Scoop of the Century
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There was nothing more for me here. My colleagues had long since wrapped it up and gone. I should've taken a cue from them and split a half hour ago, but when you're struggling to get your first byline, you have to try harder. My mentor once told me that sometimes the big story -- some poor schmuck blown away with a shotgun in the middle of a cold, wet Autumn night -- isn't the real scoop. Every reporter in town -- TV and print -- had that story. I wanted the real scoop, the one no one else was patient enough to find.
At this point, however, the spectators had thinned to a handful of diehards with no life of their own. Even the cops were starting to clear out. There was nothing here, not for me, not for anybody. I'd stood leaning against the hood of this cop car watching their comings and goings for hours, and all I'd gotten for my patience was a numb butt and a fiercely growling stomach. Time to pack it in.
I straightened and gave one last cursory glance to the yellow-taped yard as I stretched the kinks out. That's when I noticed them.
At first glance I didn't think too much about it. Three cops standing in the hedges that lined the dead schmuck's driveway. Big deal. No story there. Only, it suddenly occurred to me that they'd been standing there a mighty long time. Maybe they'd found something. My scoop, perhaps?
I took a few steps closer, trying to look casual, and gave the trio a harder look. The tall black man I immediately recognized, even from this distance. Captain Simon Banks, Major Crime Department. He was a familiar face to reporters, as was the taller of the two white men. Ellison, a detective under Banks.
The other man was an unknown, though I'd seen him around a few times, always tagging along behind Ellison. I didn't think he was a cop; leastwise, he didn't look like a cop, but who knew these days? Ellison's partner, maybe?
The shorter man and Banks were talking, well, arguing might be a better word. At least the white man was arguing. Banks was just standing there with his hands on his hips, and if I can read body language even halfway accurately, he was pissed. Gotta give the little man kudos; it took balls to stand up to Banks when he had that look on his face, but the kid didn't back down. His tone was hushed, but even at this distance I could hear the urgency. Or maybe I was reading that in his expression.
Ellison was just standing there, and even from where I stood pressed against the yellow tape at the end of the driveway, I could see something wasn't exactly right about him. He looked like a statue in a wax museum. An impression heightened by the eerie glow of the streetlight. He wasn't moving. At all. I mean, not even so much as a blink.
The younger man had one hand resting on Ellison's chest, right below his throat, the other hand was wildly gesturing as he continued his hushed argument with Banks.
Suddenly, the captain sighed deeply and threw his hands wide in an obvious sign of defeat. He took a step backward and half turned, as though to shield his men from any onlookers. When Banks' head swiveled in my direction, I stepped sideways, into the deeper shadows that separated the dead schmuck's driveway from his neighbor's. Banks stared for a few seconds, but I knew I was safely hidden by the darkness. When he resumed his perusal of the area, I breathed a sigh of relief and continued my surveillance of Ellison and his...whatever the kid was.
The kid still had one hand firmly planted against Ellison's chest. The other was moving back and forth between the side of the detective's face and his arm. The whole while, the kid's mouth was moving at a hundred miles an hour. I could hear the hum of his speech, the rhythm and cadence of his tone, but not the words themselves, no matter how hard I strained. Oh, what I'd have given to be a lip reader right then, because I had a feeling something significant was going on.
After a few seconds of this, the kid patted the side of Ellison's face, softly at first, then hard enough that I could hear the smack from where I stood. That seemed to get Ellison's attention. He jerked his head back and shook like a wet dog.
A wide grin split the kid's face. Hell, even Captain Banks was grinning like a jackass eating briars. He slapped the kid on the back and said something to him that I couldn't hear.
Ellison shook himself again, then turned and took off for the back yard. I stayed put, knowing somehow that this little play hadn't yet reached its finale. Sure enough, in less than five minutes, the trio returned, Ellison dangling a gun from the end of an ink pen.
I'm positive the backyard, as well as surrounding yards, had been searched multiple times in the three hours I'd been watching the house. Unsuccessfully, I might add. And yet, somehow, Ellison had found a gun, in the dark, in less than five minutes. Coincidence? Yeah, right, and my Great-Aunt Fanny was Einstein's concubine. Now, I had no way of really knowing, other than *knowing*, but I'd be willing to bet a month's pay that what had happened between Ellison and the kid and the sudden appearance of what I assumed was the murder weapon were connected.
What I had observed tonight in the darkness of a dead man's driveway was monumental in a way I can neither explain nor describe. This was my scoop. I knew it as well as I knew my name. I might not have enough to figure it all out tonight, maybe not even after a thousand nights, but if it takes a lifetime of waiting, watching, and learning, I damn well intend to get that scoop.