6.
Strange Reports
Monday, March 11 - 8:30a.m.
Jennifer Farrell tried to sneak by her boss Scott’s office without being seen on the way to her cubicle at the Las Vegas Sun, but she was unsuccessful. As she whisked by, she heard him say, “Jen, come in here a minute.” She mouthed the word, “Damn,” turned around and walked back to his office door. Although worried, she tried to sound cheerful and confident. “Good morning, Scott.”
He was not to be bargained with. “You’re late again, Jennifer.”
“I’m sorry, Scott, my alarm clock broke and I. . . ”
He cut her off. “I don’t mean your hours, Jen, I mean your story. It’s been more than two weeks since you did the stem-cell controversy piece. You said you’d have a story for me yesterday.”
Her article, “Taking Life to Save it?” had made quite an impact on readers of the Sun. She had portrayed both sides of the issue fairly, carefully weighing the beliefs of those who think stem cell research is murder, against those who hold onto the promise of finding a cure for Alzheimer’s disease and repairing spinal cord injuries. Scott was so impressed with the article that he had even given her a raise, but the increase in pay also implied an increase in expectations. Now, two weeks later, she was overdue to submit an article and was empty-handed and desperate for another good story. She thought, Now I’d even settle for a mediocre story, but she wasn’t about to tell Scott that.
Sometimes she wished she wasn’t a journalist. She often fantasized about becoming a travel writer for Frommer’s and seeing the world, but she was stuck at the Sun, at least for now. And every time she was late for an article–which was often–she worried about her skills and felt like she wasn’t as good as the other writers at the office. Swallowing her insecurity, she donned complete confidence and said, “You’ll get your story, Scott. I just need another day or two.”
He said, “It better be on my desk by tomorrow night’s cutoff. Or else,” and gestured her out.
She walked to her cubicle and sat down at her desk with a sigh. She parked her “Cathy” cartoon coffee cup on her desk, flipped on her computer, and pressed the button on her answering machine. There was only one message, and it was from one of her snoops, as she called them.
She had snoops all over town, especially in the casinos where small cash donations were well appreciated by the underpaid staff. They weren’t professional investigators by any means, but working as a newspaper reporter, she couldn’t afford real investigators. Still, it paid to have “friends” who kept their eyes and ears open for interesting news around town. Of course, if she got a story before the other media goons, she gave the snoops cash up front for “keeping in touch.”
The snoop who left her the message happened to work for the Mirage. His voice message was simple. “Hi Jennifer, Danny. Might have something. Call me.”
A small lead is better than no lead, she thought. She looked his number up in her computer, then called him. “Hi Danny, Jennifer Farrell. Got something for me?”
“I know it ain’t much, but, if it’s true, it’s pretty weird even for this town. This old lady was in here Friday cashing in a big payout. The thing is, she says some biker dude predicted the jackpot. Even handed her the coins himself, but he let her have the money.”
“What’s her name?”
“Lucy Wingo. Staying at New York, New York.”
“What do you have on the guy?”
“Well, I asked her what he looked like. She said he had long reddish-brown hair, a beard and a mustache. Typical biker. She also said he was with three or four more bikers. Worth anything?”
“It might be worth a short piece. I’ll get back to you.”
“Thanks, love. Bye.” He hung up.
Danny’s little lead didn’t sound newsworthy. In fact, she thought it sounded downright stupid. As she checked her e-mail, she thought about the story, and decided it was no good, even as a human interest piece. She gulped the last of her coffee, then got up, grabbed her purse and turned to leave, but before she could slip out, the phone rang.
“Hi Jennifer, Kurt.” Another snoop, this time from the Bellagio. “You’re not going to believe this one. A woman says she saw Jesus in the casino, and he healed her.”
She scoffed, “Call the National Enquirer, Kurt.”
“Hear me out, Jennifer. Here’s the weird thing. I went back and looked at the security tapes, and sure enough, the tape shows a guy who looks like Jesus in leathers talking to her. Then she just rises up miraculously out of her wheelchair. God’s honest truth.”
“He looked like Jesus?”
“He had long reddish-brown hair, beard and mustache. Looked like your average biker to me, but I could see where she’d think he was Jesus.”
The descriptions from the two snoops were so similar that she wondered if the man from the Mirage was the same as the man from the Bellagio. She knew if she tried to print a story about the second coming of Christ, she’d be the laughing stock of the city, but two Jesus-sightings in one week might be acceptable if they were backed up by a photo of a miracle. “Can I see the tape?”
“I don’t know. That might be against company policy. . . . ” Kurt paused.
She knew it was extortion, but she expected that from a snoop. Besides, she was willing to follow any lead that might give her a story to placate Scott. “How much company policy can fifty bucks buy?” If it was the same guy at both the Mirage and Bellagio, it just might be newsworthy.
“Meet me at the security desk at ten.”
Monday, March 11 - 10:05a.m.
Jennifer sat with Kurt in front of the VCR and studied the tape from the Bellagio security camera. Sure enough, the guy was the spitting image of Jesus Christ. She noticed what looked like a slight aura around the guy’s head. She pointed at it and asked, “What’s this?”
“Distortion. With the dim lighting of the casino, you sometimes get that when one of the overhead lights is pointed the right direction.”
“Looks like a halo to me. Can I get a printout of this?” she asked.
“Sure.” After running his computer mouse over a screen and clicking a few times, a fuzzy photo image rolled out of the laser printer on the desk. Kurt handed it to her.
“Thanks, Kurt.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked with hand extended.
She gave him fifty dollars and a sly smile, “Let’s do this again some time.” She walked out of the Bellagio control room and back to her car.
Monday, March 11 - 11:18a.m.
Jennifer drove to the Mirage, parked her car, walked to the main security control room and asked for Danny. Danny sauntered out to meet her. She handed the Bellagio photo to him. “Is this the guy you called me about?”
He could smell money. “Could be. I saved out that tape in case you wanted to see it. Want me to cue it up?”
She nodded and followed him to the control room.
Looking at the Mirage tape, it was clear to her that the man from the Mirage tape was the same as the Bellagio tape. She turned to Danny. “Same guy, but what’s wrong with this picture?”
He studied the two pictures. “No cast.”
Sure enough, the Mirage tape showed the man limping around the casino in a cast, but the Bellagio tape showed the man walking normally without one. The Bellagio photo time stamp said March 10th at 7:28p.m. The Mirage tape was taken two days prior, on March 8th at 7:37p.m.
Excerpt from The Gospel According to Mike
He said, “The path to self-discovery and true freedom begins with abandoning who you are right now, letting go of ego, for self-importance is just a waste of time. You are much more than you imagine, for your primary identity in this world–the ego–is a tiny fraction of the whole. You are merely the offshoot of a much larger soul. Having learned that, you must learn that your ego’s desires are trivial and petty when weighed against the soul’s direction and purpose. Therefore, strive to understand your soul’s plan. Abandon your petty wishes and surrender to the soul’s higher purpose. Did I not say that ‘whosoever will save their life shall lose it?’ for that is focusing on the worldly ego. And did I not say that ‘whosoever will lose their life shall save it?’ That is sacrificing durable goods for spiritual growth. That is surrendering to the soul’s higher purpose.”