Damn it, I just arrived here. Story still developing, he responded, to buy time as he reflected on his ordeal and his next step.
To get to North Platte he’d taken an early-morning flight direct to Denver, then a one-hour hop in a Beechcraft twin-prop. Then he’d rented a car. But it was not the trip that kept adrenaline pumping through him, it was the terms. First, he’d broken his own rule after he’d been tipped. He rushed to Lisker, begged him to forget the dog show and put him back on the heist story by promising an exclusive.
“One of the suspects has just been arrested near Ogallala, Nebraska. No one knows yet. It’s all ours. Send me there now.”
Lisker weighed matters.
Then, thinking of costs, because that was always Lisker’s first concern, he tried WPA’s Omaha and Denver bureaus, but staff members were out of town on other assignments. They had a student stringer out of North Platte. But that was too risky.
“I’ll send you—on one condition,” Lisker told Gannon. “No doubt you’ve heard the WPA is facing staff reductions. I don’t care how good your reputation is, your insubordination and this episode with the police makes you a prime candidate for termination.”
“I was just doing my job.”
“If you want to keep it, you’ll give me an exclusive on an arrest in the heist murders. If you don’t— Well, think of Nebraska as the potential graveyard for your career.”
Right, well, fuck you, Gannon thought, sitting there in the hospital waiting room, the pressure on him mounting. He would not fail. He would not let a guy like Lisker bury him. There was a story here and he’d pull it together.
One way or another, he’d deliver.
North Platte was a small town but it was pure freakin’ luck that he’d encountered Morrow. The fact the FBI’s case agent was here confirmed the significance of the traffic-stop shooting. Gannon had to piece something together fast. He went to the Nebraska State Patrol’s website. The news release on the stop was still not updated. It was the same one he’d printed off before he left. Beyond the time and date, it said nothing about the magnitude of the incident.
A trooper with the Nebraska State Patrol Troop D Headquarters—North Platte, stopped a 2011 Chrysler for speeding westbound on Interstate 80, near Brule. Upon checking the driver’s credentials, the trooper determined that the white male driver fit the description for a wanted subject and proceeded to arrest him. During the arrest the subject grabbed for the trooper’s sidearm. In the struggle the gun discharged. The subject suffered a serious gunshot wound and was taken to hospital in North Platte in critical condition. No other details available at this time.
Gannon exhaled.
His next step was to find the unnamed trooper who took down the suspect. He’d put in a call to the State Patrol but they refused to provide more information. His only option at the moment was a suggestion texted by the stringer, Trevor Reece, a part-time freelancer for the Underground Movement, an online student arts-and-entertainment newspaper.
Troopers hang @ 6 Bees Roadhouse W of NP off I-80. Big sign can’t miss it.
Gannon left the hospital and drove there.
Encouraged at seeing three marked State Patrol cars among the vehicles in the lot, he parked his rented Chevy, sat on a stool at the counter and took a quick inventory.
It was a popular place, nearly every table and booth in use. Conversations, the strains of a Garth Brooks ballad and the smell of coffee filled the air. He noticed three uniformed cops sitting together in a corner booth with a man in jeans and a gray sweatshirt.
After ordering a cheeseburger platter, Gannon studied the mirror which reflected the booth occupied by the troopers. It allowed him to stare without being obvious. Within a few seconds he’d detected fresh cuts on the face of the man wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. As the man talked, Gannon studied the way he gestured and the faces of his trooper friends. They were engaged, as if he was telling an enthralling tale.
I don’t believe this. It has to be him.
Feeling time slipping by, Gannon went to the table.
“Forgive me for intruding.” Four sets of eyes turned to him as he nodded outside to the patrol cars in the parking lot. “I figure you’re with the State Patrol and I sure could use your help.”
“What’s the problem?” one of the uniformed men asked.
Gannon produced his ID.
“Jack Gannon, I’m a reporter with the World Press Alliance in New York.”
“Afraid we can’t help you with that,” said one of the troopers, cuing soft laughter at the table.
Adapting to the mood, Gannon played along, smiling as he fumbled in his pocket for his faxed copy of the State Patrol’s news release, unfolded it and held it up.
“I’ve got to file a story about the trooper who made this stop that resulted in the suspect’s getting shot in the struggle.”
“What about it?” one of the troopers asked.
Gannon saw eyes shift to the man with the fresh scrapes on his face, and knew.
“I’d like to interview the trooper for the WPA. Our stories go across the country and around the world. I understand he’s a hero and what he did was connected to a major case in New York City. I just flew in and I’m on deadline for the wire service.”
“You call him a hero?” One of the troopers smiled into his coffee and winked at the man in plainclothes.
“Sure, why not?”
“We call him Duane who shoulda waited for backup.”
As soft chuckling rippled around the table, Gannon waited, then asked, “Could you guys help me find him so I could interview him?”
Someone kicked the man in plainclothes under the table.
“Hey, Duane, seein’ how you didn’t make the Cornhuskers, this is your only chance to be famous. The man came all the way from New York City.”
The man in plainclothes lowered his head and shook it, giving off an aura of gentle shyness, until a cell phone was held before him by one of his friends.
“Check with the lieutenant for the green light. Maybe you’ll get on Leno.”
“Or COPS?” Another trooper laughed.
Duane took the phone and turned to Gannon.
“Give me a minute. I’ll let you know, okay?”
“Sure, I’ll be at the counter eating my lunch. I appreciate this. But I really am on a tight deadline.”
Buoyed by the break, Gannon dug into his meal. Between bites, he received a call from Hal Ford.
“How’s it going? Any chance you’re about to file?”
“I should have something to you in ninety minutes.”
“Ninety minutes? That’s a lifetime.”
“Sooner if I can.”
“Lisker is sharpening his fangs, so it better be a big scoop.”
“I’m working on it.”
By the time Gannon finished eating, all the troopers had gathered at the cash to pay. After they left, the one Gannon was waiting on approached him and introduced himself.
“Duane Hanson.” He shook Gannon’s hand. “I’ve got about fifteen minutes before I have to go. Hope that works for you.”
“I’ll make it work, thanks.”
Hanson nodded to an empty booth in a far corner.
At the table, Gannon sensed the younger man was masking something unsettling. Only hours ago he’d struggled with one of the Ramapo killers who’d tried to end his life. As Hanson began recounting what happened on Interstate 80 near Ogallala, Nebraska, his tone darkened and he chose his words very carefully.