The Hotshot and the Grieving Mother

Entry #2 by Deviess

“I hope you have everything, because I do not plan to head back to the office due to your absentmindedness,” Sasha jadedly said as one hand held the steering wheel steady, and the other massaged her left temple. Though, she was thrilled to have been chosen to cover the Rachael Braun story, it was her assigned photographer, Jacob Bradley, a young hotshot know-it-all, who made her weary. Her lack of directional skills were also not helping as she did her best impression of someone trying to find the Braun’s residence.

“Relax. I got my camera and enough memory cards to put Best Buy out of business,” Jacob coolly responded, followed by a hearty laugh, “you must be so excited to cover ‘The Story of the Decade’,” he joked, holding his hands up in front of him like he was seeing a vision of the future, “a story big enough to put you and this god-forsaken town on the map.” His voice turned from sugary optimistic to thick and sarcastic, “a story about a 15 year old girl who trips in a canal and drowns. Oh, I can see the appeal.”  Sasha just rolled her eyes in response. This kind of talk from him was nothing new; nor was it over. 

“In my opinion,” he predictably continued, “we’re covering a suicide, plain and simple. With all the shit going down in today’s schools, girl probably got bullied all the way to the edge,” he said it with more good humor than was really required. “Kids today can be so vicious,” he continued, shrugging and smiling an obnoxiously smug smile, “but hey, as long as I get paid, it's all gravy.”

“With no proof, no motive, not even a note, you come to the conclusion that she killed herself?” Sasha asked the idiot in the passenger seat. “This is why I ask the questions and you take the pictures, Jacob,” she told him without taking her eyes off the road, “with your poor journalistic skills, an article written by you would turn even the most prestige newspaper into a cheap tabloid in mere seconds. Now if you’re done with your shenanigans,” she continued, “help me look for house number 401, I think I passed it.”

“Ah, what do you know,” he mumbled under his breath as he turned to the car’s window. “Wait, I think that’s the house right there,” he pointed to a massive two-story colonial style house, with a front porch big enough to fit the Honda they were in (plus it’s twin brother and a full orchestra), a chimney on each end, windows galore, and a row of statuesque columns to greet them, this house seem to have everything under the sun. That is, everything but a house number.

“Where do you see 401?” Sasha asked.

“I don’t, but the house next to it is 403, so I used my poor journalistic skills to figure out the rest,” he smiled.

“Shut up,” she snapped.  In swift movements Sasha parked their car and quickly made their way towards the unmarked house. With her tape recorder in hand and a camera in Jacob’s, they marched up the freshly graveled driveway and up the steps to the front door. Sasha planned to make this as quick and efficient as possible – she had learned long ago that speaking to the loved ones of the deceased can sometimes prove troublesome. She raised her hand, knocked on the door a few times, and patiently waited for a response.

“Who is it?” a husky voice called out.

“Hello, I’m Sasha Reed from the Rinker Valley Daily. I believe we spoke over the phone.” There was a long pause before the door began to rattle with a symphony of locks and opened to reveal a short, heavy set, blonde woman, well into her years.

“Mrs. Braun, I presume,” Jacob said as he holds out his hand towards her, but she ignored it completely.

“We never agreed to pictures,” Mrs. Braun said coldly, “the camera is not coming in here.”

“I apologize,” Sasha quickly interjects, “if you don’t want pictures than no pictures will be taken.  Jacob, wait for me in the car.” Sasha would never admit it but she took some perverse pleasure from this little scene.

He shot her a defiant look, but realized this was not a battle he was going to win. He took his defeat and his camera and made his way back to the Honda.

“Once again I’m sorry about that,” Sasha said in a soothing voice, “I understand that this is a hard time for you and I would hate to make it any more trying.” The trick, Sasha always found, was the Gentle Segue into a Difficult Topic. “May I come in?” she asked.

The woman exhaled deeply before allowing her into the house.  It took Sasha a minute to get adjusted to what she saw, since the gleaming hardware floors and vaulted ceilings were pretty distracting.  The place simply reeked of money. The banisters probably cost more than she made in a year. Still, she knew she had to stay in professional mode. “Is there any place we can talk?” she asked, maintaining a somber expression.

“Yes, we can head to the sun room in the back,” and without saying anything else, she made her way down a long hallway with many doors only to come out the other side of the house and into surprisingly cheery sun room. Mrs. Braun gestured to a pair of tasteful (and probably expensive) wicker couches with light green pillows facing each other and the view of their expansive back yard.  Sasha took out her recorder and placed it on the coffee table between them. Without pause, she rushed to take the first step in the thousand mile journey to understand the story behind Rachael Braun’s death.

Rachel Braun Never Makes it to Sixteen

Entry #1 by Alex C. 

          Sasha had never considered that 24 hours could make the stench of vomit even worse. But the smell emitting from the off-yellow stain on the drywall had definitely intensified since her last visit yesterday afternoon. She had rushed a sample of the stuff over to Fred last time and hadn't had time to do anything else. Not that she had needed much time to confirm her theory. A brief look, even in the little light that now crept in from the street lights, told her that a fairly crazy party had been in the works. Looking more like the raucous masterpiece of a deranged fratboy than the leftovers of a sweet sixteen, the house was peppered with bottles, half smoked blunts, the occasional high heel, and pills in a small ziplock bag. A lace thong peeking out from under an overturned pizza box was a classy touch, thought Sasha. She could only guess at what had caused the wooden banister that followed the short set of stairs, separating the dining room from the living room, to dislocate so badly that one could make it rock back and forth with little effort.

In Sasha’s opinion, the only innocent items in the place were the balloons that rested gently on the ground; rubber-latex tumbleweeds in the seemingly abandoned two story house. The banner, written in different colors of glitter showered on glue, might have qualified if it didn't read, “I'm 16 Bitches! Let the Good Times Roll!” Sasha was certain the irony of that statement wouldn't be lost on anyone who had been with Rachel at the party.

            Two days ago Rachel had been at the Rivera Drive Canal, a huge creek that meanders through the city which used to use it as a bustling thoroughfare that fueled the city's economy up through the Industrial Revolution. But on Monday, it washed up the body of Rachel Braun, a fifteen year old sophomore from Clover Ridge, ten miles from her neighborhood. Sasha had been sent by her editor to get the story for tomorrow's front page. The police seemed unusually quiet for the Rinker Valley PD. Rinker Valley, while not without its slums, was not a high crime city, and less of a metropolis than most cities with its population. The police often liked to chat with the press, an attitude ushered in by the current Commissioner when his tenure began 10 years ago in response to what he felt was a disturbing lack of visibility in the community. But not this time. Sasha was only able to ring the basic facts out of the detective at the scene.

“She drowned,” he had stated flatly.

 “Any idea how it happened?” Sasha had asked.

“Hard to know for sure,” he responded with a non-committal shrug, “the current being as strong as it is probably carried her quite a ways from where she went in.”

“Well, what do think may have happened?” she asked, frustrated.

The detective paused a moment, seemingly almost annoyed. “Probably an accident, if you fall in the creek this time of year it can be real dangerous.” Sasha hadn't seen the need to press beyond that; what the detective was saying made sense. During the spring the region's ample rainfall typically raises the creek's water level to almost twenty feet from the bottom and the current becomes very fast and choppy. The canal is restricted access only during March and April, but thrill seekers from the local university sometimes kayak on it anyway. Drownings were rare but not unheard of.

It was during the routine follow up, when Sasha had gone to interview what family and friends she could about Rachel that Sasha had come to think of Rachel's death as more than just an accident.