4 Shot Off The Presses (4 page)

Jefferson Air National Guard Base is one of Macomb County’s most noteworthy facilities. It houses a branch of the National Guard and features an assortment of really big military planes. Yeah, I don’t get the appeal, but there’s a museum on the base that draws a big crowd every year – and the air show is always a big deal, even though there’s usually some sort of catastrophe attached to it. We’re talking plane crashes and people falling from various aircrafts to their death. Every single time they host one something terrible happens – and yet they still keep hosting them. Yeah, I don’t get it either.

The base is located in northern Macomb County, with one side facing Lake St. Clair, another facing the woods and a third facing one of the major highways that cuts across the industrial landscape to the east of one of the current shopping hubs.

I hopped on I-94 and took the freeway the entire way out to the base. At the gate, I was met by a stern-looking guard who proceeded to check my car from top to bottom – taking special care to frown at the
Star Wars
stickers on the back window – before he finished by shoving a stick with a mirror on it underneath the car.

“What’s that for?”

“We’re checking to make sure you aren’t bringing a bomb onto the premises,” the guard answered dully.

“Does that happen a lot?”

“Never. Because we check all vehicles for bombs.”

“You don’t get a lot of dates, do you?”

The guard fixed me with his icy blue eyes. “You’re cleared for entry Ms. Shaw. If you park in that lot right there, the public affairs officer will be out to pick you up in five minutes.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

The guard smiled. “No. It’s standard procedure.”

“What do you think people are going to try and do? Sneak in and steal the secrets to . . . what do you guys even do out here? Do you have any secrets? I doubt it.”

“Ma’am, if you will just pull your vehicle over there, someone will be with you shortly.”

“Why did you take the time to check my car for a bomb if you’re just going to make me park it in a field?”

“It’s . . .”

“Standard procedure, I know. This morning just sucks,” I grumbled.

The guard ignored the statement, but I saw in the rearview mirror that he watched me until I pulled into the lot, put my car in park and turned off the engine.

The public affairs officer was prompt, and exactly what I expected: A middle-aged man in a pressed cotton shirt with perfectly ironed pleats in his pants and a bald spot on the back of his head. “I’m Sgt. Dan Harmon.”

“Avery Shaw,” I held out my hand.

“Please get in my vehicle and I’ll take you to Commander Turner.”

“I can’t wait.”

“Yes, he’s very impressive,” Dan nodded with a wide – and obviously fake – smile. He wanted me to think he was oblivious to sarcasm when he obviously wasn’t. That didn’t make me think he was charming, just suspicious.

“So, why am I out here?” I decided to press the situation.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Sgt. Harmon said evasively. “You’re out here for an interview with Commander Turner.”

“Yeah, but you called my editor to request it,” I pushed on. “That’s not standard operating procedure.”

“You’ll have to ask Commander Turner about that.”

“I can’t wait.”

“Yes, he’s very impressive.”

And they say military personnel don’t make jokes.

Sgt. Harmon drove me to the center of the base, parking in front of a large and rectangular structure I had never seen before. I wracked my brain, trying to remember if I had ever been on the base for anything other than an air show, and came up empty. “What building is this?”

“This is the administration building.”

“It doesn’t have a fancy name?”

“It’s the John F. Kennedy Administration Building.”

Oh, good, another joke.

I followed Sgt. Harmon into the building, glancing around at the clean and well-pressed soldiers toiling silently around me. I realized, pretty quickly, that my jeans, simple black T-shirt and Darth Vader hoodie were probably out of place for an air base. Fish was right about wearing something inappropriate – although I would never admit that fact to him. I couldn’t muster up a lot of worry about the situation, though. In fact, I was starting to wish I had worn a more colorful shirt to combat the dreariness of taupe that was starting to smother me.

Sgt. Harmon led me into a big, oval office where I was greeted by a severe-looking secretary with a bun that was so tight it looked like her skin was being stretched so hard it would snap like a rubber-band at any second.

“We’re here to see Commander Turner,” Dan announced.

“He’s expecting you,” the secretary said, running her eyes up and down my body – pausing at my
Thundercats
Converse – and then nodding towards the door. “Go right in.”

I plastered a faux smile on my face and followed Dan through the door. Leonard Turner was not what I expected – well at least entirely. Sure, he was dressed in the same dreary outfit everyone else on the base was wearing – though his was adorned with a lot more fancy jewelry (which I was sure was supposed to signify that he was some sort of military hero) – but he was leaning back lazily in his desk chair and smiling widely at me when I entered. There was something about his smile that bugged me, though, like I was the mouse and he was the cat.

“Commander Turner,” I held out my hand in greeting.

I saw his green eyes run over my outfit – I really should have worn my
Keep Our Forests Green
Ewok shirt for shock value or, better yet, my
Shark Week Bite Me
shirt  – and watched as his smile faltered. “You’re Avery Shaw?”

“I am,” I said amiably.

“I guess you weren’t expecting to work today,” Commander Turner frowned at my outfit.

“Oh, I was planning on working today,” I said brightly. “I just didn’t realize I was coming here.”

“Oh, were you supposed to cover a comic convention or something?” Commander Turner apparently thought the way to get me on his side was to condescend to me.

“No, the press conference at the sheriff’s department.”

“Was it later and you didn’t have time to change your outfit?”

“Nope.”

“And your boss lets you dress like that?” Commander Turner was like a dog with a bone.

“Let? More like puts up with.” I wasn’t going to give an inch either, though.

“And why would he do that?”

“I’m good at my job.”

“And you’re union,” Commander Turner said finally, nodding his head like the answer to world peace had just occurred to him.

What was that supposed to mean?

“He can’t fire you for your attire without the union being a pain,” Commander Turner continued. “That makes sense.”

Okay, now I was getting annoyed. I should have worn my
Keep Calm and STFU
shirt instead. That really would have gotten him going. Instead, I decided to focus on the task at hand. “What can I do for you?”

Commander Turner returned his gaze to my face. “I’m sorry.”

“You called for this interview, so what do you want to talk about?”

I could tell he didn’t like the sudden shift in the conversation. He didn’t like anyone else to take control. “I figured that you would want this interview after the incident on the freeway yesterday, so I thought we would do you a favor.”

Oh, a favor. “Why did you think that we would want an interview?” I decided to play dumb.

Commander Turner wrinkled his nose. “It’s a freeway shooter.”

“So?”

“That usually leads one to think of sharp shooters.”

“And?”

“Sharp shooters are usually equated to the military,” Commander Turner said carefully. “Even though that’s a misnomer.”

“Are you worried that someone from this base is out shooting someone?”

Sgt. Harmon’s sharp intake of breath was my first hint that I’d probably gone a little too far.

“I didn’t say that,” Commander Turner argued. “I thought we would help you by dissuading you of just that possibility right from the get-go.”

“And how are you going to dissuade me from that?”

“Well, it’s just obvious that this is not a military person,” Commander Turner said bitingly.

“How is that obvious?” I plowed on.

“What do you mean?”

“We don’t know anything about anything yet,” I said. “We don’t know anything about the victim, whether she had enemies or not. We don’t know anything about the type of gun used or how hard the shot really was, since we have no idea if the victim was purposely targeted or just a lucky get. So, essentially, we know nothing except that, according to you, it couldn’t possibly be military related.”

“Well,” Commander Turner said stiffly. “I guess that you’ve got this in hand then.”

“I do,” I agreed. “However, I have to say, the fact that you called me out here to tell me that the military couldn’t possibly be involved makes me believe that you think the military is involved for some reason.”

Sgt. Harmon jumped to his feet hurriedly. “That’s simply not true.”

“Calm down Esmeralda,” I admonished him. I turned back to Commander Turner. “We’re just feeling each other out here, aren’t we?”

“Sgt. Harmon, why don’t you leave Ms. Shaw and I alone for a chat,” Turner answered harshly.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Sgt. Harmon said nervously.

“That’s an order.”

Sgt. Harmon cast one last look in my direction and then quietly slunk out of the room, closing the door behind him as he did.

“Alone at last,” I smiled broadly, even though I was suddenly nervous.

“You have a certain reputation in this county, Ms. Shaw.”

“I have a certain reputation in a lot of counties,” I countered. “In Northern Oakland County, for example, I’m known as a sniper from the three-point line when playing street basketball. My height can be deceiving, I know, but I’m a raging cager.”

Commander Turner ignored me. “You’re known as a loose cannon.”

“You’re in the military; you like cannons.”

“You’re known for becoming a little too involved in your stories. That’s not something a reporter is supposed to do, am I right?”

“I guess it depends,” I said carefully. “I always tend to get my story, so I guess I’m given a lot of leeway.”

“You’ve almost been killed, a couple of times, while getting these stories if I remember correctly.”

It wasn’t overtly a threat, but it felt like a threat.

“I have a certain effect on people,” I replied. “I tend to drive them crazy.”

“I can see that.”

I pulled my notebook out of my
The Walking Dead
purse, flipped it open and looked back up to Commander Turner. “So, what statement do you want me to share with the public in this regard?”

Turner smiled – although it looked more like a snarl. “Only that this situation has nothing to do with Jefferson Air National Guard Base.”

“And you would like me to base this statement on the basis of?”

Turner frowned. “It’s the truth. “

“Of course,” I started studiously writing in my notebook. “The military is not involved because Commander Turner said so. I got it.”

The room fell silent, uncomfortably so. I was trying to find a way to gracefully exit without looking like I was running in fear when I heard raised voices from beyond the door to the outer office.

I glanced up at Turner and he looked equally baffled.

“He’s in a meeting.” It sounded like the secretary was trying to stop someone from entering the office.

“I’m sure he is, but it will have to wait.”

I frowned when I recognized the other voice. I wasn’t surprised when the door flew open and the county sheriff, Jake Farrell, strode into the room purposefully.

“Leonard.”

“Jake.”

“You haven’t returned my calls,” Jake said angrily, running a hand through his bird’s nest black hair anxiously.

“I’ve been busy,” Turner said quietly. “I’m busy right now, in fact.”

“With what?” Jake glanced around the room and froze when he saw me sitting in the chair behind him. “What are you doing here?”

“Good to see you, too,” I said evenly, although I was secretly glad to see him. His appearance would make my exit that much easier.

“Why are you here?” Jake repeated the question, his dark eyes focusing on me questioningly.

“Commander Turner requested an interview.”

“I was doing you a favor,” Turner frowned.

Jake glanced between us suspiciously. “Why would you request an interview?”

“Why would you just assume she’s telling the truth?”

“Why would she lie about this?”

“You’re saying she never lies? How would you know that? Oh, right, you have a past with her, don’t you? Why doesn’t that surprise me?”