Burying the Lede (closed)

[Scuttle Buttin']

The internet had changed journalism in a multitude of ways. Big newsrooms and major media outlets were still around, of course, but they weren't quite as big, and their names didn't carry quite the same weight as they used to. For individual journalists, it meant working harder for a story. More doors slammed in your face, more phone calls disconnected after you identified yourself as a journalist, more editors who didn't know your work taking their hatchet to weeks, even months, of your hard work. But eventually, if you were very lucky, one of those newsrooms would notice you. Offer you a desk with chipped edges and drawers that stuck, give you a beat and a sheen of legitimacy.

James Burton had managed to find himself in just such a place. He'd done the freelance work, the blogging, chasing down politicians that wanted nothing to do with him and trying to fight for the little guy to right wrongs, and all of it had landed him the chipped desk and stuck drawers and worn carpet in the newsroom of the biggest - and only, really - daily newspaper in the city. The chair at his desk was uncomfortable, the computer painfully slow and with only a passing understanding on how to stay connected to the internet, but he didn't care. It's not like he planned to spend much time there anyway. Stories happened out in the world, not at his desk, and he wanted to be where things happened.

He was good at it, too. His eyes - a brown so dark it was difficult to tell where the iris ended and the pupil began - were keen and observant, and he seemed to have a natural skill for blending in despite his 6'4" frame, giving him the opportunity to overhear conversations never intended for his ears. At 39, he was older than most of the reporters police and victims seemed to encounter, but it lent him an air of seriousness even with his easy smile that seemed to garner an extra bit of trust.

Over time, he developed a relationship with some of the police in the area, and they would give him a head's up when there may be something of interest for him. All very hush hush, of course; the brass would not be happy to find out their officers were tipping off a reporter. He, in return, would occasionally let them know about a complaint that may be headed their way, or rumors circulating around the newsroom of misconduct. Fighting for the little guy was good, but the little guy didn't seem to have quite the same connections.

It was through those connections that he found out about her.

It wasn't, of course, how he became aware of her. He had known about her for some time now; known quite a bit about her, in fact. It was fascinating the things you could learn about a person just by observing them from a distance as they went about their life. Even more fascinating were the things you could learn with a telephoto lens and windows that weren't always covered. And didn't it work out nicely that he had a perfectly legitimate reason to be in possession of camera equipment like that? The paper had photographers, of course, but one never knows when you may need a shot and don't have time to wait for one to arrive. Or when you may want a shot for your personal collection. It was good to have hobbies.

Finding out she had contacted the police almost seemed an occurrence of serendipity. Talking casually with a pair of cops he knew at the scene of a shooting that turned out to have little in the way of interesting details - a fact that was, in itself, almost an interesting detail - he asked how the rest of their night had gone. Her name was dropped in the middle of the recounting of their shift so far, casually and carelessly really, both of them practically rolling their eyes as they recounted their conversation with her and the lack of any evidence for them to act on.

Jim felt his heart rate increase, his mouth drying up even as he kept his eyes on them and pretended to still be listening. He didn't hear a word they said after bringing her up.

"So that woman," he said as the recounting of their night finished, clearing his throat in a desperate attempt to get rid of the desert his mouth had become, "with the stalker? You're not going to do anything else for?"

"Christ," Jefferson, the shorter of the two, said with a laugh, "Her? No. She 'thought she saw someone watching her a few times,'" he waggled his fingers in the air here, miming air quotes, "but couldn't tell us much about him outside of being tall, dark hair, maybe a little gray. This idiot here," he said with a jab of the elbow at Akers, the taller of the pair, standing next to him, "asks her if we she wants us to dust her windows for prints. Thank god she said no, or we'd probably still be there."

The two shared a laugh, the taller cop holding up his hands in mock apology, and Jim forced out a laugh with them that he hoped sounded casual. The blood was rushing in his ears and he felt like a spotlight was shining directly on his head, highlighting his dark hair that had begun to gray at the temples. Ending the conversation quickly after that - "time to get back out there, I guess," he said as nonchalantly as he could - he beat a hasty path back to his car, his mind racing.

She'd seen him. Fuck.

He thought he'd been careful, but apparently not enough. Maybe it was just at a distance, though. Maybe she saw him from behind a couple times and thought it odd. Maybe she was the paranoid type. The important thing, for now, was that the police had not taken her seriously. He could work with that.

He got no more work done that night, but he did begin the next day with a plan. It was risky, potentially even dangerous, but some part of him felt almost compelled to do it. It was good to have hobbies.

He dressed deliberately, with intent; dark suit on his tall, lean frame; pressed white shirt; simple blue tie; shoes that were nice, but scuffed ever so slightly. They said that he was a professional, yes, but he was also out there on the streets hustling to uncover the truth, working hard to report the story. His hair was close dropped, his face cleanly shaven, his expression friendly but professional as he knocked on her door.

His pulse increased when he saw her open the door, but he'd prepared himself for this moment. No more dry mouth, no more awkward questions. He was in control.

"Hello, ma'am, my name is James Burton with the Post-Ledger," he said, holding offering one of his business cards as he continued, "I apologize for interrupting your morning like this, but I'll be quick if you'll allow me. I was at the station last night working on another story when I heard two officers were dispatched to respond to a call you made. I spoke to them later and got the impression that they didn't take your concerns terribly seriously. I wonder if I might speak with you for a few moments, to see if I might be able to get them to take your concerns more seriously."

He paused then, just for the space of a heartbeat.

"Before something more serious happens."

 

[Belvino]

Annabelle Williams

“Gustavo… Gustavo.. Gu-

“Yes miss Anna,” the man holding the frame had turned around and looked at the women calling his name. He was balanced precariously on the end of a ladder holding his ladder in one hand and reaching his arm out with a frame of artwork clutched in his fist. He had his radio on high, and some artist unknown to Anna was singing in a language she did not understand.

“It’s not going to work up there. You’ll have to move it over here I think.”

The young woman that had spoken his name was now standing over in another area of the gallery waving her hand vaguely at a space of blank wall. Gustavo sighed and began his painstaking climb down the ladder, carefully lowering the art piece with each step. Anna reached up and took it from him walking it over to the place she had gestured before. She held it against the wall scrunching her eyes while she studied it.

“Yes, this will be perfect,” she said finally, giving Gustavo a bright smile.

“Don’t work too late now Gustavo. Mary will close up behind you, and tomorrow the gallery will be open for visitors again.” Anna had gathered all her belongings as she had been speaking to him, and waved goodbye when she finished. She left her building walking quickly her heels clicking on the pavement with each step. Her stomach grumbled a loud protest, and her thoughts turned to food. She knew that the gyro truck was parked just outside the farmer’s market which happened to be on her way home.

The memory of the perfectly spiced, thin shaved meat piled into a warm pita was beginning to make her mouth water and her stomach growled even louder. She would definitely need to make a stop before she got home. Lost in her thoughts of food, and beginning to hum unconsciously to herself it took some time for Anna to become aware of the feeling she was being watched. She couldn’t tell what had alerted her, couldn’t put her finger on it; but she felt the hairs rising on the back of her neck, and her stomach was clenching in an entirely different way.

Surreptitiously, Anna glanced behind her and noticed nothing amiss—a few people striding in different directions and one taller man walking the opposite direction of her. None of these people seemed to be paying her any attention. She looked across the street as well but nothing seemed to be amiss there either. She frowned and turned away this time walking with her blue eyes scanning everything before her.

When she reached the farmers market and purchased her gyro, Anna paused at one of the florist tents. She selected a mixed bouquet and was paying when that feeling returned, but stronger this time as if the person was much closer. Anna looked behind her and again noticed nothing obvious, but there was a tall man and oh didn’t he look a bit like the man from before? He was partially hidden in shadow and seemed to be holding something in his hand which he was intently focused on. Anna could not tell what it was.

“Ma’am,” the florist spoke up and Anna turned around.

She took the flowers from her outstretched arms and nodded her thanks. When she turned around again the man she had seen from before was no longer around. He seemed to have vanished. She frowned and shook her head trying to push away this paranoia that seemed to infect her thoughts.

Anna lived less than a quarter of a mile from the farmer’s market so it did not take her long to walk back. When she entered her condo she placed her flowers in a vase on the counter of her kitchen and began unbuttoning her silk blouse. She pulled the pins from her bun and her copper hued hair fell in soft waves down her back. She had pushed the power button of the speaker as she had entered and now a song she loved played through the sound system. Her hips moved along with the beat, her feet dancing along the wood floor. She whipped her head around letting loose after the stressful day. It felt so good to let the music move her, to give away and have no care for anything in that moment.

Her hands worked at the button of her slacks before they too slipped to the floor and here she was dancing around in her white bra and lacy underwear. Her hair a wild mane now of red curls. She held her hands in her hair shimmying to the beat, hips rocking to and fro. Her eyes had closed in this, but when she opened them she spotted something like a flash of light through the window. She paused and it happened again as if something was reflecting light back through the window. Hurriedly Anna grabbed her robe from the closet and slung that around her slender frame before rushing over to the window. She studied the street and spotted nothing more than a few cars driving slowly by and a handful of passersby’s.

A moment had passed before she spotted a taller man striding very quickly away from her condo. It was hard to determine what he was wearing if he matched the man from before. He seemed so similar to her and Anna could feel her intuition sending signals of warning. She thought she spotted a dash of white in his hair but he had turned down another street and was gone from view. Something wasn’t right. Three times now she had experienced this feeling and had seen a man that seemed very much the same in all instances. Could he really be the same person, or was she losing her mind looking for a ghost that wasn’t there?

For weeks Anna continued to experience this feeling of being watched, sometimes seeing the man and sometimes seeing nothing but her own fear. After a particularly threatening time in which she was sure he had been at he had been at one of her windows; Anna choose to report the crime. She didn’t know what she was going to get, but the feeling of being mocked was not at all what she thought would have happened. They had all but laughed at her, and the second police officer ’s suggestion of dusting for prints seemed so facetious in tone and delivery that she had turned him down.

After they had left that night Anna succumbed to the bliss of ignorance found in a bottle of red wine. She was woken the next day by knocking at her door. She grimaced as she rose, realizing quickly that her head felt like it was full of nails. When she finally opened the door she was dressed in a pair of loose gray lounge pants and a white shirt which draped carefully over her figure. Too late she realized she was without a bra.

"Hello, ma'am, my name is James Burton with the Post-Ledger,” he said holding out a card which she took in her hand.

"I apologize for interrupting your morning like this, but I'll be quick if you'll allow me. I was at the station last night working on another story when I heard two officers were dispatched to respond to a call you made. I spoke to them later and got the impression that they didn't take your concerns terribly seriously. I wonder if I might speak with you for a few moments, to see if I might be able to get them to take your concerns more seriously.”

“Before something more serious happens.”

Anna blinked blearily up at him studying this man who had woken her so early on her day off. He was dressed professionally and looked clean cut. Her eyes narrowed a bit when she took note of his height, but she shook the thought away. This couldn’t be the man. She was becoming suspicious of a man now just because he was tall? That was ridiculous. She held the card in her hand noticing the ivory paper and the embossed lettering. Definitely real she thought.

“Umm.. yes,” she said stepping back to open the door wider, “Please come in.”

She watched him walk in and then closed the door behind him. She walked past him as she stood in the entry way and gestured to the couches in her living room.

“Please have a seat. I apologize for my dress. You caught me on my day off,” she grinned sheepishly.

“Can I get you anything to drink?”

She waited for his answer and left him sitting in the living room as she prepared his drink. When she returned she placed it on the coffee table in front of him, and sat across from him.

“How do you think you are going to help me?”

 

[Scuttle Buttin']

"Thank you, ma'am," he said to her invitation inside, and he slipped past her and into the relative darkness of her condo. It took his eyes a moment to adjust, and when he turned back to her he realized for the first time her somewhat disheveled appearance, the sleep still showing in her eyes. He made a mental note of this, something to keep in mind for later should it ever be useful, and inclined his head slightly at her apology.

"Not at all," he said with a smile and a wave of his hand, as if waving off the need for her apology. "I probably should've called first, but I needed to come out this way anyway for another interview, so I thought I would stop by while I was close." This was, of course, a lie; there was no other story, no other interview. How the day would go after this was entirely dependent on how this went, but he had made sure that there was nothing else on his calendar that might interfere. He didn't expect that he'd be spending the day with her, of course, but he was playing a long game now, patience would be key, and he was a very patient, tenacious man. It was, somewhat ironically, part of what made him a good reporter.

"Water would be great, actually," he said, voice bright and brows lifted slightly as he sat. When she moved to the kitchen his eyes dipped, and he realized with a bit of surprise that she did not have a bra on under her shirt. It unexpected, and almost irritatingly distracting, and he let out a long, slow breath once she'd left the room. His heart was beating fast, he could feel it thumping away in his chest, and a thin line of sweat formed under his shirt. He was filled with the urge to take her, here and now, to shove her over the sink where she stood now filling a glass with water and fuck her...

Except it wouldn't be fucking her, not really, he thought as the sound of the running faucet was ended, It would be raping her.

The thought excited him more, a temptation he didn't need distracting him right now, and one he certainly couldn't give in to. He wanted her, the fact that he was sitting on her furniture was enough proof of that, he wanted to possess her, consume her. But only when the time was right. And when he hadn't just given her his goddamned business card. Her return with the glass of water was enough to pull his attention back from his dangerously wandering thoughts, and he smiled again as she set it on the table between them. It took effort, concentration, but he kept his eyes on her face when she sat across from him.

"Well," he began as he sat the glass back on the table after taking a small drink, "After hearing the attitude of the officers last night, I began to wonder if there might be others that have been in your position as well: worried, looking to them for help, and finding only dismissal in reply. I was up late last night looking into it, and part of what brought me here today is that I don't believe you're alone in this. In fact, I'm fairly confident there are at least two other women that have been in your same situation."

This was, of course, a lie. There had been no research, there were no other women, and the only thing he'd been doing while up late the night before was figuring out how he was going to get her to invite him in and take him into her confidence. If he could manage to obtain some information about what she knew in the process, even better.

"If you would be willing to talk to me about it, what you've experienced, a description of the person or persons, anything you think might be even slightly relevant, it could be a tremendous help in finding out who is doing this to you. If we can go to the police with concrete evidence, especially from more than one person, then they'll have to take you seriously."

Here he paused, holding up a hand as if anticipating an concern that might be forming. This, too, was as practiced as the first things he'd said to her, as a way to coax out her trust, slowly open her up to him.

"Everything you tell me now, and going forward, will be strictly on background. I'll never use your name, or reveal it to anyone else, unless you explicitly give me permission first. Journalists have defied court orders and gone to jail to protect sources, and I'm as willing to do that as everyone else I work with. It won't come to that here, of course, but I want you to know how seriously we take confidentiality. Anything that could identify who you are will remain strictly between us, unless and until you give me permission otherwise."

His eyes never left her face as he spoke, and he felt his heart rate slowing as he relaxed into his familiar role. Being in her living room, sitting across a table from her, it was all so surreal after watching her all this time, but this was what he did, who he was, and it helped him grow in both confidence and comfort.

"Would that be okay with you, Miss Williams?" he finished, brows raised and dark eyes on hers.

 

[Belvino]

“After hearing the attitude of the officers last night, I began to wonder if there might be others that have been in your position as well: worried, looking to them for help, and finding only dismissal in reply. I was up late last night looking into it, and part of what brought me here today is that I don't believe you're alone in this. In fact, I'm fairly confident there are at least two other women that have been in your same situation.”

Anna sat quietly watching this man who had entered her home. She studied his face as she spoke looking for nuances in expression versus what he was saying. He was right, she had been to speak with those officers and the outcome had been disastrous. She felt as if they dismissed her for being nothing more than a crazy woman obsessed with the idea that she was being followed, but now here was James Burton, a reporter, very much willing to listen to her story.

“Thank you, for coming. I can’t begin to tell you how much this has affected me and I would hate for this to happen to someone else because it wasn’t reported.”

"If you would be willing to talk to me about it, what you've experienced, a description of the person or persons, anything you think might be even slightly relevant, it could be a tremendous help in finding out who is doing this to you. If we can go to the police with concrete evidence, especially from more than one person, then they'll have to take you seriously.”

She had been about to say something but then he raised his hand in the air and the movement stopped her. He looked then in that moment as a witness swearing in at court, only the Bible was missing beneath his other hand. This stranger was professing his intent to help her and to keep everything between them as long as she willed it. Anna sighed taking a breath in slowly as she fidgeted with her water glass. She was hesitating, barely hearing all that he said, her mind drifting back to the memory of her time in the police department. The sense that they had shared a laugh over her, perhaps even in front of James was certain.

But that was it. He had surely been there and seen this and had taken it upon himself to investigate the claims further, and now came here and asked for her account. Wasn’t that a trustworthy thing? Wasn’t he being chivalrous in his duty?

"Would that be okay with you, Miss Williams?

The question broke her out of her revere and she stared at him their eyes meeting.

“Yes,” she said finally, “I think that would be a good idea.”

She had risen to her feet then, her water glass forgotten at the end of the coffee table. She wasn’t looking at him anymore her hands nervously wringing together. She had walked behind the small sofa she had been sitting on and she could feel his eyes upon her. The sensation made her skin prickle. He may have come to help her, but deep down she felt something strange about this man. She was shaking her head now, pacing back and forth behind the couch, occasionally shooting glances his way.

“You’ll have to forgive me Mr. Burton. It is somewhat of a challenge bringing this all up again. I felt so ashamed after visiting those policemen. I suppose my experiences aren’t much to write about it… but perhaps you can make something of it.”

She had paused her pacing and was now facing him again with her hands clutching the back of the sofa for support. She sighed deeply and a frown worried her lips.

“I can’t really say how long it’s been going on, but I can tell you that I first started to feel something was wrong several weeks ago. It started with the sensation of being watched and when I would look I thought I could see something. Since that time I have noticed a man each time or what appears to be anyway..” She trailed off momentarily lost in memories, “He is tall I think, and I’ve noticed white near his head like he is graying, or maybe it’s the stripe of a hat, or a scarf.”

She smiled sheepishly at him and her shoulders shrugged, “It’s always very far away and my vision at those distances isn’t good even with my glasses. Besides that it seems every time I notice the figure they quickly disappear.”

“Lately, I’ve had instances at home where I felt I’m being watched, or I would see the signs of a flash at my window like a camera had gone off, or something reflective had caught the light.”

“I apologize that this is such a terrible account. I don’t have much else to go on.”