Browning BAR rifle with the telescopic sights. He’d splurged to buy the most luxurious one, the Safari model, which had the engraved steel receiver and upgraded walnut stock. He ran his fingers down the slightly oily barrel to feel the smooth precision of the engineering.
He thought of Zehra. When she was first assigned to represent the killer, Paul told his superiors he knew Zehra, providing him an excuse to contact her. It seemed like a good idea then. Now he realized how difficult it would be.
Four
Carolyn Bechter could feel tension rumble up from her groin, through her stomach, and into her chest. She took deep breaths to calm herself. As one of the “seasoned” reporters for TV Channel 6, she thought this was the story that would catapult her out of obscurity. She’d missed breaking the story of the disappearance of the young Somali men. Of course, she covered the arrest of the terrorist El-Amin and was assigned to cover the murder trial when it began. But she competed against all the other local to national journalists. After years of declining responsibilities, this story
She paused in the lobby of Hiawatha High School, in a southern suburb of the Twin Cities. Just outside, protesters were gathering. Carolyn knew other media people would be here soon, but she was the first.
She could feel the immensity of this story.
Carolyn stopped at the front desk and showed her ID.
While Carolyn waited, she thanked the cheap-ass station owners for at least setting up the “Tip-Six” website. Corny as it sounded, it actually worked. When it was introduced two years ago, her producer assured everyone that the tips coming in would be distributed equally. Not true.
As an older reporter, Carolyn fought a losing battle against the newer, blonder, and lower-paid reporters who caught the eye of the producer-pig that he was. The perky, new reporters always got more choice assignment with more face time on the screen. The more they jiggled, the more stories they got. For years, Carolyn struggled to make a name for herself. But now, even her producer told her she was “branding out.” His term to describe the fatigue that viewers felt when they saw her yet again, after fifteen years with Channel Six.
She’d show the self-centered prick.
When the tip came in about the protest, Carolyn happened to be there, had grabbed it, and run with it.
“Hey,” the receptionist said. “It’s like, gonna happen over there.” She pointed and looked at her watch. “We’ve been cut-back to part time, so I’ve gotta boogie.” She looked at Carolyn with stupid eyes. “Sorry, but you’re on your own.”
Carolyn sighed. Years ago, her presence at a school like this would have brought out several people, all interested in seeing the face they watched nightly or trying to get on camera themselves. Not anymore. The twit of a receptionist didn’t even recognize Carolyn. Of course, the poor girl wasn’t Carolyn’s demographic. She had the over-forty-five crowd. This girl’s group got their news from the Internet.
She thought of her former husband, Matt, who had soared while she’d stalled in the secondary market of the Twin Cities. He’d moved to Los Angeles. The passion between them always teetered between love and competition. So far, he’d won. Carolyn tried to dismiss him. It didn’t matter anymore. Let it go.
And passion? Well, she hadn’t been laid in months.
She felt the rumble in her lower body. This story could do it for her.
A middle-aged woman entered the lobby. She had short, curly brown hair, a frumpy brown outfit, sans makeup. Her smile was crooked and weak and as she came closer she said, “Are you … Carolyn Bechter?”
“I’m a teacher here. Gennifer. I just came out to see what was going on with these protests.”
“Oh? Tell me.”
“You don’t have a camera man?”
“Uh … no. For these background stories, we usually don’t send one along,” Carolyn lied.
“Oh, I can’t say anything.”
Carolyn waited. Silence was her greatest interviewing trick.
“Well …” Simmons shifted her weight onto the other hefty thigh. “I guess the Muslims are protesting that they want more time set aside for their prayers. They pray five times a day, you know. And since they just wash before, they use all the lavatories.”
Carolyn nodded.
“But I guess the Christian Evangelical group is also going to protest. They want prayer in the school too. And to be able to use the bathrooms when they want.”
“What do you think?”
“Oh … I can’t say. I’m just here to see what happens. I don’t want my students getting in trouble. We have a large Somali population in our school, you know.”
Carolyn sighed; convinced this source wasn’t a source at all. She’d learned over the years to keep trolling until she hit something big. “Nice to talk with you.” Carolyn moved outside.
Across the grassy field next to the administration building, several people, obviously Somali or Middle Eastern, gathered in a group. Most of the girls wore long dresses in spite of the warming weather. Most wore head coverings. The boys stood separate from them and carried a few placards that asked for more prayer time.
Carolyn thought they’d picked up that American practice pretty quickly. She wondered how many were illegals but still had learned to demand “their rights.”
On the other side of the field, another group of students walked forward slowly. This group looked all- American. Short hair, long pants, tan tshirts, and jeans. Boys and girls mingled. They were chanting about more prayer themselves.
For a moment, it struck Carolyn-why the protest? Weren’t they asking for the same thing? Who instigated the protest?
As an investigative journalist, she questioned everything, looking for an angle that she could exploit before other media arrived.
When the second group got closer to the first, there were some shouts back and forth but no violence. Nothing looked too coordinated, and Carolyn wondered if the tip and her trip out here had been another waste of time.
Then she saw a lone man, an adult, behind the Somali group. He moved among them quickly and spoke to various students. He was a tall man, dark skinned with a long white shirt, buttoned to the neck.
Something about the man caught her attention.
She couldn’t hear what he said, but the way he darted from one student to the next looked unusual. Carolyn knew her instincts were almost always right on. When the man left the group and headed for the building, Carolyn followed him.
Catching him just before he entered a side door, Carolyn called out, “Excuse me, sir? Carolyn Bechter, Channel 6 TV news … can I talk …”
His head swiveled around, and black eyes jerked back and forth. He focused on her. “What do you want?” he said in good English.
“Uh … I just want to know what’s going on here.” She felt her high heels sinking into the grass as she hurried over to the man.
“Our students have rights that should be protected.”
“What do they want?”
“To be treated equally. To be allowed to practice their religion in peace.”
“What’s your name?”
His eyes darted to both sides again. “I must leave now.” He ducked through the door.
Carolyn grabbed the handle, but it had already closed and locked. When she turned around, two men in short-sleeved colored tshirts passed her. “Excuse me, I’m Carolyn Bechter, Channel 6 TV news … do you work
