Riley
With my heart slamming against my ribcage, I dash to my desk and grab the essentials: my purse, two notebooks, a fistful of pens. Keeping the same frenzied pace, I reach my car in record time and get on the road.
I've never covered a mass shooting before. They're so ubiquitous, though, that I figured at some point I would have to. And now I'm dreading it, wishing I was doing anything but this. I mentally tick off the details Helen had told me back in the newsroom and try to recall what I know about the neighborhood.
Multiple casualties...every cop car in the city...an Italian restaurant...
"Oh my god," I cry out loud.
Gabriel. He was going out to dinner. Had he told me where? For a few blocks I rack my brain. No. He didn't. Normally he takes people to The Circle, he'd told me a while back, because he enjoys the prime rib.
But what if he was going to this place tonight? Fear clamps hard on my chest, like a vise grip. I reach for my phone that I'd thrown on the passenger seat, and fumble. The cell tumbles onto the floor outside of my grip.
I swear out loud and pull into an empty tire shop parking lot. There's no way I can drive and reach the phone, and in my manic, worried state, I shouldn't be trying to talk and drive anyway.
With shaky hands, I retrieve my phone and pull up Gabriel's number. The sound of the ring echoes in my car speaker and I grip the steering wheel with one hand.
Come on. Answer. Gabriel, please answer...
It goes to voicemail.
"Dammit." I slap the steering wheel and dial him again, hoping he'll think it's urgent and know he needs to pick up.
He doesn't.
I leave a panicked and probably nonsensical voice mail. I flub the name of the restaurant, calling it Cosa Nostra, then try to correct myself and finally giving up. "Just call me, okay? I want to make sure you're okay."
As I'm tapping out a text to him, another message pops up. It's Helen.
Are you there yet? TV is reporting three dead so far.
This inspires another string of foul language to come out of my mouth. I abandon the text to Gabriel, hoping the voicemail will be enough to prod him to get in touch. I'm still a couple of miles away from the restaurant and Helen wouldn't be pleased if she knew how I stopped to make a personal call.
As I turn onto the restaurant's street, I can see dozens of flashing red and blue lights slicing through the night sky. The eatery's sign is illuminated, stark white amidst all that color. But I can't get closer than three blocks — there's a cop on the street, directing people to a detour.
I slow as I approach the officer and roll down my window. "Hi, sir, I'm press, with the paper. Is there a place I should park?"
The officer, an older guy, looks around then bends over, leaning into my window. "Take a left here, and park in that florist lot across the street. You see all the TV trucks? Find a place between one of those. That's the best I can do, I hope there's still a space or two there."
"Thanks," I tell him gratefully, although now that I'm looking at the lot, I'm not sure his advice was helpful because the lot is so packed.
It's been five minutes since I left Gabriel that voicemail...
It takes me a few minutes to park because I have to wedge my car between a TV van and a palm tree. Of course I'm being extra careful because this is a new car. With my old one, I'd just jam it in there and not worry about a thing.
I'm climbing out of my car when my phone rings. It's Helen.
"Do you have anything for me yet? I need to get something online now."
"No, I just got here. It took me a while with all the traffic and the parking—"
"I don't care. Get an interview and grab a police spokesperson or something and call me with a few quotes. Ten minutes."
She hangs up, and I throw the cell into my purse and run across the street, hoping the cop stopping traffic doesn't see me. He does.
"All press over there," he booms, pointing to another parking lot, this one at a chain pharmacy that's standing in between me and the restaurant.
I begin walking in that direction because I see TV cameras gathering. Slowing down will allow me to get my bearings. Right now, I need to focus on doing my job, not worrying about Gabriel.
But inside, I'm manic with concern.
I try to focus on what's in front of me. The makeshift press area is a full two blocks from the restaurant, and it looks like police tape is covering a two-block radius. My plan is to scope out the press area, find out if there's a scheduled news conference or if one of the police spokespeople are wandering around. Then I'll go to the police tape and see if I can find a regular person to talk with — hopefully someone who witnessed the massacre.
The area where the press are gathered is like nothing I've seen before. There are at least five cameras set up, with more arriving by the minute. There's a hushed frenzy, with producers and technicians setting up cords and lights, and reporters sitting on the ground, hunched over their phones. I sidle up to a TV cameraman that I've met before.
"Hey, Don. Any word on a news conference?"
"Riley, hey. Someone just said fifteen minutes, over here." He points to a makeshift podium where TV reporters have attached microphones.
"Cool, thanks."
I pause to type the info into a text to Helen, hoping it will keep her at bay.
Get me a non-official person who is at the scene. A neighbor, a business owner, anyone.
"Oh god," I whisper.
Then I do the thing I dread most: I walk up to the restaurant. Well, as close as I can get. I reach the police tape stretching from a stop sign, to the passenger side mirror of a police car parked in the middle of the street. Another ribbon of police tape goes from the driver's side mirror to the stop sign on the other side of the street.
Behind that, is mayhem. Total chaos in front of the restaurant. Paramedics rushing in and out with stretchers, officers talking to people, folks crying. I can't sort out what's going on, and the only word that comes to mind is tragedy.
Then I spot a guy sitting next to a palm tree, holding a blood-soaked towel to his shoulder. It's clear he's a restaurant worker, from his plain white-t-shirt to the apron around his waist. He's sweaty and gasping.
I have to turn away because it's too much to handle. An ambulance roars away, it's full-throated siren piercing the already loud scene. I feel my phone buzzing in my bag.
It's Helen, again. Any luck?
I don't answer. I need to get one interview, then maybe she'll get off my back. Looking around frantically, I find a woman squatting just outside of the police tape, to my right. She's alone, smoking a cigarette, and staring at her phone.
As I get closer, I realize she's sniffling. She's about my age, wearing all black. Maybe she works at the restaurant. There's only fear and regret in my heart as I approach her.
"Hi." I do a little wave while still standing a respectful distance away. "I'm so sorry to bother you, but I'm a reporter doing a story on this. Do you work at the restaurant?"
She looks up from her phone, her face a mask of anguish. "Yeah, I do."
"Would you mind answering a few questions?"
"That's fine, I can do that." She beckons me over. "Is this going to be on TV?"
"Well, I'm with the local newspaper. I'm Riley Murphy, by the way." I hold out my hand and she takes it, shaking it limply.
She tells me her name, then launches into what she saw, seemingly eager to get it all out.
I have to stop her for a second. "I'm sorry, would you mind if I got this on video? We put these on our website and it's helpful for me when I write a story."
She waves her cigarette in the air. "No, not at all."
I take out my phone and hit record. "Okay, tell me what you saw."
"I'm a waitress at Casa Nostra. It's a family owned place, the owners are from Sicily. Real good food, best pasta in town. It's a mom-and-pop place, nothing fancy, but we get customers who love authentic Italian food. Tonight is usually our all you can eat meatball special. We have regulars, and most were in there. I was bringing a tray of food to a bunch of our regulars at the biggest table, the one in the back when I heard the shots."
My eyes widen. "Oh no."
She nods and sniffles. "I knew immediately what it was and dropped my entire tray. All I could hear was bap-bap-bap-bap of the gun. I know people were hit, because I saw them fall, and heard them cry out, like they were in pain. Maybe the sound of the tray and all those plates hitting the floor threw him off because he stopped for a second. Enough time for me to dive into the bathroom and hide. I locked the door and hid in a stall. That's when I heard another round of gunshots and yelling. Guys screaming. From the sounds of things I think someone took him down, maybe shot him. I don't know. Thank God the bathroom has a back door, and I have a key. I was able to sneak out. I didn't see how it all ended."
I'm frozen with fear just listening to her story. "Did you get a look at the person with the gun?"
"No. I remember a guy walking in alone, in all black. But that didn't raise any flags, he just looked like a regular guy. Thirties, maybe? Forties? I think he was bald. He said something right before he started shooting. I think it was in another language, but I'm not sure. It all happened so fast."
"I'm so glad you're okay." I'm shaking so hard that I can barely keep the camera trained on her.
"Thanks." She starts to cry, and I switch the camera off.
"Can I give you a hug?" I'm not sure if this is normal for a reporter to do, but normalcy be damned. This woman is traumatized.
She nods and flicks her cigarette to the ground. I embrace her and she melts into me. Poor thing. No one deserves this.
We break away, which is good because I want to ask a few more questions.
"Do the owners have any problems with anyone, was anyone recently fired, anything like that?"
She worries her lip between her teeth. "I don't know their business well. A dishwasher was fired last week, but I don't think he'd ever do anything. But these days, who knows? Guns are everywhere and people are crazy."
I nod in agreement.
"But the regulars? I'm not so sure about them. We seem to have a lot of wiseguys who eat here, old school Italians if you know what I mean."
I swallow a thick lump in my throat. "Um. Maybe I don't?"
She smirks. "Is your video off?"
I nod.
She leans in. "We get a lot of mobsters coming in. That table of men I was waiting on? They're always here on Tuesdays. Same dinner every night. I think they're footsoldiers of some boss. So maybe it's connected somehow."
Just then, I hear someone shouting my name. It's Don, my cameraman friend.
"Riley, the press conference is starting," he yells.
"I'm sorry, I have to go to that. Can I get your number in case I have any questions?"
She scribbles it on the cover of my notebook and I thank her profusely, telling her that I'm glad she is going to be okay.
Knowing what I know right now, I'm not sure I will be, though.