Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-26444017-20180623102805

I took a lot of what I saw with regards to my last post to heart. I went ahead and revisited the story and made several changes (some minor, some important) both to make the story flow better and to avoid plot problems that I was worried about.

For the most part, I'm looking for a spelling check and grammar review from actual human beings, but any advice is well welcomed. The working title for the story is 'Reporting', but that's also subject to change. Right now, it's just what it's saved as on my computer. Hope you enjoy.

"Standby."

My left index finger rested gently on the volume slider. I could feel the ridges in the plastic, the curve that was meant to mimic the shape of a human digit. The fingers on my right hand tapped rapidly on the cheap folding table.

Where is it? I knew the story was coming. I'd been waiting for almost a full day. There was no way we weren't going to cover it. The footage had already made the rounds online, garnering thousands of views. We had to say something about it. So where the hell was it?

"Mic her." Rich's voice piped directly into my ear by virtue of the headset. Hastily, I moved the slider responsible for Julia's microphone into place, simultaneously silencing the audio from the previous clip. A low hum could faintly be heard from the speakers, a sound I attributed to the air conditioning system in the studio. But it wasn't until Rich's next command, directed toward the camera operators, that her voice was heard.

"Cue." It had quickly become my favorite word, as it always preceded the melodious tones of her beautiful voice. I found it both calming and exhilerating just to hear such vocal perfection, and what luck that I would be paid to ensure that it came across with clarity so that all could enjoy it as I did. My dream job, no question.

But it wasn't what I was most excited for. No, more than Julia's vibrant voice, I was eagerly awaiting the words that would be wrapped within. It had been less than a day, but I already felt as though I had waited a lifetime. And my patience had been rewarded, at last, when I heard her begin.

"A viral video has been circling the Internet depicting a brutal exchange between two homeless men. The individuals involved appear to have gotten into an argument regarding spacing limitations of the underpass they were living in. That altercation erupted into a fistfight which ultimately resulted in the death of one of the men." Julia paused momentarily, glancing down at the IPad in front of her. "Now, we want to warn you that what you are about to see may be disturbing to some viewers."

I wasn't worried. I'd already seen the video a half dozen times in the few hours leading up to this. I was fascinated with these sorts of things. There was a sort of primal sensation that I would feel every time something gruesome and raw like this would surface. My secret obsession was mostly in good fun, but there was a certain satisfaction that I could only get from a video such as this.

"SOT in A." Rich interrupted, ensuring I did my job correctly. Normally, I might have become disgruntled at this interruption, but this time, I appreciated it. I wanted to hear this; perfectly, and in its entirety. I raised the volume control responsible for the short clip of the fight. The footage was shaky, taken via cell phone by what seemed to be a passerby. The audio was not much better, due to both the quality of the device recording it and the rainstorm drowning out the voices. Fortunately, subtitles had been edited in before airing.

One of the two men stood with his back to the onlooker, a tan coat draped around his shoulders, thick black gloves on his hands, and a dark, woolen beanie covering his head. The other man, more clearly visible, had a thick green coat zipped up to his chin, which was mostly obscured by his thick, unkempt beard. One of his eyes was dull green, while the other was milky white. Understandable, given that he seemed to be in his late fifties and there was signifigant scarring on that side of his face. His hands were bare. He didn't seem to have the same luxury as his opponent, though he did have a red wool cap of his own.

The two exchanged words briefly before their fight began. "Mic her, and cue." Julia's voice overtook the audio from the clip as the two fought on screen. "The men got into this territory dispute late Wednesday night, and as you can see from this footage, it didn't take long for it to come down to a brawl." The men exchanged blows as she spoke, but it only got more interesting. Briefly, the man whose back was to the camera pulled back an arm, plunging his hand frantically into his back pocket. Then, for a split second, there was a silvery glint.

"Then, you can see one of the men retrieve a switch-blade knife from his back pocket and stab the other man with it repeatedly." I shuddered with each blow. The sensation that overtook me was not fear or disgust, but rather exhileration. This vicarious, visceral display was playing a tune on my neurons that I was more than prepared to hear. Goosebumps spread along my arms and legs, each hair raising as a result.

There was disappointment mixed in, though. Someone had gone over the video with a fine-toothed comb, making sure to censor anything that could be offensive. ''Why bother blurring this part? We all know what blood looks like. It doesn't really matter that it's all over the place. It's still blood.'' But the producers had different plans, I suppose.

"The victim of this tragic crime has not yet been identified, but police are investigating at this time. If you have any information regarding the identity of the attacker, please call your local police station or Crimestoppers." I sighed internally. ''Poor Julia. You're the type of person that really means it when you say that kinda stuff. That sickening positivity is why I gravitate to you, but all that happiness is the antithesis of my personality. It's bittersweet.''

The camera cut back to Julia at that point, and the show moved forward as normal. "Another man was was discovered dead today, the latest in a long line of homicides known as the 'monogram murders'." Although this story piqued my interest, my morbid curiosity was sated. I knew that that satisfaction wouldn't last, but I could at least hold out long enough to get back home without worrying my coworkers with my oddity. They wouldn't understand anyway.

"Good work today, Nathan."

"Yeah, you too." I reciprocated Rich's compliment, mostly to keep up appearances. I shouldn't have to hear that I'm doing my job well, and neither should he. But I guess it's all about being nice and courteous, and if he needs that kind of reinforcement, then who am I to deny him. Checking my mail bin on the way to the stairs, I scratched absentmindedly at the nape of my neck.

I stepped out of the station building onto the pebbled sidewalk, taking in a breath of the moist remnant air of last night's storm. I had parked around the corner past a row of trees that had been planted in the walkway, woodchips and metal grates at their bases rooting them in place. I always thought it was an appropriate comparison to the world as a whole. A blossoming thing surrounded by concrete, caged by metal, and founded on the death of what came before. That realization brought with it a sort of reverence for these things. I placed a hand on the slender trunk of one of the trees, just taking in the rough texture of the papery bark.

I smiled to myself. Another appropriate comparison. I stepped away and walked toward my car, allowing my finger to scrape lightly along the building I had just left. The color of stucco that the station sported didn't match well with the coarse concrete substance that it was built with. The scraping ended abruptly as my hand reached the edge of the building, tranferring over to the low, pebbled wall that housed our business parking lot.

I hadn't parked back there. That lot was used for company vehicles; cars, vans, and SUV's that the reporters and production personel could transfer equipment in. We had no actual employee parking, instead finding whatever place we could on the street to leave our vehicles. I quickly located my white minivan and strode toward it. I stepped over a puddle that had pooled against the curb as I reached for the door, key already in hand.

As I ducked into the car, I felt a humid wall of heated air billow out. It had been rather warm earilier in the day, and it seemed that the still, cool air of the night hadn't had enough time to undo the influence of the sun. I took note of the various bottles of soda, most only half emptied, that littered the floor around me. Glancing to the center console, I found my cupholders occupied by two unfinished cans of Mountain Dew. Sandwiched between them, my belt cutter and window breaker peaked out toward the back seats. I really need to clean this thing out. I paused, contemplating. Tomorrow. Something I'd told myself dozens of times before.

Returning home, Metallica blaring from the speakers, I started getting the itch again. I scratched incessantly at it, hoping it would go away. There was a ringing in my ears. My eyes were trained on the road ahead of me, but all I could see was that gleaming blade, and the blood splashing all over. I had to see it one more time. To take in every little detail, and know as much as possible about that horrific, beautiful scene.

The obsession for this macabre voyeurism gripped me. I could feel my foot pressing more heavily on the gas as I raced to my home, just five minutes away. My hands tensed up, fingers digging into the steering wheel. I started to sweat profusely, overcome with an odd nervousness. The itch returned, worse than before, like a rash treated with mosquitos.

''Am I really having a panic attack over this? What the fuck?'' My heart was pounding in my chest. It felt like my ribs were cracking. The rock music faded away as the sound of blood rushing through my head grew louder. The tension in my hands intensified: I could see the veins and arteries on the backs of my hands, raised and quivering. I had to do something about this. I had to get home. I had to see it again. I had to...

Realization spread through my entire body, and the horrible discomfort started to subside. No. My hands relaxed, and the fake leather cover of the wheel slowly expanded back into place. I have a better idea. The pulsating rush in my ears grew silent, and my heartbeat calmed to normality. My eyes glanced down to the hooked pommel that housed the belt cutter, the conic point of the window breaker gleaming in the light of the streetlamps. ''Yeah. Much better.'' I took a sharp u-turn and calmly directed my vehicle toward the interstate.

The day crawled. It seemed like time had slowed down, and each second, each minute, each hour, was far longer than they should have been. Where is it? Nearly a full day later, a witness to call the police, and a conspicuous hiding spot should all equal a rapid discovery. We had to cover this story. I knew it was coming, so where was it?

"Cue."

Julia's melodious voice rang out through the room. "Another man was found dead with deep puncture wounds in his chest. 52-year-old Martin Copeland was discovered beneath the overpass of Interstate 37." A surge ran through my spine that I could feel in every nerve. My hands reflexively curled into fists, accentuating the small, fresh scratches. I had to fight against this motion, lest the other people around me get suspicious of my habits. Nonetheless, the ecstacy that I felt was far more intense than I imagined it would be, and it continued to swell as Julia continued.

"Police began investigating late last night in response to a call placed by an onlooker. From their testimony, the attacker lured Copeland using the ruse of a flat tire. The witness says that the culprit brandished a switch-blade knife bearing markings associated with the American naval forces." I really didn't think she would notice that. It wasn't going to help though. Turns out ordinary knife shops will sell you a naval knife. Wait, does the navy even use switch-blades? I would have to consult Google later.

"We reached out to this witness for a statement, but they declined to comment, asking that they not be on camera." Not surprising. The bitch was scared shitless. Apparently, she had never seen a crime show before. I actually kinda felt bad for her. I could remember a time when that sort of thing would bother me, but it'd been ages. By that point, all of that unseemly stuff was just part of everyday living.

"Based on the type of wound inflicted, as well as the distance of the overpass from the location of the call, police are certain that Copeland's tragic death was a homocide." Of course it was. There could be no doubt. I closed my eyes momentarily, recalling every tiny detail in seconds.

The helpful motorist pulled to the side of the rode to assist the beleagured traveller with a flat tire. His kind demeanor was actually endearing. He looked like any average guy, just helping out. He may have been a father on his way home from work. He didn't notice the phone propped against the 'flat' tire. If the itch hadn't been so strong, I probably wouldn't have troubled him. Another car approached, blinding Copeland with its headlights.

Then, there was the pressure, the resistance of his flesh. His coat was thin, but effective. It took a couple tries to really get results. The bright lights of the oncoming motorist illuminated the crimson streams that were coating the grey cotton of Copeland's jacket. He struggled, sputtering, desperately scratching away at my hands that were drenched in his blood. Soon enough, though, he stopped moving altogether, and I had the arduous task of pulling him to the rear of my van. It was already unlocked, a plastic tub set there ready to be filled.

I heard the car screech to a halt behind me. Looking over my shoulder, I knew that it was time to go. She already had her phone to her ear, and she was rapidly approaching, shouting at me. I slammed the rear door closed and made my way to the driver's seat, making sure to scoop up my phone. The keys were already in the ignition, simultaneously keeping the doors unlocked and ensuring a quick escape.

As I drove, I took constant care to ensure that everything was where it should be. License plates glimmered in the passenger seat as I drove. Despite speeding away at first, I maintained a legal velocity once I was sure I wasn't being tailed. I took several odd paths in order to loop back around without being seen. Soon enough, the overpass came into view.

"At this time, police have been unable to gather forensic evidence. They are now asking for anyone with information regarding this case to come forward." ''Only one witness, and she won't talk. No chance anyone will be able to help police with this one.'' It took a long time to wipe the skin and blood out from under his nails. It took even longer to rinse the tub, scrub the carpet, and wipe down the rear bumper. The only evidence left was the video file silently sitting in my phone. With the conclusion of the report, I relished in the overwhelming satisfaction of it.

Seriously, why didn't I do that sooner? I got the thrill my body demanded, my beautiful muse was singing my praises, and I had something left afterward that could tide me over until the itch became too strong again. Where was the downside?

But more important questions were wading through my mind. What should I do with my little  keepsake? Should I release it, or should I keep it for myself? What were the possible reprecussions of letting that video loose? Could it be traced back to me? What were the benefits?

The thought occured to me that perhaps I should share with the world. Not for their benefit, obviously. But, more than anything else, I just wanted to hear my darling Julia seronading the people of this town with tales of me. I hadn't thought such a thing possible, but what else could describe what I had just heard. ''I have to. I have to let her see.''

But then what? Then I would have nothing left. Nothing for me, after hearing that one glorious speech. The video would be ruined, because the magic secrecy I felt in keeping it would no longer be there. And once that report went out over air, that would be it: We'd be done. I would only be able to glimpse Heaven, and then crash back down to Earth. What could I do? The golden gates were closing, and I had to think fast.

Well, the answer was obvious. If I wanted this adulation to persist, then I would have go out again. Not immediately, but soon. After I released the video to the station, anonymously of course, I would have to be ready for another trip out to the overpass. Maybe more than one, to keep up supply. Having a stockpile, I decided, wasn't going to hurt. In fact, it would prove to be very, very fun.

Several weeks passed since that epiphany. I felt better than I ever had. I was in control while sitting on the sidelines, absentmindedly adjusting volume and pitch. My beloved had told the people all about my exploits, and I was starting to gain national attention. None of that mattered to me, though. Just hearing my darling speak, and knowing that it was I who made her feel so strongly was more than enough.

But there was something more happening behind the scenes. My work was not the only thing that had captured that graceful voice. There was another. Another man, doing my deeds, and stealing the voice that enchanted me.

Prolific didn't begin to describe him. After three years of nonstop searching, the police had yet to discover his identity. His signature calling card was infamous though. A large letter "M", written on the victim's foreheads, carefully sketched to include intricate swoops and swirls. His body count numbered fifty-three, including the corpse of the day.

I had heard this story before. We had covered it many times. It was always something that intrigued and fascinated me. Aside from the initial, fatal wounds, the rest of the body was carefully carved with beautiful looping patterns. These were inflicted postmortem, evidenced by their persistent nature, existing as open fisures in the skin. It must have taken a long time to learn to do that, and even longer to pull it off to this degree. Unsurprising, in retrospect, given the longevity of his career.

Not long after I started with my 'side hobby', though, I started to feel very differently about him. I regarded him as a thief, a swindler who had stolen the voice of an angel from me before I ever had a chance to hear it. He was a nuisance, a thorn in my side that I had to be rid of.

I talked with Julia more after that. I asked her what she thought of these murderers, and by proxy, what she thought of me.

"It's awful. How can anyone do that? How broken does someone have to be to think that that's okay?"

She said things like that a lot, but I could feel something different. I heard intrigue in her voice, something that was a shock for me. She had reported on many different stories throughout the years, but I had never heard her so moved by any of them. It made me smile on the inside, despite my exterior agreement with her sentiments.

But I was also distraught. I hadn't only asked her about the killer that I had become, but about the other one as well. I had no idea which one she was really interested in, and that lack of knowledge rattled me. I had to know. I had to know what she really thought. And the only way to do that was to track the "M" killer down.

What will I do if I find him? That question proved to be harder to answer than I thought. I couldn't just line us up and have her pick, now could I. Not only did that make no sense, but worse still was the thought that she wouldn't want to be with me, that I would be inferior to this mysterious murderer. The ridicule and heartbreak would be too much to bear. So, what then? What could I do to resolve this problem?

I would have to get rid of him. Get rid of him and ensure that he never threatened my love for Julia again. Ensure that her voice would speak only of me, and that this man's legacy would be silenced and forgotten. It was the only way.

I started researching everything I could regarding the crime scenes. It took some doing, and more time than I care to admit, but I became a volunteer Crimestopper, allowing me access to more information than even a news station was privy to. I could see why this criminal was such a problem for the police. He was careful, meticulously ensuring that no physical evidence was left for them to find.

Even more interesting, I discovered that he took his victims long before the first was ever found. DNA sequencing of the victims resulted in several abnormalities. Autopsy and subsequent testing revealed severe damage to the celular structure of those found. After several days scratching their heads, coroners concluded that the victims had all been frozen for an extended period of time, being discovered shortly after thawing. The killer had taken them out of storage long enough to carve a masterpiece, and left them out on display.

This discovery created chaos within the police force. Most of the files I could find were dated after the coroner's report, and suddenly anyone with a deep freezer was a suspect. No one was ever convicted, however, because there was a complete lack of any physical evidence. Despite stopping at over three-hundred houses, businesses, and even government buildings in the three years since the bodies started appearing, the murderer had still evaded capture.

I started to think that this was impossible. ''There's no way anyone is this good. Three years of searching, and nothing to show for it. How?'' That question stuck with me for over a month. I started to get sloppy, making mistakes that got the cops snooping around my house. But it didn't matter. I had to know who this person was. I had to find him.

I came to a realization in early October while at work. Another victim had been discovered, but I was on high alert, carefully analyzing everything I could about this new occurence. And then she said it. In her report Julia mentioned that much of the information regarding the culprit had come from an anonymous source. It wasn't just a one off thing. Every time we ran a story on the bastard, Julia would always cite an anonymous source as an informant.

The police had questioned and investigated everyone related, but I was certain that whoever the guy was, Julia had to know him. Her informant had to be the one I was looking for. My hands started violently shaking. I tried to hold them steady, to no avail. I had to talk to Julia. I needed to know who her informant was. We were mid-show, so I couldn't just barge into the studio asking questions, but I couldn't hold it together.

I started making little mistakes that Rich harped on me for. He didn't understand. None of them understood. The lengths that I had to go through to get this far, the things I was about to do; how could he have any clue? I brushed him off, snapped back at him, but ultimately just stopped listening. Trying and failing to focus, I used every bit of patience I could muster just to finish out the day.

It was nearly 11:00 at night when I finally got out to the studio to talk to Julia. The sounds of my footsteps echoed around the room as I strode up to the glasstop desk where she sat.

"I need to talk to you."

"About what?" She seemed nervous, and I got a little embarassed, realizing that I said something strange and frightened her.

"The person telling you about the serial killer we keep reporting on. The one that..."

"I can't talk about that." She interrupted me, understanding what I was after, and stood up from her chair. "All of that stuff is confidential." She retrieved her purse and stepped down from the rolling stage the desk stood upon. Her heels clacked loudly against the dark tiling as she walked. I followed her downstairs to the front door, talking the entire way.

"It's important. I've been working with the Crimestoppers, looking over case files, and I think I have something to go on, but I need to know who you've been talking to about this."

She stopped for a moment, and turned to look me in the eyes. It was a moment I was unprepared for. I pulled back a bit.

"You're working with the police? For how long?"

"A-about two months, give or take." I could hear the embarassment in my own voice, reminiscent of a teenager asking his crush to prom.

"Why didn't you tell anyone about it?" she asked, turning to continue down the stairs.

"I can't. The police files are sealed, locked up tight. No one is supposed to tell anyone what they know outside of the meetings."

Julia opened the door leading out to the street. I held it as she stepped out. The cool autumn air was a sharp contrast to the warmth of the building. The sky was overcast, a sea of dark waves, pierced only by the shining moon.

"But you want me to tell you all of the things she told to me in confidence?" Julia's face held an uncharacteristic, stern expression. I hadn't thought it was possible for her to become this upset with someone, and the whole situation put me on edge.

"If it means I can find the son of a bitch. I know that whoever your informant is, they can lead me to the killer."

"Well, what would you do if you actually did manage to find him?"

I was worried about this one. I didn't want to lie to Julia, above all else. If I told the truth, whether she really cared about the guy or not, I had a feeling she wouldn't like what she heard. I had to force myself to give an answer she might accept.

"Give what I found to the police, and make sure the guy goes to jail."

She stopped for a second, and nodded, a her lips curling up into a smile. I smiled too, seeing that I had earned her trust. Inside, though, I was cursing myself for betraying her.

"Come on. My notes are in my car." She turned away from me, but gave me a playful glance as she went. I was enamored, and equally uncomfortable. I had to be dreaming. I followed as she led me past the low wall into the station parking lot. As an anchor, she had the special privilege of being permitted to park in an enclosed space.

Julia leaned down, unlocking the rear passenger door of her black family sedan. Pulling it open with a satisfying 'kachunk', she ducked inside with her back to me, rummaging around, before crawling in. I admired the view, but was caught off guard when she spoke.

"Are you coming or what?" The coy giggle that followed told me everything I needed to know about what was going to happen next. I really think, in that moment, I couldn't ask for anything better. I wasted no time following her into the back seats, ignoring the file folder on the floor, stamped with that signature 'M'. She started undressing, and I followed suit. My heart was racing from excitement. Then the pain in my chest started, and I gave Julia a confused look. She wasn't smiling any more, and I glanced down to find her hand wrapped around something silver.

"It is with great sadness that we bring you this story. This morning, a missing person's report was filed with regard to our very own Nathan Renier. He was last seen leaving our station Thursday night at approximately 11:00 PM. Police have issued an APB for Nathan's vehicle, a white ford minivan. They are encouraging anyone with information regarding his whereabouts or the location of his vehicle to contact local authorities or Crimestoppers. A link has also been set up on our website for those of you looking to help our search. Reporting live, I'm Julia Monroe for Channel 6 News." 