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Miller was in desperate need of a story. The editor was pressing hard for something big for the morning edition from all his reporters, but Miller wanted to be the one to get the story. He was under the gun already, as his only claim to fame was a front page story two months ago. While it was very good, it was just about the only thing he'd done of note since joining the paper almost four months earlier. He needed to bring in a good headline story, or something of note, to get out of the 'old man's' doghouse.
The old man was the editor-in-chief, a crusty old fellow who always seemed to have half a cigar in his mouth and nothing good to say about anybody, but mostly about him, 'Scoop' Miller. The nickname had been given to him by the old man himself, as a less than friendly derision. Every time Miller came to the city desk with a story idea, he would pitch it as if it were the story of the year and promise that it was an exclusive and that he had a scoop!
He was on borrowed time. The old man had said as much only an hour ago, so a good story was essential for survival. He was just a bit depressed, so he stopped off at Pop's Bar for a quick drink and maybe a tip. He'd gotten a few tips there before and so it was worth a stop. He actually wound up spending a bit more time at the bar than he had planned to, but he found the story he was looking for.
Actually it came as a gift, right in front of him. Just a minute after leaving Pop's, a truck hit a pedestrian not more than thirty feet in front of him. Usually accidents like that weren't much of a story, hardly worth mentioning, far less a featured story. But this was very different. The accident victim was the 'Angel of Mercy,' a name given to the lady by the mayor. Most of the locals called her 'Sister Edith,' but she was Edith Keeler, a do-gooder.
She had been operating a soup kitchen and shelter for the down and out, ever since the need arose after the market crash of 1929. Edith was very popular with the bums, barflies and n'er do wells of the city. She had made the papers several times with the stories about her visions of the future. Miller had interviewed her just a month ago, based on a tip from Pop himself. The article was a hit with both the editor and the public. The story gave Miller his first big break. It had also led to more features on her by the other city papers, but he had been first. He was planning a follow up story for the next few weeks, but not until after he had success with another story. After all, he couldn't make a career out of Edith Keeler and didn't want to be known as a 'one trick pony.'
However, she had just been hit by a rather large truck, so Miller rushed to confirm what he had seen and stared into the face of the pretty lady. Lying lifeless on the dirty street, she looked almost peaceful.
A man in a rumpled coat had reached her first and was leaning over her, shaking his head slowly, "She's gone."
Running up to the site, an older man explained breathless, "I saw it from the drug store. I called the police --"
"Too late, mister," rumpled coat said, "She's already dead."
A small crowd was starting to gather and Miller began taking notes as fast as he could: name of the truck driver, company name on the truck, witness names and anything else that would give his story believability and make it strong. In a relatively short period of time, he had the basics and an outline.
Just as he was finishing, the police arrived. By this time, word had spread to the folks inside the mission, Edith's soup kitchen. Several of her 'flock' came out to see for themselves and pushed through the small crowd. One particular derelict with a handle bar moustache and 'puppy dog' look actually broke down and cried.
"Damn, if only I had a cameraman here, the image is perfect."
Several of the people turned and looked at him with disgust. It was then he realized he had vocalized his thoughts a bit too loud. He made a hasty retreat back to Pop's Bar and a beeline to the only phone booth.
Unfortunately, it was occupied by a man who appeared to be too drunk to talk, far less carry on an intelligent conversation.
Opening the bi-fold wood and glass door, Miller listened in.
"...but Mildred, I'm working late, I promise you."
Scoop was in a hurry. He could make the morning edition deadline easily, but he had to submit the story before his fellow reporters on the Star Dispatch, not to mention the other papers in the city. He also wanted the exclusive on Keeler's death. If he was lucky, no one else would find out until it was too late to make the morning edition anywhere in town.
"...and I'll be a little longer. Don't worry; I'll eat something at the office..."
Out of patience, and fearful of losing his opportunity, Miller grabbed the phone from the drunk and yelled, "He's gotta' go back to work now. Bye Mildred!"
The startled man turned in anger. "Hey, what's the idea? Mildred ain't gonna' like that! Just who --"
Miller removed a five dollar bill from his pocket and gave it to the irate man. "Here's your bonus for working overtime!"
Immediately, anger turned to surprise and delight. The man scrambled out of the phone booth and headed for the bar.
Pulling out his note pad, Miller jumped in the small booth and closed the door to seal out the bar noises. As soon as his nickel hit the bottom of the coin slot, he dialed as fast as he could.
On the second ring, the call was answered. "Star Dispatch, city desk, Burns here."
"'Burnsey,' it's Miller. Give me the old man. I've got a real hot one for the morning edition; it's an exclusive!"
"He's down the hall, in the can, Scoop." Burns was unimpressed and made 'scoop' sound like a curse word.
Frustrated, Miller yelled into the phone, "Well, get him anyway! This is really hot!"
"Oh yeah? What is it this time, another of your award winning stories? One that the other papers ran a week ago?"
"No, you baboon! It just happened. That Keeler dame, Sister Edith, you know the story I did on the mission?"
"Sure, Miller," came the unimpressed response. "One good story a year, how could I forget? You have a follow up? She running for mayor or something?"
"No, you idiot!" Miller was now yelling in anger. "She's dead, got hit by a truck just a few minutes ago. Nobody else knows but us! Get the old man, now!"
There was a pause and Miller figured Burns had covered the phone to yell for a copy boy or something. Then the voice on the other end changed, it was the old man. "Keeler's dead, you sure boy?"
"Yes, chief! Saw it happen right in front of me. Lots of witnesses, but we're the only paper. At least, so far." Again, there was a pause and Miller was beginning to worry that his exclusive was going to be dismissed.
The old man started in again. "Okay, Miller, slow down. Now, about this accident --"
Taking a deep breath, he explained, "It's real, I swear! She died right in front of me. One of the witnesses --" he flipped through his notebook pages until he found a name "-- was a Doctor Schumann. He said she was dead on the spot."
"Okay, Miller. I'm sold, I'll put you through to rewrite. Dictate the story to Margaret and I'll hold a place for you on the front page. We'll put out a four-star extra edition. I don't suppose you had a 'shutter bug' working with you?"
"No, sir."
"Well, we can use one of the pictures left over from your interview...and Miller?"
"Yes, sir?"
"You better be right about this or I'll see that you never work in this town again, understood?"
The confident reporter responded, "Don't worry, chief, it's in the bag!"
Officer Sean Patrick O'Malley, a city beat cop, had responded to the accident in front of the 21st Street Mission when he noticed three men dressed strangely and behaving in a very suspicious manner. They had exited from the basement of the mission in a hurry. Two of them had bundles under their arms and the trio headed down the alley in a hurry. No sooner had Sister Edith been hit, these crumbs were robbing the mission of its few valuables.
As the men moved through the back alley, the officer swore to himself. The odd clothes looked vaguely familiar. He did his best to keep up with them and, as they passed under one of the few working street lamps in the area, he caught sight of the tallest one. It was him! The stranger with the oddly shaped eyebrows and disfigured ears! He and the other one had somehow knocked him out after he caught them stealing clothes in this very area, just days before.
O'Malley pulled his pistol. This time they would not get away from him.
The thieves rounded another corner. This alley would end up just where he had discovered them before. They were returning to the scene of the crime! It was a long straight alley with nowhere to hide and he could get a good bead on them.
As he turned the same corner, gun at the ready, he was surprised to find the two bundles of clothes and...nothing else!
After scratching his head for few moments, he returned to the mission and assisted with restoring order at the site of the accident. He now had two mysteries for which he would never find a solution, but would never tell a soul about.
At the city morgue, an overworked and underpaid public servant looked at the night's assignments ahead of him. It was just halfway through his shift, yet already there were eight bodies in front of him; one gunshot, one suicide, three old age, one pneumonia, one drowning and the latest, a car accident. A pedestrian had been hit by a truck. But, it wasn't just any pedestrian, this was the lady the mayor had dubbed the 'Angel of Mercy.'
Giving the body a long look, he shook his head. It was so true, only the good dye young. He had read several stories in the papers about what she was doing for the less-than-fortunate. Even in death, she was a very pretty lady. He stared in disbelief at the face and moved closer. Had her eyelids just moved? He stood motionless, frozen with a combination of fear and hope. Maybe it was just the poor lighting or the fact he hadn't eaten yet, or maybe he was just tired...then it happened again!
He did a quick, cursory exam and then cursed out loud. He took a few quick steps to the phone and made the most important call of his life. Help would come, but would it arrive in time?
Walking with a spring in his step and wearing a broad smile of confidence, Miller was a man with the world at his feet. Well, at least, the newspaper world. This was his day! The editor had called him at home to come in for a face to face meeting.
Obviously, he'd get a bonus or a choice assignment, maybe even both, as a reward for his exclusive. He could handle it; he might even ask for a raise.
Scoop pushed through the heavy brass and glass doors which were the main entry of the Star Dispatch building. In the large, open lobby, he stopped at the little kiosk next to the elevators and bought a Hershey bar. Tossing a silver dollar to the young girl at the counter to pay for the nickel treat, he smiled. "I'll talk to you later." He finished on a wink.
He then jumped to make the next available elevator and took the short trip to the editor's office. The 'old man,' barely 55, was chewing on the omnipresent cigar stub. Miller swore it was the same cigar he'd seen during their first meeting when he applied for his job. The editor glared at the young man, "Well, Scoop, you've really done it this time." He laid out the front page of the morning edition of the Star Dispatch, so Miller could see it in all its glory.
"Not bad, huh, chief?"
"Not good either, kid."
Miller was confused. "How so?"
Taking the cigar from his mouth and tapping the paper with a plump index finger, the editor spoke in a voice you could have heard in Chicago. "She's not dead, 'Scoop!'"
"What?"
"Not dead, get it? The lady is in the hospital. The mayor just left her and announced that, although she is still unconscious, the doctors expect her to make a full recovery. 'Hizzhonor' is also giving city money to the mission to keep it open, at least for the time being."
"But the doctor at the accident --"
The editor picked up a scrap of paper, "Burnsey thought that you'd like know that your 'doctor' is a psychologist who was at the mission interviewing its residents for some research."
The young reporter stood quietly for a moment. Finally, he spoke in a near whisper. "I don't know what to say."
The old man stuffed the mangled cigar stub back between his teeth and grinned broadly. "No? Well I do. You're fired, kid, and I mean now! Draw your time and get out! You've got five minutes, then I call the cops and have you arrested for --" his anger blocked his thought process for a moment, then he continued "-- trespassing!"
Running as fast as he could, Miller's feet just barely touched the ground on the way to the payroll office. The girl at the counter was waiting for him and handed him the thin envelope without a comment or a smile.
As he rode the elevator down, he looked inside the envelope. It was hardly worth picking up. It wouldn't cover his rent or anything else for that matter.
In just four minutes and thirty seconds, he arrived in the lobby for the last time. As he walked by the kiosk, the young girl smiled and waved the silver dollar still in her hand.
He spun on his heels and approached her. "About my change, I forgot to get it."
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© 2024 Brad McDonald / U.S.S. Kitty Hawk
Star Trek and all related marks, logos, and characters are solely owned by CBS Studios, Inc. This fan organization
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