Lanternglass saw cameras collecting in front of one of the sawhorses, like pigeons charging a fresh scattering of bread crumbs, and had to go. She finished her dog in a hurry and squeezed in among the local TV newsfolk. She was the only print journo in the bunch, the only one who would be using her phone to record whatever was said. She was used to it. The St. Possenti Digest employed eight full-timers, and two of them were on Sports, down from a staff of thirty-two just ten years before. Some days as many as five articles ran under her byline.
Chief Rickles emerged from the mall, trailing a small gang of uniformed officers and someone from the D.A., a slim, good-looking Latino in a cowboy hat. Rickles was built like a fire hydrant and wasn’t much taller. His blond hair was so fair that his eyebrows disappeared against his pale Germanic skin. He crossed the tarmac, closing in on the cameras, stopped before them, and doffed his baseball cap. Lanternglass had somehow wound up almost nose-to-nose with him, but he didn’t appear to see her, just gazed at some point in the distance over her left shoulder.
“I’m Chief Jay Rickles with the St. Possenti police, and I’ll be making a brief statement about the incident that occurred here today. At approximately ten-thirty this morning, shortly after the mall opened, shots were fired on the upper level of the galleria, and four were slain in an apparent mass shooting. The perpetrator was taken out by a security guard on the scene, before the shooter was able to reach the crowded food court. I speak of a single perpetrator because at this time we only know of the one. The shooter was pronounced dead at the scene at eleven-sixteen. The heroic individual who eliminated the threat as it unfolded is in good health but is not prepared to make a statement at this time.” He lowered his chin and scratched at his pink scalp, and Lanternglass was surprised to see the chief struggling against some surge of intense emotion. When he lifted his head, his very blue eyes glittered with joyful tears. “On a personal note, two of my grandchildren were at the mall today, with their mother—my daughter—riding the carousel in the food court, less than three hundred feet from the shooting. They were just three of the many children, moms, and shoppers who may well owe their lives to the selfless action of the man who stepped up to stop the shooting before it could escalate. I was able to express my gratitude to him personally, only a few minutes ago. I am sure I will be just the first of many. I can take a few questions now.”
Everyone shouted at once, including Lanternglass herself. The chief was right in front of her, but he still didn’t look at her. She wasn’t entirely surprised. Rickles and Lanternglass had a complicated history.
“You said four casualties, plus the shooter. How many injured?” hollered the woman from Channel Five.
“Several people are receiving treatment for shock and minor injuries, both here on the scene and at St. Possenti Medical.”
More shouts. “No comment at this time.” More hollering. “Still too early to know.” Lanternglass was jostled and shoved as microphones were thrust past her. She felt that Rickles was willfully ignoring her, but then she called out something that caused him to jerk his head toward her and fix her with his bright, humorous, affectionate stare.
She had yelled, “Was the alleged shooter known to law enforcement before today? Did he have a criminal record?”
“I never said the shooter was male,” he told her. There was no smile on Rickles’s face, but his eyes glittered. He did like saying the unexpected thing in front of the cameras. And maybe he liked, too, that he’d been able to catch Lanternglass out on making assumptions about the perpetrator of a crime.
The crowd around her went bananas. The other reporters loved it. Rickles backed away, raising a hand, palm outward in a gesture of peace, and said that was all for now. As he retreated, someone shouted to ask the names of his grandkids, and he returned to say Merritt and Goldie. Someone asked if he could at least confirm the age and gender of the killer, and he frowned and said, “Let’s keep the focus on the people who died today. They’re the ones the media should be thinking about, instead of glorifying the demented acts of the perpetrator to collect easy ratings.” Another roar—they loved that, too. Every reporter Lanternglass knew adored coming in for a bit of public flagellation.
Then he was going, turning away from them. Lanternglass half expected him to be lured back yet again. Chief Rickles was a man who loved to make a statement, enjoyed his role as a public wit, scold, moralist, and legal thinker. In that way he reminded her a bit of Donald Rumsfeld, who had so clearly delighted in toying with the press and dropping a quotable line. Lanternglass thought, uncharitably, that Rickles was probably glad his grandchildren had been on the scene, because it gave him the opportunity to play two roles at once: firm enforcer of the law and grateful, relieved family man.
But she didn’t care if he came back and had some more to say. He wasn’t going to share anything else worth knowing—if he answered more questions, it would be to suit his needs, not theirs. And besides . . . a flicker of pink had caught her attention, moving through her peripheral vision. When she stood on her toes and craned her neck, she saw the girls in the bubblegum-colored car zipping away, not onto the highway but around the corner of the mall and out of sight.
Lanternglass went after them.
2:11 P.M.
The northeastern face of the mall was a long stretch of windowless sandstone brick, featureless doors painted dull brown, and loading docks. No one entered on this side except employees. The lot was narrow and faced a twelve-foot-high chain-link fence with overgrown weeds on the other side. Such places set Lanternglass on edge. They made her think of the day she’d watched a twenty-four-year-old cop named Reb put six bullets in Colson Withers.
A pair of police cruisers bracketed the lot, one at either end. Lanternglass slowed down for a big, smooth-faced cop in mirrored sunglasses. He stood in her way until she eased to a stop, and then he walked around to the driver’s-side window and made a lazy circular gesture with one hand to indicate she should roll down the glass.
“Family of the employees only, ma’am. You family?”
“Yes, sir,” she lied. “My son, Okello, he works at Boost Yer Game? He was in the building when it happened. I’m with those girls you just let through.” She pointed to OOHYUM, which was just sliding into a space a third of the way down the lot.
But he had stopped listening as soon as she said a name, just waved his hand, stepped aside.
When she pulled into a spot, the three girls had already spilled out of their strawberry-milkshake-colored Audi, and the driver was standing on her tiptoes, hugging a gangly black kid. A thin crowd lingered among the cars, employees who’d been evacuated from the building and who were hanging around, high on excitement, telling and retelling the stories of their own narrow escapes. Perhaps because she was remembering Colson, who’d been so at home on a stage, the busy, cheerful swarm of onlookers reminded her of being backstage after a successful performance: a good bloody tragedy perhaps.