Philadelphia, of course, had three network affiliates on the air, ABC, NBC, and CBS, in addition to the Fox affiliate and the stations for WB, PBS, and UPN.
Although a bit before his time, Shane knew that the game changer, as far as broadcast news went, was Entertainment Tonight and its hybrid of news and entertainment to which straight news had to respond. Instead of covering a dozen stories in a half hour, local news now was compelled to cover thirty or more. And fast. In this day and age, more than ever, the headline was the story.
When it came time to pick a professional name, Shane gave it a lot of thought. It was not a decision to be made lightly. He studied the names of the giants in the business.
Most had two-syllable last names. Murrow. Cronkite. Huntley. Brinkley. Brokaw. Jennings. Rather.
Shane was his choice for a first name. A little bit of the outlaw, a little bit of the hero, though just about no one under the age of fifty was familiar with the Alan Ladd film, unless you were a film buff.
The last name was harder. It had to be two syllables, had to convey trust, had to roll off the tongue, and look good on the lower third of the TV screen. He considered a lot of names, but arrived at Adams. When he’d chosen it, he’d had no idea he would end up in a top ten market — no less a market than Philadelphia, where the name of a founding father would be perfect — but he figured a name like Shane Adams would carry him anywhere.
So far, so good.
And while the pioneers of broadcasting were iconic, there was one name that mattered, a man after whom Shane had patterned his career, if not his life — except for the part about being raised a Vanderbilt — the man whose face adorned the only poster in Shane’s tiny apartment.
Anderson Cooper.
Whenever Shane was faced with a decision, he asked himself: WWACD.
What Would Anderson Cooper Do?
When Cooper’s book Dispatches from the Edge was released, Shane scoured the trades, hoping for a book signing tour, and was rewarded. He stood in line at the Borders on South Broad Street, waiting nervously. Every so often he’d sneak a peek at Cooper who was dressed casually in denim, his silver hair glowing under the fluorescents. Shane had practiced what he might say when he got up to the table, but instead of anything witty, urbane, or clever, he just said. ‘Hi. I’m a fan.’
Cooper smiled. He said: ‘I saw your report last night. Good work.’
Shane was flabbergasted. He floated on those words for the next week or so. Who was he kidding? He was still floating on those words.
What Shane revered most about the journalist was Cooper’s phrasing. Shane had studied with two voice coaches and an acting coach, trying to get the perfect TV voice. It was called standard stage, a melange of upper-crust, Mayflower New England and midwestern housewife. Heightened language, some called it. A style of speaking with which you pronounce … each … syllable. Complete and unaccented.
It wasn’t kah-fee or koh-fee.
It was coffee.
Shane had spent thousands of hours reading newspaper articles aloud, ridding his inflection of any trace of his accent.
But as good as he got, there was always someone younger coming up behind him. And that person was usually female.
The new threat at Shane’s station was Dawn Reilly. Twenty-six, petite and perky, Dawn was the new face. Or, more accurately, the new boobs. She had just moved up market from the CBS affiliate in Cleveland (currently ranked #18).
From the moment they met sparks had flown. Dawn was every bit as ambitious as Shane, but she had arrows in her quiver Shane had not. Although he couldn’t prove it — not yet anyway — he knew she was sleeping with the quite-married news director, and therefore getting the plum assignments. He had twice shadowed her to the clubs on a Friday night, and twice gone through her trash. He had nothing tangible, nothing he could use.
Yet.
Shane looked at the footage from outside St Damian’s. The place was right out of a gothic horror novel. Cyn had gotten some low angle stuff, the spire of the church against dark, moving clouds.
Last night I dreamed I went to Manderley again …
Shane had to laugh. He loved old movies, especially Hitchcock, especially Rebecca. He’d seen the film at least ten times with his mother. He often thought that one day, in his dotage, after retiring from CNN with a den full of Emmy Awards, he would like to write a gothic novel.
He brought himself back to the moment, turned to the short piece that had appeared in that morning’s Inquirer. His eye flew down the page, absorbing the details. He had long ago stopped believing anything he read anywhere was fact. Today’s media was all about first, not accurate. It was accurate until it was disproven, then an apology was issued and life went on.
Shane sensed someone nearby, turned around. Cyn was standing behind him. He pointed at the screen.
‘This is great stuff, Cyn.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘And I’m not buying you lunch.’
‘So, this church was abandoned?’
They had tried, unsuccessfully, as had every other station in town, to get inside St Damian’s, but were turned away. It was still an active crime scene.
‘Not abandoned,’ Cyn said. ‘I don’t think the archdiocese just walks away from a building, unless they sell it. It was closed. The parish merged with another parish.’
Shane had put in three calls to the archdiocese, and each time had been told that there was not, nor would there be, any comment.
‘So someone broke in and just left that baby?’ he asked.
‘Looks like it.’
‘And it froze to death?’
‘Looks like it,’ Cyn said. ‘And it’s a her, not an it.’
Whatever, Shane thought.
‘Do we know if there was any trauma? Like if the baby was strangled or anything?’
‘You are one twisted fucker, you know that?’
‘That’s why you love me.’
‘I haven’t heard or read anything about that. So far, it’s just a baby who was found frozen inside an old aluminum washtub. That might have to be enough for you.’
Bullshit, Shane thought. Nothing was ever enough.
Thinking about the story, Shane got the feeling, almost sexual in nature, of where this story might lead. He knew this had all the makings of a lurid, scandalous tale, which was his lifeblood. Something that might turn into a ratings winner. Something that might get him a few on-set pieces, which were the kind of stories that vaulted you from roving beat reporter to one who got to sit next to the anchors. Not that you wanted to. He’d yet to meet an anchor who wasn’t a world class narcissistic asshole.
You had your Church involvement (in Philly, anything involving the Catholic Church had the potential to explode), you had the possibility of some sort of ritual killing, and you had a dead baby. Talk about a hat trick! He could see the graphics now: pentagrams, crosses, baby shoes.
Blood.
He had to stop, or he’d give himself an erection.
‘Any of the other stations on this?’ Shane asked.
Cyn gestured to the monitors across the room. ‘No one’s breaking in with it.’
‘Where’s Dawn?’
Cyn looked under the news director’s desk. ‘I don’t see her at her usual lunch spot.’
Shane laughed, then started the B-roll footage Cyn had shot. In it, a man and a woman got out of a PPD detective car, and walked down the alley next to the church. Shane ran it back and forth a few times. He only saw the cops from the side momentarily, then from the back as they disappeared down the alley.