Chapter 16: The Journalist
Cyrus Clerkin, a veteran journalist with The Reporter newspaper drove his car into the Starbucks carpark on Lindel Lane. He felt a little nervous and excited at the same time. He had just received a lucky break in relation to a case he had been working on for some time. The journalist was overweight, taller than average and had thinning grey hair. He was fifty one years old and had been divorced for ten years. Even after thirty years spent in the business there were some moments that got him excited about his job. This was one of those moments.
Nine months previously two prostitutes had been murdered in a hotel room in the Conglo Hotel off Westman Avenue. Cyrus had suspected that the son of a US Congressman was involved. Today, a Hotel employee had agreed to meet him in person.
Cyrus was specifically asked to reserve table 9 in the Café. He wasn’t much of a coffee lover but ordered a Hot Chocolate drink and a donut. He then sat down at table 9 and waited for the hotel employee to appear. To pass the time, he took a book with him to read. The book was an autobiography about President Carter. It had taken him three months to get to page 132. He only read books when he could spare the time. In most of his spare time he read newspapers or watched current affairs programmes.
After fourteen minutes his hot chocolate drink was nearly finished and a man approached the table with a cup of coffee and a BLT. The man had long red hair and a long red beard. He was dressed casually with a plain white undershirt, an unbuttoned chequered shirt and a baggy pair of jeans.
“Hello man,” he said remaining on his feet, “is this seat taken?”
“Kind of,” Cyrus responded
“Are you my twelve o’clock man?”
“Yes,” Cyrus responded extending his hand.
They shook hands and the long haired man sat down. “No names,” he muttered under his breath as he did so.
“So, tell me man,” the hotel employee addressed Cyrus, “What do you know so far?”
“Nine months ago, on February 25th to be precise, two prostitutes were murdered in a hotel room in the Conglo Hotel,” Cyrus responded discreetly. “The police arrested an employee by the name of Federico Navez. Navez claimed that he was innocent and wasn’t even on the same floor of the hotel but he has no evidence to confirm or deny this. The doorman on duty said that Harvey Westerhaven, the son of Congressman Westerhaven was in the hotel that night. There is however no record of a Harvey Westerhaven being there that night. It has been denied by all other staff. Strangely, according to Hotel records, the room was booked by one of the prostitutes. This seems rather unusual. Any of the other members of staff I’ve spoken to have been strangely cautious about what they could say. Now you tell me what you know.”
The hotel employee looked around him a little nervously. Nobody appeared to be paying attention to their conversation and most of the clientele were occupied with conversations of their own. The music played from a radio in the background would have also made eavesdropping their conversation rather difficult. He took a sip from his coffee before responding in a low voice. “Federico Navez was in the room that night but he didn’t do it. A lot of the time he goes into a hotel room and sets the place up. He has high tech cameras that he sets up. He was hoping to catch something interesting on tape and he ended up getting more than he bargained for. Now he’s in the slammer and no matter what he does or says, he’s screwed. He caught the entire murder on tape.”
This entire situation was getting more and more interesting by the second, the journalist thought to himself. “Where is the tape now?”
“He gave it to me for safe keeping. He gave me the all clear to talk to you. I managed to get a few stills for you of Westerhaven slicing the two hookers but it’s going to cost you.”
While Cyrus sometimes disliked the grimy nature of his business, he was intrigued by this story. Sometimes he wondered how he slept at night as he made strides to expose seedy politicians, murders, assaults etc. Sometimes he was even asked to cover them up. That was the worst part.
“How much?” he asked aloud, wondering if the man in front of him would price the member of the press out of a deal.
“Five hundred now and five thousand more if it goes to print. It’s unlikely to ever see the light of day. Westerhaven is too influential. The papers are afraid of him, especially with this Changeling shit.” Steadily, the man with the long red hair appeared to be getting more and more nervous. He was looking around himself every now and again and his eyes rarely seemed focused on one thing.
Cyrus removed the cheque book from his inside pocket. As he did so the hotel employee nodded his disapproval and said “Cash”.
Five hundred dollars was the sum of money in the journalist’s wallet. Normally he didn’t enjoy being cleaned out but for this he was willing to make an exception. The journalist handed the money over to the Hotel employee. If he wanted to, the long haired man could get a lot more money than what he was asking for. The only problem was, would any Editor at any newspaper want to print it?
After exchanging the cash for the photos, both men stood up. “See you around man,” the informant said with a hint of relief in his voice. He looked as if he was about to shake hands but then appeared to change his mind and walked away. As he did so, the hotel employee brushed against a coffee table, causing it to vibrate. Cyrus returned to his car, smiling. He sat into the driver’s seat and opened the envelope. Everything contained in it was exactly as he had anticipated. This was his biggest scoop in years, he thought to himself before driving away.
An hour later, after a car journey listening to his favourite Simon and Garfunkel album, Cyrus Clerkin entered the Newspaper offices in a buoyant mood. It was a medium sized newspaper with twelve full time journalists. Four of them were present, working busily away at that time. Cyrus didn’t even exchange pleasantries with any of them but headed straight for the Editor’s office. “Jorgei, I have a major breakthrough on the Westerhaven case. I have evidence of the killing captured on video.”
Jorgei Bulukov was a small, bald and overweight man. He was the son of a Russian defector and a third generation American woman. He used to like to smoke to relieve stress until his wife had forced him to stop. According to her, smoking and overeating were the two main causes of cancer. After her brother died of the disease, she gave him an ultimatum. Since then Jorgei was more temperamental. The editor and Cyrus didn’t always see eye to eye.
“Show me this evidence,” Jorgei responded in an unimpressed manner.
Cyrus removed the stills from his pocket and showed them to his boss. Jorgei took several minutes to examine them. Cyrus was disappointed by the Editor’s lack of enthusiasm. While the pictures were slightly blurred, two of them showed the Congressman’s son in compromising positions with both prostitutes. A third showed him wielding a knife.
“I don’t think we can publish these,” the Editor declared after a two minute examination.
“Why not?” the experienced writer asked in a surprised and frustrated manner
“The police have arrested the hotel employee named Navez. They have labelled him as a changeling. If we publish these photos now it will only confirm the suspicions of the police.”
It appeared to Cyrus as if his boss had made up his mind prior to seeing the photos. It was a non-runner from the very start. The journalist however could not hide his frustration.
“But that’s so ridiculous. Any changeling – if these changelings are real – could have done it then.”
“That’s the point. We don’t want to upset the powers that be. If we go against them now they could make life very difficult for us. President Westwood is rounding up all his enemies who he claims are changelings. Anyone who opposes him in any way shape or form will have to watch their backs. I don’t like it and I know you don’t like it. We have no choice. Write an article on ducks or hurricanes. Anything but this.”
Cyrus and Jorgei had known each other for years. They had their ups and downs but now Cyrus was exasperated. He didn’t see why the Editor would give up on a major scoop out of fear of a tyrant. Cyrus belonged to a school of journalists who wanted to topple tyrants and not to kowtow to them.
“Jorgei, I’ve worked on this for months. Now you’re telling me I can’t publish it. What’s the world coming to? Ducks and hurricanes? What next?”
“I have owners to report to, just the way that you have to report to me. I’m not printing it and that’s final. You should be thinking of your family and friends. This is a different world we’re living in now for as long as Westwood is president.”
Cyrus was already walking out of the office even before Jorgei had completed his sentence. Once he sat down at his desk with some of his co-workers looking on, he felt frustrated. Part of him wanted to quit there and then but another part of him told him not to.
Cyrus always had a steady career. He had a wife of more than twenty years and a house, thanks to a steady job. He took risks in his job in the past, but they always worked out well. He never missed a mortgage payment. On reflection he understood Jorgei’s position but he didn’t like it. Westwood and his followers were all powerful and in the blink of an eye they could destroy the lives of Cyrus and Jorgei on the slightest whim.
“You should become a sports journalist like me,” Ernie Calhoun, his nearest co-worker declared. “Free tickets to big games and little or no politicking involved.”
Ernie was five years Cyrus’ junior, but while Cyrus had a lack of respect for Ernie’s work, he did always appreciate that his heart was in the right place.
“No thanks, Ernie, I’d rather write about ducks to be honest.”
Cyrus looked at his wife’s picture, in a frame on his desk. It was a five year old photograph but she hadn’t changed in the intervening period. They always had a great relationship. They shared the odd joke, spent loads of time together and enjoyed each others company. She meant the world to him. Perhaps, he should curb his principles, he thought, if not for him but for her.