People can change, of course. The events of the past month had been dreadful, terrible. There had been mistakes made, crimes committed, lies told. There’d been death. But now, looking at the energy of the candidate’s followers, knowing the man’s brilliant policies and how he could steer the country on a prosperous course, Tile felt that the team’s decisions were the right ones. The governor would emerge as one of the best presidents in years.
Tile examined the convention floor.
Soon West Virginia, Wisconsin and Wyoming had their say—procedurally required but mathematically unnecessary; the Heller tipping point had arrived before the S and T states. Amid the stomps and claps and hoots and shouts, the chairwoman banged the gavel and recognized the senator from New York, a young Latina standing on the floor at her delegation. “Madam Chairwoman,” the senator said, “I move that the convention nominate . . . Governor John Heller . . . to be our candidate . . . for the next . . . president of the United States!”
Tile’s ears ached from the thunder. But what a pleasant pain it was.
My God, life didn’t get any better than this.
Heller strode onto the stage, looking every inch a president—the Kennedy mode, of course, not Gerald Ford or either Bush. The governor wore a beautiful Italian suit, cut perfectly, and a starched white shirt that glowed, reflecting flares of red and blue when the spots swept over him. Hands raised on high. Smiling, nodding.
Finally, quiet—if not silence—descended and he stepped to the podium. Behind him on the jumbotron words coalesced from spiraling pixels:
A NEW BEGINNING . . .
Peter Tile felt that was exactly what he was looking at. Heller’s past was being scrubbed. He, and the country, were moving on to great things.
Tile along with him.
“My fellow citizens . . . delegates . . . colleagues . . . distinguished officeholders . . . my . . . dear . . . friends.”
That last word spawned a paroxysm of cheers.
When it died down: “I accept the nomination that you have so generously bestowed upon me!”
Again, cacophony.
Tile wished he’d brought his earplugs, but then wondered what the Secret Service would make of that; they were for use when he was on the shooting range.
“We stand on the verge of change in this country,” Heller continued. “Momentous change. Yes, it’s time for a new beginning in our great nation.”
Now, though, the applause and the cheering were more subdued.
Tile looked out over the floor. Something odd was happening. Many delegates were looking at their phones. Then most of them were. Soon instead of shouts and cheers, the hall was awash with the rising and falling sound of murmuring voices.
Heller stopped speaking and stared, frowning, into the crowd.
Tile’s own phone began vibrating. He pulled it from his pocket. He noted that Heller’s coterie were looking at their own mobiles.
A terrorist attack? That would play well for him, bad for the incumbent. They could spin the current president’s neglect of security.
Heller gave up. He strode offstage.
Tile looked at his news feed. He felt the gut punch.
Heller walked up to him and grabbed the phone. He read. Then whispered, “No . . . no . . .”
In the ExaminerOnline office, Dottie Wyandotte was scrolling through her article, which she’d uploaded not long ago. It was front and center on her monitor.
Above the fold.
Even if there no longer was one, not in the digital age.
Her story was front and center too in the New York Times, L.A. Times, the WaPo and Journal and about a thousand other publications and news feeds throughout the world.
Serial Kidnappings, Homicides Linked to Heller Campaign in Sexual Assault Cover-Up
Reporter for This Newspaper Was One of Alleged Victims
By Kelley Wyandotte, Examiner Staff Writer, Based on Reporting by Edward Fitzhugh
Dottie read through the article yet again. She couldn’t help herself. She was looking for any grammatical mistakes. Punctuation errors. Problems with syntax.
Yoda, a butcher of syntax is . . .
Nope. Looked pretty clean to her. Thank God. The last thing she wanted to do was offend Fitz, assuming—as she occasionally did about departed loved ones—that he was looking down from on high somewhere.
All the whichs had commas, all the thats did not. And there was not a single apostrophe s committing the crime of pluralizing a word.
Then she turned from the monitor, sat back and read once again the email that Fitz had sent her the night he died. According to the time stamp, and the police account of the chronology of his death, he’d sent it a few minutes before he was killed.
Hey, Whippersnapper:
Nice chatting tonight. Haven’t had a good conversation like that for a long time. Have been doing some research, using this thing called the internet. You should try it. It’s great. For instance, I just learned that distillation removes the gluten protein from whiskey, so you’re good to go.
I’m going to need some help with my story. You’re spritely. I’m old. You’re smart and I’m slow. Let’s do this one together, what do you say?
Here’s the gist:
Trying to find out what makes the Gravedigger tick, I’ve been looking at all the news stories around the time and places of the attacks. I found two deaths the day before each kidnapping. Death one: a businesswoman from West Virginia was beaten to death. Number two: my own story about the coal-mining exec killed in a car accident outside of Garner. Took me a minute to get the connection between them: COAL industry worker and woman from WEST VIRGINIA. Yes, they lived together. Told you I’m slow.
One more bit of info: Guess who else was nearby when those two deaths occurred: the right honorable John C. Heller, known for bad behavior with the opposite sex and temper tantrums. He was staying at the same hotel as the West Virginia woman.
If I’m right and not suffering from conspiracy-itis, Heller made a move and killed her when she resisted, and her boyfriend drove to Garner to ask questions. He was murdered too. To bury any stories that might connect Heller with the victims, somebody created the Gravedigger to dominate the news. My vote is Peter Tile, the “witness” I found. I looked over a couple hundred campaign photos and saw someone looking suspiciously like him lurking near Heller.
Far-fetched? Maybe. But then again who’d expect baby goats to be prancing around in pajamas?
The conversation Dottie had had with the corporate executives of National Media Group in Gerry Bradford’s office hadn’t lasted long.
The president of the company: “Ms. Wyandotte, are you confident that your reporting of this story is solid?” Gerry Bradford had sent copies of the inflammatory piece to Them. Fitz had told her that’s how he thought of their overlords. Capital T Them.
“Yes, I am.” She ran through her prior week of twelve-hour days and nights. The exhaustive details: the subjects she’d interviewed, the places she’d examined and photographed firsthand.
Real journalists dig, they background, they research. They’re fucking pains in the ass hounding subjects for statements. They get double attribution—at the minimum—talk to multiple sources . . . They report facts. Not alternative facts, not sort-of, kind-of facts . . .
Amen, Fitz.
The president had continued, “Because if you’re not confident this story will withstand scrutiny, then there’s . . .” He turned to the chief general counsel. “What’s the legal term?”