a kid whose parents threw him out because of his sexuality. And I want to work this in with the Domain of Queers and how they're trying to provide a sense of place and direction for kids with poor self-esteem and nowhere to go.”
Carlson, always wanting to keep things focused on who was doing what and when, asked, “What are you thinking? A package at five?”
No, Todd wanted the big one. He wanted the six P.M. All of this, though, was simply a matter of negotiation.
“No, I'm not sure I can be ready by then. I want to get as much from the police as possible, and I want to try and dig up something on the parents too. The more time I have the better.”
“Then how about a VOSOT at five?”
Perfect, he thought. He could easily do one for the five o'clock, which would in turn give him exposure on both evening shows.
“Sure,” he replied. “Then I can front a package at six.”
“Okay,” said Tom Busch, looking around the room, “then let's make this our lead story on both the five and six. Do we agree?”
“Sure,” replied Carlson.
Bill Summers nodded, which prompted a few more heads to go up and down. And then it was all set. Todd's work for the day was cast in stone.
As they launched into a discussion about the proposed merger of two area banks and how it should be covered, Todd grabbed his briefcase and ducked out. In the hallway he passed several reporters just now heading into the meeting, and then he turned into the newsroom. It was a large space filled with cubicles and dominated by the assignment desk, which was elevated and looked out over everything, functioning much like flight control. Only a handful of producers were at their desks, some hammering away at keyboards, a couple yammering on the phone, as producers, of course, were wont to do.
Todd passed a dark hallway of glass edit booths, wound his way around, and turned into his glass-walled office. As always, the first thing he did was hit a couple of keys on his computer and check his e-mail. There was not much of significance—notification of a joint birthday party for four coworkers at five this afternoon, a message from one of the producers that she'd submitted one of Todd's pieces for an Emmy, and a staff-wide notice about vacation procedure. He then picked up his phone and listened to his voice mail, finding that three tip callers had phoned in last night to tell him about the murder, then someone else had phoned this morning from one of the local gay organizations wondering if Todd had any more information. The last call was from a man asking if Todd knew anything about a recall on blue cheese. There was nothing from Rawlins, which Todd didn't know how to take.
While he worked almost exclusively with Bradley, whom he considered to be their best photographer, not to mention the easiest and most flexible, Todd didn't have his own researcher/producer. Last month the news director, Tom Busch, had told him he could have such a person, but Todd had been and still was reticent. Perhaps he was being both foolish and selfish, but he didn't want to be tied down, just as he didn't want to be responsible for filling another person s day. In the past when he'd needed either research assistance or a producer he'd always simply commandeered someone. It was times like now, however, that were making him reconsider. Not only would it be good to have someone to bounce ideas off of, there were a myriad of questions that had to be answered today. Exactly how old was Andrew? Was he previously in any kind of trouble? What were the names of his parents and what was their phone number? Exactly who was Andrew working for here in town? And, of course, had the runaway with no assets except his body ever hustled?
Todd was just reaching into his desk when the phone rang. Hoping it wasn't someone else calling about a blue cheese recall, he picked it up.
“WLAK, this is Todd Mills.”
A bright female voice said, “Hi, Todd, how are you?”
“Ah…
Carlson, always wanting to keep things focused on who was doing what and when, asked, “What are you thinking? A package at five?”
No, Todd wanted the big one. He wanted the six P.M. All of this, though, was simply a matter of negotiation.
“No, I'm not sure I can be ready by then. I want to get as much from the police as possible, and I want to try and dig up something on the parents too. The more time I have the better.”
“Then how about a VOSOT at five?”
Perfect, he thought. He could easily do one for the five o'clock, which would in turn give him exposure on both evening shows.
“Sure,” he replied. “Then I can front a package at six.”
“Okay,” said Tom Busch, looking around the room, “then let's make this our lead story on both the five and six. Do we agree?”
“Sure,” replied Carlson.
Bill Summers nodded, which prompted a few more heads to go up and down. And then it was all set. Todd's work for the day was cast in stone.
As they launched into a discussion about the proposed merger of two area banks and how it should be covered, Todd grabbed his briefcase and ducked out. In the hallway he passed several reporters just now heading into the meeting, and then he turned into the newsroom. It was a large space filled with cubicles and dominated by the assignment desk, which was elevated and looked out over everything, functioning much like flight control. Only a handful of producers were at their desks, some hammering away at keyboards, a couple yammering on the phone, as producers, of course, were wont to do.
Todd passed a dark hallway of glass edit booths, wound his way around, and turned into his glass-walled office. As always, the first thing he did was hit a couple of keys on his computer and check his e-mail. There was not much of significance—notification of a joint birthday party for four coworkers at five this afternoon, a message from one of the producers that she'd submitted one of Todd's pieces for an Emmy, and a staff-wide notice about vacation procedure. He then picked up his phone and listened to his voice mail, finding that three tip callers had phoned in last night to tell him about the murder, then someone else had phoned this morning from one of the local gay organizations wondering if Todd had any more information. The last call was from a man asking if Todd knew anything about a recall on blue cheese. There was nothing from Rawlins, which Todd didn't know how to take.
While he worked almost exclusively with Bradley, whom he considered to be their best photographer, not to mention the easiest and most flexible, Todd didn't have his own researcher/producer. Last month the news director, Tom Busch, had told him he could have such a person, but Todd had been and still was reticent. Perhaps he was being both foolish and selfish, but he didn't want to be tied down, just as he didn't want to be responsible for filling another person s day. In the past when he'd needed either research assistance or a producer he'd always simply commandeered someone. It was times like now, however, that were making him reconsider. Not only would it be good to have someone to bounce ideas off of, there were a myriad of questions that had to be answered today. Exactly how old was Andrew? Was he previously in any kind of trouble? What were the names of his parents and what was their phone number? Exactly who was Andrew working for here in town? And, of course, had the runaway with no assets except his body ever hustled?
Todd was just reaching into his desk when the phone rang. Hoping it wasn't someone else calling about a blue cheese recall, he picked it up.
“WLAK, this is Todd Mills.”
A bright female voice said, “Hi, Todd, how are you?”
“Ah…
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