The following true account of my brief newspaper career first appeared in Creative Loafing, 1998.

Scene of the Crime

The green ball clacks against the hollow metal rail and bounces in – a hole-in-one. I hold my arms up victoriously and turn to look at the one-story building across the parking lot. Continue

A self-help book has recommended these weekly outings alone to nurture my “Artist Self” and recover my battered and bruised creativity. Recently, my Artist Self got its ass kicked inside that ugly brick building. I’ve decided to return and hopefully replace memories from 9-1/2 months of stress with an afternoon of triviality.

The Putt-Putt is next door to the Gaston Gazette, where I was a police reporter in this small city known for big city crime.

It was June last year when I cut off my long hair, bought a new wardrobe and accepted the substandard wages of a newspaper reporter. The months that followed would be among the most dramatic of my life.

“I’m sorry that happened on your first week. I was hoping you’d have more time to get oriented,” said my city editor, Jon. “Especially on a Friday. Friday’s not a good day for a killing.”

A 14-year-old girl had been shot in the head by a stray bullet.

“I don’t think there’s such thing as a ‘good’ day for a killing,” I naively said.

“Oh yes there is,” he said, walking away with a half-smile.

The newsroom had no windows to the outside world. The only light was fluorescent, and the institutional yellow of the cinderblock walls didn’t help. Dusty tangles of power cords and coaxial cable hung from the drop ceilings and piled chaotically beneath the desks.

When the weather was nice, being there was torture. This was especially true on Saturdays, a day I was invariably scheduled to work.

My first Saturday, our news editor, Barry, told me to write a follow-up story to Friday’s shooting. There were no new facts from detectives. The only thing left was to contact the family.

Our courts reporter, Kevin, helped me track down the phone number and coached me on what to say. He assured me grieving mothers weren’t prone to lashing out at reporters and were often grateful for the chance to talk about their child’s life. For them, it was a validation, he said.

My voice wavered as I identified myself to Angela’s mother, feeling guilty for bothering her despite Kevin’s assurances.

I listened to her tearful recollections. Angela was like her backbone, she said. She needed Angela more than Angela needed her. The last thing the girl had said to her was “I love you and I’ll be back in a little bit.”

Barry liked this quote so much he took it from the body of my story and made it the lead.

It was my first byline for the newspaper, but I wasn’t celebrating. In fact, I needed to cry. I held out long enough to get out of the building and into the hot summer air of the parking lot.

From the miniature golf course, I look at the Gazette employee parking lot, where I once wept for a stranger.

It’s now almost six o’clock, and most of the cars are gone. One of the photographers is taking a smoke break on the entranceway steps. The heavy traffic sparkles in the late afternoon sunlight as it creeps along Cox Road and East Franklin Boulevard. The smell of exhaust and sound of revving engines seem strangely far away.

Why had Jon’s joke about a “good day for a killing” bothered me so much? I wonder. Was I too sensitive? Too judgmental? Or was Jon’s so-called humor an honest glimpse at his character, only thinly veiled as self-parody? I guess I should let it go and put bitterness aside. I tee up for the next hole.

That Friday was indeed a bad day for a killing. It was followed by a bad day to find an unidentified body on the grounds of a defunct school yard. Which was followed on Tuesday by a bad day for two men to fatally shoot a cab driver during a robbery and dump his body at the side of a highway ramp. The worst bad day would come a few weeks later.

It was raining that Friday as I drove I-85 South toward Gastonia, and the traffic was backed up to the Belmont/Mt. Holly exit.

When I finally got to the newsroom, I learned there had been a fatal car wreck on I-85 near Kings Mountain, which was causing the backup. A northbound car had accidentally crossed the median into oncoming traffic and killed a young woman heading south.

Another reporter was on the story. Jon told me to help her by chasing down the name of the victim. A few minutes later, I was working on the assignment when something else came up. He called me off the wreck story. Rainy days were usually hectic in the newsroom, especially on a Friday. I didn’t learn the identity of the wreck victim until I got home from work around midnight. It was a very close friend.

Patrice. The night before, we had sat together on my front porch until 3am. We’d talked about everything and had hugged and said goodbye like it was any other goodbye.

At the time, she was the girlfriend of my best friend, Dan. She also had introduced me to my girlfriend, Carla.

We were intimate friends, and I had almost chased down her death as a news story.

The next day, fearing the impression my absence would make so early in my tenure, I forced myself into work. The rain was still pouring. I tried in vain to think of something else.

When I got to the county courthouse, the first warrant in the stack had Patrice’s name on it. The highway patrol had charged the woman responsible for the wreck with misdemeanor death-by-vehicle. Dorothy Patricia Burnside, 23, died after defendant drove a white Ford Taurus across the median on I-85, read the warrant.

I was in shambles by the time I got to the newsroom. I pulled Barry into the hallway and started crying as I explained. I would write an inside brief about the death-by-vehicle charge, I told him. I wanted to know what had happened.

As we were talking, Jon came into the hallway to speak with Barry about something unrelated. I still had tears on my face, but he didn’t notice.

I look down and realize I’ve gone from Hole 2 directly to Hole 9 and now I’m teed up at Hole 14. Alas! My victorious hole-in-one is null. I start back to Hole 3, where I strayed in the first place.

Yes, my absentmindedness got me in trouble several times there. My shyness and hypersensitivity did, too. These are terrible qualities for a newspaper reporter, who must keep track of a lot of details, approach a lot of strangers and suffer a lot of abuse.

I was always so insecure in that place. When I came, harried, into work each day at 3pm, the other reporters were poised coolly at their desks, chasing leads, producing under deadline.

I was a jittery mess. I tried to overcome my handicaps. In the end, I guess I was ill-suited.

I was shaving when it hit me. I don’t know why it occurred at this moment, but the realization made me panic and scream and pound my fists against the wall.

While I was half-dressed in Charlotte with shaving cream on my face, the chief of the Gastonia Police Department was expecting me at a luncheon for the news media. I was new at the beat, and it was my first opportunity to meet the top brass at the department. Jon, who had been promoted recently to managing editor, and our newly hired editor-in-chief, John Pea, would also be at the meeting.

My hands were shaking, so I took part of a tranquilizer. I finished dressing and shaving and left with the hope of catching at least part of the department’s presentation.

When I arrived at the restaurant in Gastonia, the hostess told me the luncheon had just ended. Now I was completely screwed.

Jon was fuming when I told him, “I forgot.” He had been hoping I was in a car wreck, he said. I was sorry to disappoint him, but I didn’t see the point in trying to lie about it. He said it was one of the “six most embarrassing moments of his life.” I didn’t bother asking what the other five were.

The Gazette was terminally on shaky ground with the police department in the first place, and he was also worried about the impression my absence had made on Pea. So was I, and rightfully so. The mistake would certainly come back to haunt me.

Afterwards, I felt sheepish at the police department as well as the newsroom. I assumed the police chief was insulted that I hadn’t shown up for his media luncheon and I was too scared to introduce myself. This would especially come back to haunt me.

Time lessened the humiliation from the setback, but I would never recover completely.

What did it matter anyway? I think. By the time the ax fell, I was disgruntled as hell anyway. The pay was negligible, the hours were terrible, the subject matter was hideous and the pinheads I worked for were worse.

I also was blatantly ignoring a company policy that newsroom staff live within the circulation area. And I was so sick of man-on-the-street interviews, I shot a bogus series of my friends in Charlotte giving their thoughts on the Winter Olympics. A lesbian friend, who called herself Phyllis Conley from Clover, SC, said the women’s hockey team was “so hot” they had given her “a new appreciation for the sport.”

I whack the green ball indifferently and watch it drop into the hole and bounce out. It hits one of the hazards and rolls down the incline to where I’m standing.

I’m much happier since I left that place. No more lurid tales following me home at night. No more Friday nights and Saturday afternoons spent in that windowless newsroom waiting for someone to die a gruesome death.

It was getting late when Kevin, the courts reporter, overheard me talking to Capt. Phillips and asked what was happening. I handed him the fax which had just come in. He announced it to the copy desk and preparations began immediately for the 1A.

Kevin, a giant of a man with a booming voice to match, was talking excitedly, and I had to ask Phillips to speak up.

“Did some big story just break?” Phillips asked earnestly.

“Yeah. This.”

“This what?”

“The story I called you about.”

As usual, getting facts from Phillips was strenuous. He said he couldn’t tell me more than was on the press release. This wasn’t good enough. I pressed him. “So the suspect confessed to the murder?”

Phillips clarified that the suspect confessed to “being responsible for the baby’s death.”

“Is he saying it was an accident?” I asked.

“I’m not going to comment on the details of the confession.”

“Do you think it could have been an accident?”

“I don’t think it was an accident, but I’m not a judge and jury. If we had thought it was an accident, we wouldn’t have charged him with murder.”

“Can you tell me the cause of death?”

“You’ll have to get that from the medical examiner.”

I called the medical examiner, who said I had to get it from police. This was typical. It would be public information soon enough, but we needed it tonight and no one wanted to tell me.

When Kevin heard there was a signed confession, he called the jail immediately and asked if the suspect would comment. The man agreed to talk.

We decided I would do the jailhouse interview and Kevin would track down the baby’s mother.

Face-to-face, the suspect seemed genuinely remorseful about the baby, but wasn’t smart enough to fully understand what he had done. Alexis was spitting up and crying, he said. He was rocking her in his arms. Yes, he must have felt a little frustrated. He said it seemed like any other night. They discovered her dead the next morning. “I must have shaken her a little harder than I thought I did,” he concluded.

I gathered background. He’d met his girlfriend at a school bus stop. They had a toddler together, but Alexis wasn’t his. They had separated after the first child and had gotten back together later. He had the initials of the toddler tattooed on his knuckle. He was about 20.

Kevin was waiting at the courthouse for the baby’s mother and the grandmother, who had agreed to meet him there.

“What’d he say?” Kevin asked outside.

“He said he shook the baby.” I ran back to start writing.

Kevin got his interview. The mother was only 16. She forgave her boyfriend and believed it was an accident.

Kevin was walking the women out of the building when two television crews pulled up. “Ma’am, if I were you I’d get in your car and drive off right away,” he said to the grandmother.

“You think so?” she asked innocently.

“Yeah, they’re gonna jump all over you.”

The women were running off when one of the television reporters ran up to Kevin. “Who is that?” the reporter asked.

“Oh, them?” asked Kevin. “I don’t know.” The women pulled out of the parking lot and drove off with the reporter running after them.

After completely ticking off the medical examiner and his wife, I got an official cause of death. Kevin had already downloaded information on shaken baby syndrome for a graphic box on the jump page. An obituary photo had come in, which we ran with the story on the cover. It came together at the last minute. Congratulations went all around.

We watched the 11pm news to gloat over our victory. All they had were unenlightening interviews with the couple’s neighbors in the trailer park. We had scooped them mercilessly.

I realized afterwards I had been so caught up in the moment that I hadn’t felt even a twinge of emotion for Alexis. The baby had never really entered my mind.

I remember after that little girl died in the crossfire, Barry told me I should try to become more detached. I had been crying in the parking lot. I didn’t know which was worse: grief or apathy. Desensitizing didn’t seem possible or even desirable.

It started to happen anyway.

When a woman from Cleveland County allegedly took hits out on her daughter and son-in-law, I didn’t hesitate to call the daughter and ask why. I was disappointed when my editors removed the “best” part of the story -- that the suspect had wanted her daughter’s orthodontic braces as proof they had made the hit.

Another night, I visited a murder scene at a trailer park off South 321, where a woman allegedly had stabbed her husband in the chest. A neighbor said the woman believed her husband had molested their

13-year-old daughter.

The girl was standing outside as detectives drove her mother off in handcuffs and collected evidence in the room where her father lay. She helped me with the spelling of their names.

I somehow kept my feelings below the surface, but they bubbled up when I tried to sleep at night. It would all be over soon. I approach Hole 18.

My last day, they called me into Pea’s office for questioning about a police dog in Bessemer City, which had died of cancer over the weekend. The Observer had run a story on Tuesday.

Where was ours? wondered Pea.

Sunday and Monday were my days off, I reminded him.

He wrote down my responses.

I defended myself as well as I could. I tried to remain calm and keep a sense of perspective.

Jon and Barry listened quietly without expression.

Pea had been such a soft-spoken man up to this point, I had completely overlooked what a son-of-a-bitch he could be. He outfoxed me in every way until I was stuttering and defenseless and laughing nervously. He asked me angrily what I was laughing about.

What do you mean you never met the police chief? Why did you stop making your nightly calls? We told you to make nightly calls.

He asked me if I really wanted to be a journalist.

I thought “journalist” was a fancy word for the job I did, but I didn’t dare go on the offensive. I had spent as much time typing obituaries, proofreading, keeping up with the Gazette’s weather station and conducting man-on-the-street interviews as I had spent being a reporter. By this time, I also considered local crime coverage to be the fast food of news reporting.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I have to do some soul searching. I love writing, but I’m not sure this is the medium for me. The truth is, I don’t like this job. I never really liked it.”

“If you don’t like it, why have you stayed this long?”

This seemed clearly like the “I don’t want the overhead of firing you, but I hope you quit” routine.

“I told myself I could stick out anything for a year. I don’t like to give up.” What I meant was I needed the experience for my resume. The position had seemed like a glorified internship from the beginning.

“I appreciate you don’t want to be a quitter,” said Pea, “but if you’re not happy here, you’re doing yourself an injustice by staying. And you’re not doing us any favors.”

This was absolutely true. I hated his guts, but he had a point.

Pea explained that I needed to do that “soul searching” I was talking about and come back the next day with an answer. He gave me a choice: either I tell him I want the job and tackle it with enthusiasm or I resign.

The color must have left my face completely by the time I left that office. It seemed like everyone was curious but trying not to look at me.

Kevin leaned over, “What was it?”

“The police dog in Bessemer City.”

“How’d it die?”

“Cancer.”

“Hell,” said Kevin aloud. “We don’t write stories when police officers die of cancer.”

Kevin’s often wickedly funny remarks had helped me through some hard times, but I was feeling low. I could think of nothing besides Pea’s tongue lashing. I couldn’t concentrate enough to even consider covering news.

I feebly tried to tell Barry how used and unappreciated I felt. Jon joined us in the conference room. He wouldn’t stand for it. I was putting the blame on everyone else again, he said. This was really about what a lousy job I was doing. I had gotten the picture about that from Pea. I told Jon he was cold and insensitive. We got nowhere at all and finally gave up.

I went to the phone and called Carla because I wanted to consult her before I walked out. She was worried about money, but finally said, “You know what, honey? Fuck it. Fuck those guys. Just come home and we’ll go out for a beer to celebrate.” I had missed holidays, evenings at home, weekend getaways. We were sick of it. I thanked her gratefully and started gathering my personal belongings.

Jon was leaving for the afternoon when I walked into the parking lot. We didn’t acknowledge each other and I don’t know if he actually saw me. There wasn’t much he saw in other humans.

I play a few rounds of pinball and take a final look at my former workplace across the parking lot.

Many talented, dedicated people work at the Gazette. With only a few exceptions, they have my profound respect. It can be a thankless job, especially working at those wages for a bunch of boobs.

Oh well, I think, no reason to waste energy resenting people. I get in my car and drive up Franklin Boulevard to the Dairy Queen, where I buy my Artist Self a chocolate ice cream cone.