Free Blood of Others by Rick Mofina Page B

the article. “It was on the radio news in the taxi
last night. It’s horrible.” She saw the Star and her husband’s byline. “This was the story you got called on?”
    “Oh yeah, Mom. She was mutilated
or something. Did dad tell you? He talked to a guy who found her.”
    “Tom, how does he know this?”
    “Well, Ann you see --”
    “Dad took me to the scene. It was
so cool.”
    “You took him to a homicide! This
homicide! She thrust the Chronicle in Reed’s face.
    “Well, it was on the way to
Berkeley --”
    The phone began ringing. Zach got
it.
    “How could you!” Ann threw the
papers at him. “After all he’s been through. All we’ve been through!”
    “Ann. It was not like --”
    “Dad. It’s for you.”
    “Tom, I cannot believe this.
Zach, come on. We’ve got to get going.”
    “Dad? Phone?”
    Reed took the call.
    “This is Brader. I want you to
get your ass in the newsroom now!”
    Reed muttered.
    “What’s that, Reed? You’re quitting?”
    “I said I’m coming, Clyde, don’t wet your pants.”
    Iris Wood stared at Reed from the
crumpled front page.
    Stay with this one.
     
    The San Francisco Star’s building was downtown at the edge of the Financial District. Reed stepped off
the elevator into the newsroom, expecting to be fired before he reached his
desk.
    In Metro, many reporters and
editors were settling into their cubicles or working at their computers. Phones
trilled, keyboards clicked, and conversations, muted radio scanners, TV
newscasts from sets on overhead shelves and the smell of coffee, filled the
air. Brader’s glassed-walled office was empty but the jaws of his briefcase
yawned on his office table.
    He was around.
    Reed yanked off his jacket,
placed it on the hook at his cubicle, and loosened his tie. He surveyed
yesterday’s chaos on his desk; it looked like an explosion at a paper recycling
plant. The red message light on his phone was blinking. His computer indicated
he had twenty unanswered e-mails. Reed removed his glasses and ran a hand
across his face. His phone jangled and he grabbed it.
    “Get in here!” Brader said.
    The fronts of the Star and Chronicle were open on the table in Brader’s office.
    “Confirms what I’ve known about
you, Reed. You are overrated.” Every hair of Brader’s impressive silvery white
wavy cut was in place. Scarlet silk tie expertly knotted, sleeves of his
cream-colored button-down shirt rolled with surgical precision.
    Here it comes, Reed
thought, searching the desk for his termination papers. The guy who started in
the business next to him was about to kill his career.
    “Reed, you have rendered the San
Francisco Star irrelevant as a news provider. This was, and is, the
story, and we dropped the ball, because of you.”
    “Gosh, Clyde, if you thought it
was the story, why did you only assign one reporter to it? But that
could not have anything to do with you, seeing how you are the person paid to
make that decision. The person who called me at my home on my day off and
threatened me with my job?”
    Brader invaded Reed’s personal
space. “Shut the hell up and listen to me.”
    “You’re making another decision?”
    “I am giving you one final chance
to make sure the Star claims ownership of this story and you keep your
job. One chance, Reed.”
    “What’s that?”
    “I want you all over this story
and I want you to profile Iris Wood. Give us an in-depth feature, with
exclusive revelations. Exclusive. Tell this city who this woman was, the
life she lived and how she ended in a wedding gown carved up on display in a
San Francisco bridal shop. I want dark poetry, Reed. Sixty exclusive inches for
the weekend. Fail and you’re gone. Now get out.”
    Reed deposited himself before his
terminal and began opening and discarding e-mail, much of it garbage. The
chinking of Molly Wilson’s bracelets sounded her presence at the neighboring
cubicle.
    “Reed?”
    “Leave a message.”
    “Reed,” Wilson stood, swung her
bag