Eyes of the Innocent: A Mystery (13 page)

“You got it.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, I got a little bit of scoop for you,” I said.

“That the cops found blood in the front entrance?” Tommy replied. “Yeah, I know.”

Of course he did. Tommy was that kind of reporter.

“Who told you?” I said.

“One of the guys in the Crime Scene Unit hangs out at some of the same clubs I do, if you get my drift,” Tommy said, grinning mischievously.

“Ah,” I said. “But, let me guess: this is not well-known among his colleagues at the Newark Police Department?”

“At work, he’s so far in the closet you’d think he survives by eating hangers,” Tommy said. “But he’s definitely one of mine.”

Tommy and I started walking back up the block, toward an encampment of TV cameras.

“So what’s your theory about this so far?” I asked. “Did Windy Byers run off with his girlfriend?”

“His boyfriend maybe,” Tommy said.

“Boyfriend?”

“Oh, don’t act all shocked,” Tommy said. “Sometimes I think half the brothers in Newark like it on the down low.”

Sex “on the down low,” as it is known, involved otherwise straight, mostly married black men who get together under the pretense of masculine activities (poker, beers, bowling, whatever) and have sex with each other. I didn’t know how much of it to believe, but it was a never-ending source of gossip in Newark: who did what with whom and where, who pitched, who caught. It was never confirmed by firsthand knowledge—no one ever admitted being involved—but it was not unusual to hear it whispered that a guy liked it on the down low. And if anyone would know, it was Tommy.

“Okay, so why did his boyfriend kidnap him?” I asked. “Was he afraid Byers was going to go public or something?”

“Oh, I have no idea,” Tommy said. “I just always heard stuff about Windy Byers doing it on the down low with one of his council staffers. So…”

Tommy’s voice trailed off. We were nearly within earshot of the TV news foofs, who were standing around in a pack, preening.

“What’s this, a superficiality convention?” I asked.

“No, Matos is going to make a statement,” Tommy said.

Matos was Newark Police Chief Felix Matos. And sure enough, when I looked closer, I saw the preeners had congregated around a small podium that had been crammed with microphones, each with their ridiculous little logo box attached. Yes, indeed, I was in for one of the most useless events in all of journalism: the made-for-TV press conference.

*   *   *

I’m not going to say I loathe local TV newspeople, but if one of them were on fire and I had a full bladder, I’d still run off and find a urinal.

It’s not that they’re bad people, per se. On a one-on-one basis, most of them are quite likable. It’s their business that went bad. Regardless of the medium, newsgathering organizations always play on that fine line between informing and entertaining. If you walk it properly, there’s a nice balance: hard-hitting investigative stuff mixed with breaking news tossed alongside human interest features—and, of course, the comics. Some meat. Some potatoes. Some veggies. Some ice cream. Good meal.

But somewhere in the race for ratings—that great quest to find and titillate the lowest common denominator—local TV news had crossed a threshold where the desire to entertain swamped the need to inform. Some of the old-timers mourned it. The younger generation didn’t seem to know any better. They were trained to go somewhere, get their sound bites, find their visuals, acquire the bare minimum of information needed to do a stand-up, and then get out. Giving people ten-second blurbs and quickly flashed images may satisfy some simian urge to marvel at shiny things. But I’m not sure it served any real purpose beyond voyeurism.

Mostly, I found it abhorrent that people still called them “journalists,” because that’s not really what they were. Any group of people who collectively worried about their hair that much could not truly be classified as journalists. They were performers.

And press conferences—which had once been meant for the press and the press only—had become more like public performances, what with the all-news channels often carrying them live. Everyone was cognizant of being on stage, under the glare of the klieg lights and the eye of the wider world, and acted accordingly. The reporters asked questions meant to show how smart they were or demonstrate how beautiful they sounded. The sources, leery of verbal slipups, stuck to the script, which reduced them to automatons whose words and actions would seldom get them confused with real human beings.

The actual conveying of information—or, heaven forbid, real understanding of an issue—was, at best, a byproduct of the whole show. If you, as a reporter, wanted such things, you had to wait until the lights went off and the cameras were being packed up and hope you could get your source alone for a real conversation, however unlikely that was.

But I could tell from the way the chief’s motorcade of SUVs pulled up to the press conference—lights flashing, sirens blaring—that wasn’t going to happen this time. This was all about the show. The chief rolled out the passenger side of his truck in full dress uniform and made great display of placing his hat atop his full head of dyed-black hair, about which he was infamously vain.

Behind the chief, disembarking from the rear door, was a woman who had to be Rhonda Byers. She had a matronly, thick-ankled look about her and was dressed in a proper, slate-gray churchgoing suit and high heels that just had to be killing her feet.

She was quickly joined by a black man with no discernible neck, who took her arm. They were flanked by police officers, who helped her wobble toward the makeshift podium. The cameras ate it up, of course—the stricken wife, bravely doing what had to be done for her missing husband.

The cops finished steering Mrs. Byers toward the microphones, where she stood, still holding on to Mr. No Neck’s arm.

“Who’s the guy Mrs. Byers is leaning against?” I asked Tommy.

“Denardo Webster,” he said.

“And that is…”

“Windy’s chief of staff,” Tommy said.

Matos strode up to the microphones, appropriately grim-faced, clutching a photo and a small note card, because apparently he couldn’t remember his lines.

“It is my unfortunate duty to report the disappearance of Councilman Wendell A. Byers Jr.,” Matos read from his card. “Mr. Byers was last seen in his home Sunday night around sixteen hundred hours”—you had to love it when cops used military time—“by his loving wife, Mrs. Rhonda Byers. We have reason to suspect a crime or crimes may have been committed and we are asking the public’s help in locating Councilman Byers. Anyone who sees this man is urged to call our tips hotline.”

With his hand trembling just slightly, Matos held up a picture of Byers. The cameras zoomed in. It was marvelous theater.

“There is no cause for the general public to be alarmed, as we believe the councilman’s disappearance may have been politically motivated.” Matos continued reading. “We are currently investigating whether a crime or crimes occurred and are bringing the full resources of the Newark Police Department and the Essex County Prosecutor’s Office to bear in our investigation.”

Matos put the card in the breast pocket of his jacket, then half turned his body so he could look at Rhonda Byers.

“Mrs. Byers would now like to make a brief statement,” he said.

This was the moment the cameras were really waiting for, of course. There was no better sound bite on a missing person story than a distraught family member pleading for the return of their loved one, especially when they started blubbering all over the place and needed comforting. Big, emotional displays always played well at six and eleven.

But Mrs. Byers wasn’t going to give that to them. She was actually quite composed under the circumstances.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, in a voice that came across as strong, even authoritarian. “I would like to make a public plea to anyone who has seen my husband or anyone who knows anything about his disappearance: please, please help us bring Wendell home. He is a husband and a father and he needs to be back where he belongs, serving his community. Thank you.”

With that, she stepped away from the podium. I had to admit, I was impressed. She had natural stage presence and the practiced delivery of someone who was accustomed to addressing a large group. I could instantly imagine her speaking before her church congregation, telling parishioners that the Ladies’ Fellowship Group was holding its Tuesday night Bible reading on Thursday this week. And unlike her husband, who would have babbled on and made something of a fool of himself, she knew how to stand up, say what needed to be said, then step aside. She was clearly the brains of the Byers family.

Matos took back the podium.

“At this time,” he said, “I will take any questions…”

The hairdos all shouted at once; a perfect beginning to a question-and-answer phase was a breathtaking exchange of noninformation, delivered in fluent copese.

Was the councilman forcefully kidnapped?

“It’s too early in our investigation to answer that question. All I can say is we have reason to suspect a crime or crimes may have occurred.”

Why do you suspect that?

“We have information to indicate foul play was involved, but I can’t get into specifics at this time.”

Why do you believe it was politically motivated?

“We are not ready to discuss possible motives at this time. But we want to stress we believe there is no danger to the general public. Our officers are investigating any and all leads and are developing more information as the investigation progresses.”

Do you believe the councilman may have been harmed?

“We have not reached any conclusions on that subject. I have to stress, this is an ongoing investigation.”

How is the family doing?

“The councilman’s family is doing a lot of praying. No more questions please.”

Always good to end with God. Matos stepped quickly away from the podium. The cameras immediately swarmed Rhonda Byers to get the footage of her being escorted away by No-Neck Webster, which was perfect: it gave Tommy and me a chance to get the chief on the side for a little off-camera time. But the chief was striding quickly toward his SUV and didn’t appear to be in the mood to stop.

“Chief, I’m told you guys found blood at his house,” Tommy said in a low voice so the clueless TV people couldn’t hear it.

“You didn’t get that from me,” Matos said, still walking.

“You gotten any ransom demands or anything like that?” I asked.

“If I did,” he growled as he climbed into his SUV, “I sure wouldn’t tell
you
.”

He slammed the door, and the truck quickly pulled away.

*   *   *

I was about to find an excuse to depart—maybe something about how hanging around TV people makes me nauseous—when my phone provided me one. Beethoven’s Fifth began its signature “du du du duuuuuh” in my pocket. Tommy raised an eyebrow at me.

“Szanto,” I said. “A man like that needs his own ringtone.”

“A man like that needs a haircut and eyebrow tweezing,” Tommy corrected me.

“Well, that didn’t come with the phone, so the ringtone will have to do,” I said. “Give me a shout later, okay?”

“Got it. Buy yourself some ties that are a little less Republican in the meantime, okay?”

I smiled and flipped him off as I walked away, then brought the phone to my ear.

“
Eagle-Examiner
reporter Carter Ross here,” I said, oozing cheer. “How may I help you?”

“One, stop being a wiseass,” Szanto retorted. “Two, I want you to find that charm bracelet.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“I want you to get Sweet Thang her charm bracelet back. That’s your new assignment.”

“Ooookay,” I said. “I’m officially confused here. I thought I was supposed to be investigating the disappearance of a public official.”

Even over the phone, I could hear the sound of molars mashing against each other. Szanto made a noise that came from somewhere deep in his chest and began speaking deliberately.

“Sweet Thang called Daddy. Daddy called Brodie,” he said. “You figure it out.”

“And Windy Byers?”

“Wherever he is, he can wait.”

“Boss, do you really—”

“Dammit!” Szanto exploded. “If you don’t find that charm bracelet, you’re going to be covering Girl Scout meetings in Hunterdon County for the rest of your career! Are we clear?”

And naturally he hung up before I could answer.

“Once again,” I said, “nice chatting with you.”

I went back to my Malibu to think for a few minutes, trying to help my brain ease through the shift to my new assignment. Ordinarily, one of the things I like about my job is that I never know where a day is going to take me. I just wish this day could make up its mind.

I rang Sweet Thang’s cell phone—the first one, not the second one—to see if she was making progress but got her voice mail, on which she sounded even more bubbly than in real life, if such thing was possible.

“Hey, it’s Carter,” I said. “Call me.”

Then, because I didn’t know what else to do—and because it was only around the corner—I scooted over to Akilah’s burned-out house, just to snoop around.

I climbed the front steps, thinking of all the hopes Akilah once had for the place, all of which had burned up along with those two precious kids. There was no telling how much of what Akilah had told us was a lie—twenty percent? fifty? seventy?—but there had to be at least some shred of truth in her story. She had made a grab for the American Dream, and somewhere along the way it became a Newark Nightmare.

“Hello?” I said as I entered. “Anyone here?”

There wasn’t, of course. But I had to check, in case squatters had moved in already. As a rule, squatters are like large spiders: they frighten you a little bit, but chances are they’re a lot more scared of you than you are of them. They were, by and large, harmless.

With the coast clear, I proceeded upstairs, where I was looking for … what exactly? I didn’t know. I was hoping I’d know when I found it.

Assuming the floor didn’t collapse on me first. And given the structural damage the house sustained in the fire, that was always a possibility. So I walked as gingerly as possible. The first doorway I encountered appeared to lead to a guest room. It was fairly well toasted, and the furniture had been tossed—the fire department often turned things over to make sure there were no embers hiding underneath.