Tension rumbled up through Carolyn Bechter, from her groin up to her stomach and into her chest. She took a deep breath to calm herself. As one of the “seasoned” reporters for TV Channel 6, she thought this was the story that would finally catapult her out of obscurity. Carolyn had missed breaking the story of the disappearance of the young Somali men. Of course, she’d covered the arrest of the terrorist, El-Amin, and would be assigned to cover the murder trial when it began. But she competed against all the other local and national journalists. After years of declining responsibilities, this story had to work magic for her.
She paused in the lobby of the Hiawatha Academy. It sprawled over some of the most expensive property in Minneapolis because of its location—on the high bluffs above the Mississippi River. West River Road curved along the top of the bluff to lead to the school campus. A private school, it resembled an English boarding school campus and offered every advanced course available. Mature trees shaded the property and were now leafing out in pale green colors. On the far side of the campus, an immense fieldhouse had been converted from a hockey rink into a convention arena in preparation for the statewide Science Expo, scheduled in about two weeks.
Protesters gathered on the outside of the fieldhouse. Carolyn knew other media people would be there soon, but she had beat all of them.
Carolyn entered the main administration building under a granite arch. Inside the carved door, a receptionist scanned Carolyn’s ID and smiled. “Ms. Simmons will be out in a minute. Please have some coffee, a latte, tea, or orange-infused mineral water.”
While Carolyn waited, she thanked the cheap-ass station owners for at least setting up the “Tip-Six” website. Corny as it sounded, it actually worked. When it was introduced four years ago, her producer had assured everyone that the tips coming in would be distributed equally. Not true.
As an older reporter, Carolyn fought a losing battle against the newer, blonder, and lower-paid reporters who caught the eye of the producer—pig that he was. The perky new reporters always got more choice assignments with more face time on the screen. The more they jiggled, the more stories they got. For years, Carolyn had struggled to make a name for herself. But now, even her producer told her she was “branding out,” his term to describe the fatigue the viewers felt when they saw her yet again after fifteen years with Channel Six.
She’d show the self-centered prick.
When the tip came in about the protest, Carolyn happened to be there and had grabbed it and run with it.
“Hey,” the receptionist said, “it’s like, gonna happen over there.” She pointed toward the fieldhouse. She looked at the lock on her phone. “Hey, I’m part time, so I gotta, like, boogie.” She looked at Carolyn with stupid eyes, and Carolyn hoped this wasn’t an example of the student body. “Sorry, but you’re on your own.”
Carolyn sighed. Years ago, her presence at a school like this would have brought out several people, all interested in seeing the face they watched nightly or trying to get on camera themselves. Not anymore. The twit of a receptionist didn’t even recognize Carolyn. Of course, kids these days didn’t watch the news—any news except comedy. Besides, the poor girl wasn’t Carolyn’s demographic. That was the over-forty-five crowd. Or was it over-eighty by now?
She felt the rumble in her lower body again. This story had to do it for her. She chewed a pink Pepto Bismol tab.
A middle-aged woman entered the lobby. She had short, curly brown hair and a frumpy brown outfit, sans makeup. Her smile was crooked and weak, and as she came closer, she said, “Are you—Carolyn Bechter?”
Of course I am, you idiot! Carolyn thought to herself. Don’t you recognize me? She forced a smile. “I am. Who are you?”
“I’m Gennifer Simmons. Gennifer with a ‘G.’ I’m the one who called.”
“Yes, of course. Thanks so much for taking the responsibility.”
Simmons looked behind Carolyn. “You don’t have a cameraman?”
“Uh, no. I mean, not right now. For these background stories we usually don’t assign a camera until we need video.” Carolyn stammered, “I can always use my phone.” She switched the subject quickly. “So, why did you call, Gennifer?”
“I got involved a while ago, when I called in a tip to the FBI. This is not so big, but there is a protest scheduled, and I thought the media should be here.”
“What’s going to happen?”
Simmons shifted her weight onto the other hefty leg. “I guess the Muslims are protesting that they want more time set aside for prayers. They pray five times a day, you know. And since they wash before praying, they use all the lavatories.”
Carolyn nodded.
“But I guess the Christian evangelical group is mad because they want prayer in the school and to be able to use the bathrooms anytime they want.”
“Does this have anything to do with the Somali boys who’ve disappeared recently?”
Simmons looked at her without moving her head, just her eyes. “Uh, I don’t think so.”
Carolyn sighed, convinced this source wasn’t a source at all. But she’d learned over the years to keep trolling until she hit something big. “Nice to talk with you. Can I have your phone number?” After getting the number, she moved outside.
Across a huge expanse of green lawn, several people—obviously Somali or Middle Eastern—gathered in a group. Most of the girls wore long dresses in spite of the warm weather. Most wore head coverings. They were tall and had beautiful, smooth skin. The boys stood separate from them and carried a few placards that asked for more prayer time. They dressed like Western teenagers.
From the other side of the field, another group of students walked forward slowly. This group looked all-American: short hair, long pants, tan t-shirts, and jeans. Boys and girls mingled together. They were chanting about more prayer time also. What an odd protest! It seemed that both sides wanted the same thing, but were not cooperating. So why the protest? Who had instigated it? As an investigative journalist, she questioned everything, looking for an angle she could exploit before any other media arrived.
When the second group got closer to the first, there were some shouts back and forth, but no violence. Nothing looked too coordinated, and Carolyn wondered if the tip and her trip out here had been a waste of time.
Then she saw a lone man, an adult, behind the Somali group. He moved among them quickly and spoke to various students. He was a tall man, dark-skinned, with a long white shirt buttoned to the neck. Don’t these people ever get hot with all those clothes on? Carolyn wondered. Something about the man didn’t look right. Odd.
She couldn’t hear what he said, but the way he darted from one student to the next looked unusual. Carolyn knew her instincts were almost always right on. When the man left the group and headed for the fieldhouse, Carolyn followed him.
Catching him just before he entered a side door, she called out, “Excuse me, sir. Carolyn Bechter, TV Channel Six news. Can we talk?”
His head swiveled to see her, and his black eyes jerked back and forth as if he were lost and looking for something he recognized. He focused on her. “What do you want?”
“I just want to know what’s going on here.” Her high heels started to sink in the soft ground. She hurried over to him.
“Our students have rights that should be protected.”
“Of course.” Carolyn always agreed with an interviewee no matter how dumb they sounded. It softened them up for the hard-hitting questions later. “What do they want?”
His eyes darted back and forth again. “I must leave now.” He ducked through the door.
Carolyn grabbed for the handle, but it had already closed and locked. When she turned around, two men in short-sleeved shirts passed by her. A logo on each breast pocket read Hiawatha Academy. “Excuse me, I’m Carolyn Bechter. TV Channel Six news. Do you work here?” They stopped and recognized her. Good. The power of celebrity always got her information.
“Yeah. Nice to meet you. I used to watch you a lot,” the ol
der man said. He hesitated to talk more. Finally, he stuck out his hand. “Jim Miller. I’m in charge of the entire physical plant here. How can we help?”
“Did you happen to notice the man I was just talking with?”
“Ben? Yeah, he’s worked here for a short time.”
“Who is he?”
“Ben Mohammad. ’Course, they’re all named Mohammad. He was hired recently as our outreach coordinator. We’ve got a big Somali student population, as you can see, so they hired him. Doesn’t make rat’s ass sense to me, but then who am I? Lots of these parents are working too hard or don’t understand how schools work here. So Ben reaches out.”
“Do you know anything else about him?”
“Naw. He lives in South Minneapolis near Somali-land by Augsburg College. I think he works part time in a deli near there.” Miller’s brows furrowed. “Why are you interested? Big story, I suppose? Or do you call ’em ‘scoops’?”
Easy . . . easy, Carolyn thought. All her experience had taught her not to raise suspicions or the information source would stop. “Yeah, scoops. You’re right. We’re covering the protest as a human interest story. ‘Soft’ news, we call it.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“You know, make a story real by showing real people.” Carolyn remembered this might be her last chance to pry into the Somali boys’ disappearance. Was there any possible connection? Because of high-def TV, the lines on her face, even with makeup, couldn’t be hidden anymore. She didn’t have much more time to break out. She’d be out on the street. Where would she go? Print media? What a joke. They were dying so fast they didn’t even have time to pull the plug on the coffee maker. “Tell me more about Ben.”
Jim leaned on the other leg, which brought him closer to her. “Hey, where’s your cameraman?”
“He’s on his way,” she lied. “Can you stick around long enough so we can get a shot of you?” That always worked. People would do anything for three seconds of airtime.
“Sure.” Jim passed a look to the younger man. Apparently they agreed because Jim said, “Uh, I don’t know if I should tell you this, but—” He leaned his face close to Carolyn’s, and she could smell Old Spice aftershave. “Ben’s one of them Eye-mans.”
“Eye-mans?” Carolyn puzzled over the word. “Oh, you mean an imam.”
“Yeah. I don’t know their damn words. All I know is, he’s some kind of a preacher or religious guy. Always talkin’ to the boys, particularly.”
In spite of the Pepto Bismol she’d popped earlier, her stomach rumbled again.
“He takes the boys on field trips. I don’t know where the hell they go. Probably some mosque somewhere.”
Her high heels sank lower, but Carolyn didn’t move. There was something here. “Field trips? Any of the boys tell you what they do on those trips?”
“Naw. They’re pretty closed mouth about ’em. Not that I blame ’em, I guess.”
The young man shifted from one side to the other. He tugged on Miller’s sleeve. “Come on, dude. We got work to do.” He tugged again, and they left with a thank you.
The rumbling in Carolyn’s stomach was proof she was onto something significant. She didn’t know what. From all her years’ experience, she could feel it, and she trusted her gut. She’d stick with this one until the story cracked open. She’d be a hero once again.
Chapter Five