Zeke, a reporter with schizo-affective paranoia, gets caught up in a vamp-motivated murder.
Zeke's best work is drafted during "medicinal vacations," where he uses his condition to aid his writing process, short term memory be damned. However, the l...
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Zeke knocked, and waited.
He shuffled his feet to read the doormat underneath:
You're here.You're home.
Damn. This was gonna be hard.
The waiting was also hard. Zeke resisted the urge to knock again, because experience told him it annoyed interviewees. He rocked on his heels, enjoying the trilling of pine warblers nestled in the surrounding pine trees. These days, he found himself enjoying many things he'd never cared about before.
Overall, it was a nice little suburban spot. One of those neighborhoods featured in teen romance movies, where the kids had little-to-no economic worry.
A dark-haired, olive-skinned man opened the door. His large, sad eyes matched an equally sad, lined mouth.
"Hello."
Zeke introduced himself, and the man's face saddened on a deeper scale, but he stepped aside and said, "Come in."
As he walked through the house, he did the usual: complimented the decor, met the wife, and imparted to both parents how sorry he was for their loss. For the first time in his career, he meant it.
Alaina had been a nice girl. He was sorry she was murdered. He was happy he hadn't done it. That, he neglected to mention.
Zeke also didn't mention that this latest interview was the last piece he needed. After a pained conversation, he left Alaina's very broken parents to return to his car.
He planned to type while he could, as it was still fresh in his head. When the perfect ending came together, there was no other feeling like it. Hands trembling with an mixture of excitement and grief, he typed the remainder of his article. At 4,000 words and growing, it was more of a manifesto by journalism's standards.
...to be part of the horror, first-hand, has been the greatest tragedy of my life, and others.
My colleague, Carter, was one of the best writers and reporters I've known. Yet, she only reached age thirty-four.
Alaina, an intern and growing star at The Times, was only nineteen. She met with her end for really no reason, other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I've peeked at the edges of insanity, reaching back to reason. Yet, I still don't understand why they're gone.
Their loss is a colossal waste, to the point of nearly defeating my desire to continue working. For years, I've devoted myself to telling the truth, and exposing the best and worst of the city. Not only did this city turn on me, but it then blindly steered an investigation in the wrong damn direction.
But near defeat and total defeat are worlds apart. I am not totally defeated, and the memory of those that were lost drives me to write, to keep discovering any and all truth.
Zeke scanned the last few lines of prose, measured each word, then highlighted and hit delete.
Slowly, he pecked out a slight variation:
But near defeat and total defeat are worlds apart. Despite everything, I am not totally defeated, and the memory of those that were lost enables my need to discover any and all truths.
He glanced at the leather-bound tome on his desk. Campbell's diary. After the FBI had finished scanning and archiving, Raffi had allowed him access. It had been particularly illuminating, and frustrating, to read the downward trajectory of a fellow human being.
Something inside urged him to add:
The truth is, there was a serial killer amongst us, but she wasn't always so destructive. Detective Campbell was once human, and had lived a life of trauma and loss. From her vantage point, the race she had been part of sought to systematically destroy any semblance of difference through violence. Campbell saw this, and in a very grim way, sought to revisit what was essentially learned behavior. This is no way absolves her actions, but it does elucidate her reasoning.
What I've learned from this experience, above all else, is that there are no clear answers.
He line-read the piece, sent it to his editor, and finally drove away from Alaina's suburb.
It had been two weeks since Zeke's liberation. Life had changed, and it would only change more. The moment he hit send, he felt the start of a shift.
Like he guessed it would, the story, "P.O.I., Victim, Survivor", was a popular Times piece. Though, Alaina's parents were less than fans. They called his office, demanding to speak to Zeke. Because he could, he had the latest intern, Tamara, field the call.
"Mr. Petrov is in a meeting," he heard her feed the bullshit into the phone, picturing the sad man's face absolutely droop.
It was half-true. These days, he was busy. Always in and out of pitch meetings, considering interview requests from big networks and papers, trying to outline a tell-all book.
The ordeal had already gained him a coveted day shift spot. Once the "P.O.I." expose earned him a Pulitzer nomination, he was promoted to Section Editor.
The position felt right, and deserved. Still, when Zeke cut into the celebratory cake, smiling wide at all his colleagues, Carter's empty cubicle yawned from right across him. Graciously, he handed out slice after slice of Publix cake (the best kind, really), his smile holding steady.
Inside, the "P.O.I." piece gnawed at him. Such a celebrated story, and Zeke felt somewhat like a fraud.
For a narrative that championed truth, he'd omitted large chunks of detail.
For instance, the extent of Campbell's plans had been glossed over. She had been characterized as a rogue vamp, or as Zeke referred to her as "a serial killer." It was all partially true, but covered up the full extent of the incident and implications. This was partly due to the open-investigation surrounding Detective Anderson.
By now, Zeke had learned Campbell got sick of being bossed around by Anderson, and had killed him, too. He was a newer vamp, and in favor of assimilation, unlike Campbell. She had been working with a group interested in turning heads of state. The night when she stole Carter's car and Zeke followed her, she was disposing of Anderson's body.
The implications of Campbell's powers, combined with her plans for vampire-kind, shook Zeke. For the common reader, such details would be terrifying. Without department permission, his Editor wanted to stave the full truth.
Just wait, she kept telling him.
Part of him feared getting scooped, yes, there was always that. Another part of him, (the part that compelled him to eat his cake away from the others, seated at Carter's desk), repeated his own words back to him:
What I've learned from this experience, above all else, is that there are no clear answers.
The was the truth. If he withheld any of that, especially now, then what the hell was he doing?
That night, he used his position as Section Editor to produce a follow-up piece, titled "If You Must Know..."
Full of unbridled truth, and sometimes portraying Zeke in a less than flattering light, the article was the one to win him a Pulitzer.
~*~
A/N: One more chapter to go! Thanks for sticking with me. It's been a fun ride :-)
