the guy who stood up and voiced an opinion out loud. The heads were particularly low as he left the city editor’s office, a sure sign the others had heard his voice bombing the boss, some with embarrassment, a couple with pride and a few more hoping he’d get canned so they could apply for his crime beat. By the time he made it back to his pod, an assignment editor was already waiting for him.
“Nick, you probably ought to get over to the jail. They’re saying a guard was shot by some inmates trying to break out.”
“Yeah, I heard,” he said, sitting down at his desk and picking up the phone. When the guy nodded and walked away, Nick waited until he was gone and then put the phone down. He pushed his chair back and pulled his wallet from his pocket and flipped it open to the photograph. His girls. The twins when they were still in elementary school, ribbons of different colors in their hair. His wife, smiling, like only she could, long ago, before that look of pure happiness in their marriage began to fade. His eyes blurred, only for a second. Deirdre knew Walker was the man driving the car that killed Nick’s family, and the visage of the man strolling free in the streets rose in his head and Nick snapped the wallet shut. “You won’t just walk away,” he whispered and took out his own cell phone.
Nick punched in the cell number of the sheriff’s communications desk sergeant, whom he had known for years. They always spoke cell to cell, both of them wary, and both of them knowing that their organizations could easily track their calls in and out of their respective buildings. Nick never wanted to put his sources at risk, or let his own people know what he knew until it was time.
While he waited, a photo editor hurried up to his desk. “Nick, you going over to the jail? We got a photographer over there already who was staking out some perp walk. Now we hear they’ve got an officer down and the guards are beating the hell out of the prisoners who are trying to heist a van in the sally port.”
“Yeah,” Nick said, waiting for the sergeant to click on his cell phone. The editor nodded and hustled away. Nick was shaking his head. News was always nothing but gossip until you checked it out, but even the so-called professionals were still human and loved that need to know something first and then go spread it. The chirping in Nick’s ear stopped.
“Yo, Nick. A little slow on the uptake these days, heh?” Sergeant Jim Langford’s voice announced on the other end of the line.
“Hey, Sarge,” Nick said. He’d never blocked the caller I.D. on his cell, wanting his contacts to choose whether to answer or not. It always gave them the option of an unspoken No comment.
“What’s jumping? The rumors are flying that one of your own might have been wounded over at the jail.”
“Shit, Nicky. Would I sound so bright and bushy-tailed if it was one of ours? Hell, no. Somebody made a hit on some pervert who was being transferred in for court. Prisoner was dead before he hit the ground, from what I hear.”
“No shit?” Nick said, scratching down Langford’s words on an empty notepad in front of him. “The word rolling through here was that a guard got hit.”
“Ha! Donny Strock was standing right next to the guy and caught a little blood splatter, but according to the boys down there, the shooter got what he wanted, one clean head shot, and that was it.”
“Where was it, Jim?” Nick said, trying to see the scenario in his head. He was familiar with the layout of the jail and the attached courthouse. “This wasn’t some kind of Jack Ruby thing, was it?”
“No. No. It was outside, Nicky. Just as they were walking this asshole up the steps to the rear intake door. The security gate back there was already closed. It was a long-distance shooter is what the guys said.”
Nick knew from covering too many perp walks the layout of the jail’s sally port. They always kept the reporters and photographers out on the sidewalk. The automatic gate was always closed before the bus or van guards even opened the doors and led the prisoners out.