Agape, she seemed to scream but either it was silent or inaudible over the second shot, which struck her in the sternum and shook her as if she were the child, a naughty child, and she slid down the counter as if carried by overflow from the sink.
One more shot to each party as he crossed the room ended any doubt about whether their wounds were fatal, and he was on to the family room. He found the stunned daughter sitting on the carpet, staring blankly at the wall that separated her from the kitchen as if she had seen through it and understood why her mother and brother weren’t coming in. On a large flat-screen TV against the far wall, a happy cartoon child with pastel hair was dancing and singing.
Slowly, she turned toward the Messenger, her wide, uncomprehending eyes settling on the big revolver; her eyes tightened just a little, as if she were trying to make out something in a haze. She didn’t scream, didn’t raise a hand, just sat there numbly as the killer raised the gun and squeezed the trigger.
Two in the chest straightened her this way and that and then she sank slowly to her left, tipping in slow motion, her eyes still on the gun, but no light in them now, glassy, as dead as the dolls on a nearby shelf.
As dead as the eyes of his own child.
When the little girl settled onto the floor, her lifeless hand stretched toward the kitchen and her mother, and — despite the open eyes — she seemed to be napping peacefully he walked out.
A terrible thing, but it had to be done.
Justice could not prevail without the sacrifice of innocents. If he had learned anything in this life, it was that.
In the kitchen, he withdrew the compact garden shears, knelt prayerfully, and, in one crunching, almost bloodless stroke, removed the mother’s wedding ring and the finger it adorned. This time he had brought his own plastic baggie, and needn’t steal one from the deceased homemaker.
Three
The Road
Chapter Twelve
At 10:45 P.M., J.C. Harrow — in front of a rambling one-story stucco home in Placida, Florida — was lit by spots mounted atop a Crime Scene! bus. Maury Hathaway had his camera on sticks with the teleprompter below the lens. Nancy Hughes stood nearby with the boom, though Harrow held a microphone with the UBC logo on it, more for show than necessity; the sound person’s headset allowed her to communicate with the crew in the production half of the semi nearby.
Next to cameraman Hathaway, perched atop the wooden box (an “apple box,” in the trade), a wide-screen monitor allowed Harrow to see himself standing there in HD glory, his gray suit crisp, his white shirt open at the throat, but despite expert make-up, he could see the tiredness in his face, and the additional white working into his dark brown hair. To him, he appeared far more than a mere year older than when the show had premiered last season.
He had already been on briefly, at the top of the hour, to give a general introduction to tonight’s show before tossing the baton to Carlos Moreno, who’d guided the first forty-five minutes of the program through four other crimes, each segment hosted by another Crime Seen! reporter. With the exception of Moreno, all of these were canned, even the segment-host wraparounds pre-recorded.
“On-air feed!” Hughes announced.
The picture on the monitor switched to a commercial in progress, followed by the familiar Crime Seen! title card, over which was suddenly stamped a severe stenciled Killer TV logo — tinny audio, piped on set, made the mysterious, synthesizer-heavy theme seem a little silly to Harrow.
Carmen Garcia’s voice, a confident contralto, spoke over the title card: “Tonight we debut Crime Seen!’s Killer TV segment...”
A publicity shot of Harrow filled the screen.
“...with host J.C. Harrow on the road in Placida, Florida...”
Helicopter shots of quiet little Placida by day rolled across the monitor.
And now Carmen filled the screen, her attractive office-worker demeanor replaced by the glamorous aura of a star worthy of a TV Guide feature article (see this week’s issue). She wore a black suit with a white silk blouse, unbuttoned just enough. Her dark hair was perfectly coiffed, and her makeup looked invisible (thank you, Hair and Makeup Department).
Positioned in front of the Crime Seen! semi-trailer, a Killer TV logo prominent to her one side, she spoke into her own UBC handheld microphone: “This quiet village was the scene of a tragedy that our forensics investigators have tied to the similarly tragic crime out of which Crime Seen! itself emerged.”
Under that had played file footage from Des Moines Channel 8 of police outside the Harrow home on that terrible night. The host glanced away as Carmen’s voice continued.
An assistant director, also with a headset, had a pointing finger held upward, like a starting gun, waiting as Carmen said, “And now, here is your host, J.C. Harrow...”
The AD’s pointing finger aimed itself at Harrow.
“For there to be a war on crime,” Harrow said, invoking the catchphrase he’d made famous on Crime Seen!, “we must all be warriors... Ladies and gentlemen, good evening.”
Last year, he had worked hard, with the help of many behind the scenes, to combine a serious, almost grave demeanor with a confident, somewhat affable vocal tone.
“I know there are a lot of expectations about what’s been happening this summer, and what we’ll be doing with our new Killer TV segment this fall.”
Looking right through the camera, Harrow said, “Public response has been mostly favorable, from snail mail to blogs to Twitter... and we thank you for that. But there’s been criticism too.”
Harrow turned left, where Arroyo’s camera (and another prompter) waited, providing a tighter shot. “I’ve been accused of exploiting the deaths of my wife and son... out of a desire for fame, or in a misguided effort to keep my loved ones ‘alive.’”
In Harrow’s earpiece, director Stu Phillips in New York whispered: “Make them wait for it, J.C.”
Finally Harrow said, “You may be right.” His smile was sad — that it was intentionally so made it no less real. “And I can guarantee my wife would be offended, if I turned this into a media circus.”
In cameraman Arroyo’s ear, director Phillips said, “Go in tighter, Leon... nice and tight...”
“On the other hand, I believe Ellen would support me — does support me — in bringing our son’s murderer to justice. She would encourage me to do everything in my power to do that — and David would feel the same, where his mom was concerned.”
His eyes were tear-filled. Though he was reading the words, words he had only co-scripted, the emotion was genuine.
“And until we have their killer or killers, I promise you this — I will not speak to you of my family again.”
Harrow turned back to Hathaway’s camera position, who was ready with an even tighter close-up.
“I understand that some of you may find what we’re doing distasteful, and if we offend you, turn us off, switch the channel... but as you do, ask yourself — would you do any less for your family?”
The monitor revealed that the director in New York had cut away to a pre-recorded wide shot of the ranch-style home at night with lovely palm trees and a full moon touched by dark smoky clouds providing a picturesque, vaguely film noir effect.
Over this image Harrow was saying, “Carmen, could you bring us up to speed?”