Some Call it Murder

Carl slugged down the last dregs of the coffee in the cup and set the cup down in the sink. He stood for a few moments listening to the stereo as he looked out the window. The music was old, a group from the sixties and seventies called Steppenwolf. They'd been out of Canada.

Several of Carl's high school buddies had gone to Canada back then. Not Carl. But he was paying for it now. Were they paying as much for their decision?

"There's a monster on the loose,
he's got our heads into the noose,
and he just sits there watchin'."

Carl turned and walked over to the kitchen table. His coat hung over the back of one of the chairs and his briefcase sat next to one of the table legs. He looked across the room at the mirror on the wall and straightened his tie.

Maybe she was right. Perhaps he should have turned down the massacre assignment. He never would have decided to write the book had he taken the assignment at the magazine. Still looking in the mirror, he picked up the sports coat and put it on.

On the table lay the remote control for the stereo. He picked it up and aimed it at the stereo. The song that had been playing stopped as Carl pushed the program select on the CD player. He then fast-forwarded to the middle of the next song.

"We'll stick our heads into the sand,
just pretend that all is grand,
and hope that everything turns out OK."

"No!" thought Carl. "She hadn't tried to understand back then and she wasn't trying to understand now."

Carl turned off the stereo with the remote. He stared for a moment at nothing in particular. Then, setting the remote back down on the table, he picked up his knapsack and headed out the door.

The sun tried unsuccessfully to break through the low lying clouds as Carl got out of his car. As usual, the small parking lot where he parked his car near the magazine's offices was filled almost to capacity.

Carl stretched as he crawled out of the Geo Tracker. Donna had tried to talk him into buying a sports car. The Tracker was more in keeping with his personality, though. At least Carl thought so. Red, with a soft white top, the Tracker was sporty enough to go to restaurants in, yet had the four wheel drive that Carl had always wanted. Carl liked the vehicle, even if he didn't really need it here in the city.

Carl looked over at the lot attendant and then reached across the seat and locked the passenger door before picking up his knapsack.

That was another thing that Donna was always on his case about, his knapsack. Carl shook his head as he stood up thinking about her.

"A reporter of your caliber should carry a briefcase." Donna had used that as an explanation when she bought him the hard-shell briefcase for his birthday.

It was gathering dust somewhere in one of his closets. A briefcase just didn't fit the mental picture of himself that he had. Oh, the suits didn't necessarily go with his mental picture either, but they were easier to accept than the briefcase.

So he carried a knapsack. At least, the knapsack was a relatively new one. He would go that far for her.

Carl stood up from the Tracker and, taking another look at the lot attendant, swung the door closed, locking it with his free hand.

"Hey, Dave!" Carl yelled across at the attendant as he slung the knapsack up on his shoulder.

The attendant turned toward Carl and recognized him. He then smiled and waved back at Carl.

"Yea, Mr. Anderson. How are ya today? Can I do something for ya?"

Carl started walking across the lot toward the building where the magazine offices were located.

"Yea. Can you keep a closer eye on the car today than you did last week? Somebody's bumper ran into the passenger side door while it was sitting out here."

Dave started walking toward the Tracker.

"Was it hurt bad?"

Carl kept walking toward the offices.

"No, but I'd rather not have a whole lot of dings and bumps on that thing. I kind of like it like it is, you know?"

Dave stopped and smiled.

"Yes Sir. I understand. I'll watch it close today."

Carl smiled back and continued toward the office building as he walked past the magazine dealer there on the corner. As he turned to look toward where he was going, he glanced at the magazines on the racks. One of the covers caught his attention and he turned back to take another look.

"What the fuck?"

The magazine stand owner turned and looked over at Carl as he reached up and grabbed the magazine with the offending cover from the rack. Carl stood unbelieving, as he read the magazine cover.

"The American-made Vietnam Massacres; Part One of a four part series by Jonathan Sutterfield."

"Something wrong, Mr. Anderson?" asked the elderly stand owner.

"Sutterfield, you son-of-a-bitch!" Carl reached into his pocket and pulled out a five dollar bill. "Keep the change, Mr. James." Carl lay the money on the counter and headed back toward the office building as he flipped the pages of the magazine, looking for the article.

As he stepped into the revolving door entrance to the building, he found the first page of the article. Getting on the elevator, he punched the button for the fourteenth floor and then began reading the article.

"My Lai was not the only massacre of Vietnamese civilians perpetrated by American troops stationed in Vietnam during the main war years, 1963 to 1973. My Lai was just the one that the press found out about. My Lai was the one that the government was forced to explain.

The result was one man, a junior officer, being blamed for allowing it to happen. One man was punished for the crimes of many. One man with one weapon killed over one hundred and thirty Vietnamese civilians all by himself.

No one tried to stop it. No one else pulled the trigger on their weapons. No one else killed anyone."

Carl shook his head angrily as he read. The elevator stopped and he stormed out of it down the hall toward the magazine editor's office. A secretary, sitting at the desk just outside the office, looked up as she heard him coming. Several other people were sitting in the waiting area just outside the office.

"Good morning, Mr. Anderson. Can I help you?"

"Yea, you can let me see that stupid son-of-a-bitch of a boss you've got," he said as he kept walking toward the office door.

Jumping up, the secretary tried to get between Carl and the door.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Anderson. Mr. Sutterfield can't be disturbed right now. You'll have to schedule an appointment if you . . ."

Carl threw open the door and stormed on past her into the office.

Behind the desk sat Jonathan Sutterfield, the editor of the magazine, Carl's boss. Carl roared up to the desk.

"What is this shit, Sutterfield?" whispered Carl through clenched teeth.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Sutterfield. I tried to stop him." explained the secretary.

Sutterfield stared up at Carl with no expression. Carl stared back down at him.

"That's all right, Maggie," Sutterfield said. "I was expecting Mr. Anderson. That'll be all, Maggie."

Carl continued to stare angrily at Sutterfield as the secretary, nervously, turned and left the room closing the door behind her. Sutterfield watched her leave and then turned back to face Carl.

"Now, is there anything I can do for you, Carl?"

"You son-of-a-bitch!" Carl tossed the magazine down on the desk in front of Sutterfield. "What is this shit? That's my series of articles!"

"Not anymore." Sutterfield smiled and sat back. "You decided you wanted to write books, remember? You turned in your two weeks notice. You don't work here after Friday, remember?"

"You cock sucking son-of-a-bitch. That's my story and you know it." Carl leans forward across the desk. "I did all the legwork on that research."

"And I took it and wrote the first of a four-part series from the research." Sutterfield smiled as he reached over and pushed the call button on his desk phone. "You go ahead and write your book. It won't do you any good, though. My magazine will have already broken the story and I'll get the credit for it."

The door behind Carl opened and the secretary walked back in.

"You stupid asshole! You've got it wrong!" yelled Carl.

"Not according to my source," laughed Sutterfield.

"Your source is wrong, too, then, you jerk-off!"

Sutterfield was shook by this comment for a moment. Then regaining his composure, he turned and looked out the window.

"Well, you're entitled to your opinion," Sutterfield muttered. "Now, if you'll excuse me. I have other people waiting to see me. Why don't you go ahead and take the rest of your last two weeks off? I really don't think you're going to get anything done for the magazine anyway. Clean out your desk."

Carl took a step toward going around the side of the desk. Behind him, the secretary had left the door open and several of the people waiting out in the lobby were standing watching what was going on.

"You bastard! I'll get even with you for this!" Carl snarled as he turned and headed out of the office. "You can count on it!"

The people at the door stepped back and let Carl leave. He walked down the hall and into his office. The secretary watched him walk into his office and then closes the door to Sutterfield's office.

"Alright." Maggie walked around behind Sutterfield. "Are you alright, John?" she asked as she began to rub his shoulders.

"Yea honey, I'm fine." Sutterfield found what he was looking for in the notebook. "Now, go on and do what I told you to do."

Maggie smiled and walked toward the door.

"Oh, about tonight . . ." she began.

"Never mind tonight." Sutterfield interrupted. "I'm going to be busy."

Maggie stopped at the door and looked back at Sutterfield.

"But, I thought your wife had a charity banquet to go to tonight?"

"She does," Sutterfield nodded in agreement. "I've got to meet somebody about this series."

"Oh," Maggie said disappointedly. "Well, I think you'll write the story better than Carl could anyway."

She smiled as Sutterfield nodded in agreement.

"Next week, then?" She asked.

"Yea," Sutterfield smiled, "sure."

Maggie opened the door and left, pulling the door closed behind her.

Sutterfield stared at the door for a moment and then picked up the phone. Angrily, he punched the buttons and then waited for an answer. Finally, on the fifth ring, someone answered.

"Yea. It's me, Jon." Sutterfield whispered. "Look, I've got to see you. I just talked to Anderson and he says you don't know what you're talking about."

Sutterfield paused for a moment as he listened to the person on the other end of the line.

"Yea, I know what I told you, but I needed to get the article in print before he had a chance to get the book published."

Sutterfield shook his head no.

"No, I didn't mean that I wouldn't publish it. What I said was that I'd prevent Carl from publishing it."

Sutterfield continued to shake his head from side to side.

"No. Listen, I've got to see you tonight and get this straight. I can't talk here. Meet me at the house at eight. OK?"

He listened and then nodded his head in agreement.

"Alright. We'll talk about it tonight. I'll see you at eight."

Sutterfield hung up the phone and sat back, frustrated.

For more information concerning this work and others by Paul M. Summitt, Contact
psummitt@summittnewmedia.com