Free The Weatherman by Steve Thayer

and killed a man. She’d been a cop less than two years. On a routine burglary call she stepped from her squad, drew her service revolver, and ordered the suspect to freeze. He pointed a gun at her. She squeezed the trigger, just once. Once was all it took. The suspect collapsed in the sodden leaves along the gutter. He was pronounced dead on arrival at North Memorial Hospital.
    Internal affairs ruled the shooting justified. The chief of police pinned a medal to her uniform. The local media made much of the beautiful and courageous policewoman. But the shooting wouldn’t go away, and four months later Andrea Labore resigned. With the money she’d saved she enrolled in Northwestern University’s prestigious Medill School of Journalism.
    As a rule, large-market stations require small-market experience: Fargo, Duluth, Green Bay, places like that. Andrea was fortunate. She was exactly the type of reporter Clancy was looking for when they bought into the Upper Midwest market.
    Andrea walked the nervous young intern up to the news set. It’s what all visitors want to see when they tour the newsroom. The studio lights being off gave the set a dull, shadowy appearance, unlike the bright, glitzy set viewers saw at home. “This is where I sit when I anchor.”
    “It’s a different view from up here.”
    “That’s the control room over there, and the weather center is behind those computer gadgets.”
    As she spoke those words, the Weatherman passed in front of those gadgets. He stopped, charts in hand, and punched some pertinent numbers into a character generator. He kept his back to them. They said nothing. Then he disappeared behind the set, his head in a cloud.
    “Was that him?” Jeff asked, knowing the answer.
    “Yes, that was him. I’d introduce you, but he’s been kind of quiet since the tornado. The pilot and photographer killed were close friends of his.”
    Jeff turned his attention back to the studio. “So all you have to do is look into the camera and read your script?”
    “Each camera has a TelePrompTer,” Andrea explained. “The script is taped together into one long sheet, and as it rolls along a belt it’s projected onto a glass plate right in front of the camera lens, so you can read the script while staring right into the camera. The script is too close to the lens to come into focus, so people at home can’t see the lettering. There’s never more than four words per line. That’s to reduce eye movement. See this pedal on the floor? You push that to control how fast you want the script to roll by.”
    “Is anchoring hard to do?”
    “It is at first, but there are tricks you can learn. I’ve been told to pick up the pace a little, so I’m working with a consultant now. But my research is good.”
    “You research your own stories, then?”
    “Oh, no. Research is the surveys they do to see how much the audience likes you. It’s important because
    Minneapolis-St. Paul is a major television market Our signal goes out to more than half of Minnesota, plus western Wisconsin. Some people with cable or satellite dishes even watch us in North and South Dakota and Iowa. We do four shows, plus updates. We have a noon show, then in the evening we go on at five o’clock, six, and the most important show is at ten o’clock.”
    “So this is a good place to work?” Jeff asked.
    “Yes, it’s really good now. Our ratings are way up. We’re fighting to be number one.”
    “Well, I’m looking forward to it.”
    “Later I’ll show you how to do a stand-up. In this business that’s the most important thing.”
    “I want to learn as much as I can. Is it okay if I sit in the anchor chair for a minute?”
    Andrea Labore smiled that winning smile viewers always fall in love with. The young man took a seat in the anchor chair that belonged to Ron Shea. The empty chair next to him belonged to Charleen Barington. Everybody who goes into television news wants eventually to sit in the anchor chair and read