
“Can you just give me a few minutes?” Gannon asked.
Morrow stared at him.
Early on he’d accepted that this case was high profile, involving many jurisdictions; that leaks were inevitable. But Gannon’s presence meant he had been tipped again and the continued betrayal was an insult Morrow couldn’t stomach.
His eyes burned with a dangerous fury.
He walked away.
“Sir,” Gannon persisted, “is this your shooter from Ramapo? Is this one of the killers?” He started down the hall after him. “Agent Morrow, you know I’ll do a story with or without your help.”
Before Morrow turned a corner, he mumbled something to a uniformed officer who sent Gannon back to the reception area.
Frustrated, Gannon sat in a cushioned chair.
Morrow’s presence confirmed a significant development. Gannon could use that, but where did he go from there? After considering matters, he pulled out his BlackBerry and scrolled through his notes, only to be hit with a text pressuring him to deliver something. New York feared the AP would beat the WPA to the arrest story and wanted him to file immediately.
To get to North Platte he’d taken an early-morning flight direct to Denver, then a one-hour hop in a Beechcraft twin-prop. Then he’d rented a car. But it was not the trip that kept adrenaline pumping through him, it was the terms. First, he’d broken his own rule after he’d been tipped. He rushed to Lisker, begged him to forget the dog show and put him back on the heist story by promising an exclusive.
“One of the suspects has just been arrested near Ogallala, Nebraska. No one knows yet. It’s all ours. Send me there now.”
Lisker weighed matters.
Then, thinking of costs, because that was always Lisker’s first concern, he tried WPA’s Omaha and Denver bureaus, but staff members were out of town on other assignments. They had a student stringer out of North Platte. But that was too risky.
“I’ll send you—on one condition,” Lisker told Gannon. “No doubt you’ve heard the WPA is facing staff reductions. I don’t care how good your reputation is, your insubordination and this episode with the police makes you a prime candidate for termination.”
“I was just doing my job.”
“If you want to keep it, you’ll give me an exclusive on an arrest in the heist murders. If you don’t— Well, think of Nebraska as the potential graveyard for your career.”
One way or another, he’d deliver.
North Platte was a small town but it was pure freakin’ luck that he’d encountered Morrow. The fact the FBI’s case agent was here confirmed the significance of the traffic-stop shooting. Gannon had to piece something together fast. He went to the Nebraska State Patrol’s website. The news release on the stop was still not updated. It was the same one he’d printed off before he left. Beyond the time and date, it said nothing about the magnitude of the incident.
Gannon exhaled.
His next step was to find the unnamed trooper who took down the suspect. He’d put in a call to the State Patrol but they refused to provide more information. His only option at the moment was a suggestion texted by the stringer, Trevor Reece, a part-time freelancer for the
Troopers hang @ 6 Bees Roadhouse W of NP off I-80. Big sign can’t miss it.
Gannon left the hospital and drove there.
Encouraged at seeing three marked State Patrol cars among the vehicles in the lot, he parked his rented Chevy, sat on a stool at the counter and took a quick inventory.
It was a popular place, nearly every table and booth in use. Conversations, the strains of a Garth Brooks ballad and the smell of coffee filled the air. He noticed three uniformed cops sitting together in a corner booth with a man in jeans and a gray sweatshirt.
After ordering a cheeseburger platter, Gannon studied the mirror which reflected the booth occupied by the troopers. It allowed him to stare without being obvious. Within a few seconds he’d detected fresh cuts on the face of the man wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. As the man talked, Gannon studied the way he gestured and the faces of his trooper friends. They were engaged, as if he was telling an enthralling tale.
Feeling time slipping by, Gannon went to the table.
“Forgive me for intruding.” Four sets of eyes turned to him as he nodded outside to the patrol cars in the parking lot. “I figure you’re with the State Patrol and I sure could use your help.”
“What’s the problem?” one of the uniformed men asked.
Gannon produced his ID.
“Jack Gannon, I’m a reporter with the World Press Alliance in New York.”
“Afraid we can’t help you with that,” said one of the troopers, cuing soft laughter at the table.
Adapting to the mood, Gannon played along, smiling as he fumbled in his pocket for his faxed copy of the State Patrol’s news release, unfolded it and held it up.
“I’ve got to file a story about the trooper who made this stop that resulted in the suspect’s getting shot in the struggle.”
“What about it?” one of the troopers asked.
Gannon saw eyes shift to the man with the fresh scrapes on his face, and knew.
“I’d like to interview the trooper for the WPA. Our stories go across the country and around the world. I understand he’s a hero and what he did was connected to a major case in New York City. I just flew in and I’m on deadline for the wire service.”
“You call him a hero?” One of the troopers smiled into his coffee and winked at the man in plainclothes.
“Sure, why not?”
