The Deadwood Murders by Jon Michaelsen

Author:Jon Michaelsen [Michaelsen, Jon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-12-05T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty-Two

Once they were outside the editor's office, and about halfway down the left side corridor, Michelle halted Slade by grabbing his shoulder, anger flashing in her narrowed green eyes. "Don't ever lie to me again. I'm not some ditzy bitch fresh from university, you got that?"

Finally, that wanton bulldog attitude he heard so much about. Ah, the youth, the enthusiasm. Gotta love ‘em.

Slade pitched on the balls of his feet and looked at her, impatient to get started on his piece. Deadline fast approaching.

"I didn't lie, Chelle," he said, offering his best James Dean smile. "Fine. I may have been fuzzy with some of the facts, held them a bit too close to the vest, but I never lied to you."

She cocked her hip; pinched her rosy lips. Clearly unsatisfied.

"Alright. I wanted you with me, okay? Otherwise, I wouldn't have accepted your offer."

She continued to scowl at him, standing her ground.

"Look," Slade said, finally. "I needed you on the hunt wide-eyed and unbiased, without my insight. I honestly felt our story would have far more credibility were Marsh to press for details about why we even began the investigation.” Rolling his eyes for her benefit, and perhaps to gain more sympathy from his colleague, he trudged on. “Keep in mind, I had no verified proof of anything. A tip from an APD source which I consider first-rate and beyond reproach. That’s all." He sighed, growing frustrated with himself for not giving her more credit. She continued to stare at him, unconvinced.

"I wanted your impartiality, nothing more." he said, glancing at the clock. "We good? I really need to get to my computer.” She wavered as he winked. “You best get to those calls before Marsha rips you a new one."

Rush to his cubicle, Slade dropped into the rolling task chair fronting his desk. He fished his laptop out of his backpack and inserted the device into its docking station. He swiveled the chair around, maneuvered his head up over the partition to view the giant clock. Shit!

Almost five in the afternoon; front-page meeting in twenty minutes. He typed in the slug, the file name used to identify the story on the paper's shared network: Serial Killer, Southeast USA. He then began banging out his story;

Young men have died a vicious death in metro Atlanta, and likely farther south in the state, in Macon and in Valdosta, possibly at the hands of the same killer, according to an unidentified official with close knowledge of the homicide investigations. With the recent discovery of the brutalized, battered body of an out of town businessman in a posh downtown Atlanta hotel, questions are being asked if this heinous crime is another link to a string of unsolved, vicious murders elsewhere in this state, and suspected in Florida.

Slade glanced up at the clock again. Sweat coated his forehead, back of his neck, the pits of his arms. He laser-focused on the screen, typing as fast as the words came to mind, being very careful

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