The Whisper Box Read online

  As Jason was picturing vivid thoughts, he failed to see the man with the camera in his direct path. The camera struck Jason above the eye and opened a gash. Blood spit out across his face and onto his white shirt and blue tie. Yelling now, the slightly stunned stranger stood flailing arms to onlookers. The verbal abuse went unheard as Jason tried to gather thoughts and feel for the gash in his forehead. There was no way Jason could go “on the air” now. Even though a number of people gathered to stare, no one offered help. The cameraman continued to yell. Jason wanted to punch him so badly he could barely restrain himself, but he knew the anger was warranted.

  Though embarrassed, he could not stop thinking about the conversation in the woods. The man on the phone could only have been speaking to the senator. It had to be. The “now go make your speech” comment was unlikely to be a coincidence. He wished he had gotten the license plate number of the Lincoln. Like all good reporters, though, he had a contact in the local sheriff's office. Officer Robert DeLuccia, another of the few Italians in Alabama, tipped Jason off occasionally. Every now and then he had leaked a story to him that was still under investigation. They were friends and Jason thought about calling him first. As he was walking through the crowd mulling it over, a hand firmly grabbed his left shoulder. Spinning expecting to see the angry cameraman he’d recently bowled over, he saw Jake.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Jake grumbled ignoring the bloody face, “How the fuck could you do this to me?”

  “Did you get any tape of him talking Jake? Shut the fuck up and turn your camera on! I'm the one that had to do the intro. Me! Not you! Your job is to get the footage of him talking! So shut up and shoot.” Jason pointed at the stage.

  “You were also my responsibility. We came here as a team and the station is going to look at it that way. No reporter commentating for our station makes us look bad. It makes it look like a feed from the A.P. You know they'll be pissed. You know it!”

  “Just shoot man, just shut the fuck up and shoot.” Jason's volume tapered off. He walked away holding his head, knowing Jake would lose his job. He was only a reporter for a newspaper; this was only an opportunity. His regular job would still be there.

  Trying to figure out how all of this transpired in fifteen minutes, Jason kept going back to the phone conversation he had overheard. With Jake's pending termination from the television station looming, this was not the time to share what he knew.

  -----------------------------------

  He always slept with his television on. The loud volume woke him the following morning. The base and electric guitar of the CNN news bulletin theme always caught his attention, even while sleeping. The news about an overnight one-car accident, approximately four miles from the sight of the senator's speech, cleared the cob-webs. The driver, a newspaper reporter from Auburn, Alabama, ran off the road and hit a tree. With no witnesses to the accident, an empty twelve pack of beer practically convicted the obviously drunk driver. Police still had some questions about the reporter's notes from Farnsworth's speech. He never returned to his office after the assignment.

  Every reporter in the United States would have run right back to the office after the speech. Why a reporter would be found intoxicated eight hours later only four miles from the area had baffled authorities. A few bars in the area, and only one grocery store that sold beer, none of the employees recognized the dead man. Not likely he would have kept the beer in his car and then drink it all after the event, detectives were left clueless. He left behind three beautiful little girls and a young wife. Nothing at the scene made sense.

  Out of bed now rubbing puffy eyes, he walked through the small entertainment room of his one bedroom apartment. The local paper, the one he abandoned yesterday for a shot at television, was sure to have reported on it. As he turned the gold metal knob on the wooden door, the first wave of nausea hit him. The initial thought almost knocked the wind out of him. The conversation in the woods about a planned murder, the next day a reporter covering the story dies in a suspicious accident four miles from his make shift bathroom. Picking up the newspaper, he stood for a moment staring down the hallway. Sweat rolled from his hairline, across temples and down his cheeks. On the cover, in the bottom right corner, the article's title: “REPORTER DIES IN MYSTERIOUS CRASH” caught his attention. Feeling his way with eyes locked on the story, he found the kitchen table.

  Any thoughts of this being a coincidence faded. Recognizing he may have stumbled into something big, Jason feared for his life again. The dead reporter had obviously stumbled into something big; maybe the same thing.

  Speaking softly knowing co-workers and bosses would still be angered; he used the famous “research” excuse. Whenever a reason to call in sick was needed, reporters cited the need to research, interview leads, or take the day to brainstorm for the next story. Everyone had to have heard what happened the day before. Most co-workers were presumably let down and laughing behind his back. The excuse always went over well, but today must have left some curious. A shower, to clear his head and prepare for a long day at the library, came next.

  ---------------------------------

  Libraries amazed Jason. Being a reporter, he relished the overabundance of information. They smelled of old books, but to him, a pleasant odor. The quietness soothed him -- he could fall asleep the moment he walked in, but he never did. Today he went for the microfiche machine.

  The fat, disheveled man approached him silently, almost tiptoeing, then whispered, “May I help you, sir?”

  “Yeah, I'm doing a little research on the fella' they found dead in the car last night by the fairgrounds where Farnsworth spoke yesterday. He worked for a small paper I think. Maybe it was called The Alabama Telegram. Do you have anything on that paper?” Jason squinted as he spoke. His thick brown eyebrows meant business while his muscular build intimidated.

  Already walking toward the back of the library while staring at his brown loafers, the librarian said, “Yes sir. Over here. Sure is a shame what happened to that man. Are you investigating his death?”

  “No, just researching.”

  The Alabama Telegram was such a small newspaper; he was surprised to find anything in the library. Fingering through the small blue films, he found one titled “Alabama Telegram” written in black magic marker across the bottom. Sliding it into the machine, he scanned quickly, doing his best speed-reading job. The first political article spotted was about the senator. Just below the article's title, “Farnsworth Wiggles Loose Again,” was the name Jay Broadfoot.

  An opinion piece, Broadfoot shared thoughts about Farnsworth. Accusing the senator of several crimes, he did so in a subtle manner. A crooked car dealer was incriminated for being on Farnsworth's payroll, as well as other questionable “friends” of the senator. After reading the article Jason could not understand how Broadfoot had kept his job. Accusing a well-respected political figure of criminal activity in a multitude of ways was journalistic suicide. Throughout the article Broadfoot inferred and pointed fingers in an unprofessional manner. The writing was addicting and unpredictable - the type of article that sold newspapers.

  Jason found the answer to his question and also knew why the young man was killed. More than that, he knew who was behind it. Unfortunately now, like Broadfoot, he knew too much.

  3

  July 18, 2000 -- Aaron Gallo, like most guys, was a hard-core sports fan, he loved women, although he was faithfully married, and an occasional Budweiser and Marlboro put a grin on his face. Manhood was his top priority. As a matter of fact, it was sacred to him. Flatulence, burps, and any other manly call of the wild amused him. Looking the part too, he was only about five foot eight yet exceeded two hundred pounds. Brown curly hair fit his round body well. On the weekends he wore unwashed Tshirts and baseball hats that were perfectly molded to his head. He had his few friends, hated his job, loved his kids, and most importantly, adored his wife.

  What set him apart from most was a strong political conviction. Unlik
e most friends, he was very interested in the government. He hated taxes, yet understood them. He hated welfare, yet understood it. He feared for the security of his Social Security, but understood and believed the need for these basic functions He despised the drastic measures the Democratic Party carried them to. A Sean Hannity loving, card-carrying member of the Republican Party, he did not mind telling others. Getting into heated governmental discussions, if he felt the situation warranted it, to defend his beloved Republican Party was normal.

  President Howard Farnsworth had occupied the White House for seven and a half years. President Farnsworth acted as liberal as a Democrat could. The fifty-eight-year old President of the United States was a handsome man. He was a bit overweight, but he wore it well. His bushy gray eyebrows and thick jaw still made him attractive to the masses who wanted to believe his every word. The economy was soaring and he was about to wrap up a most brilliant career. The way he was loved by the majority of the media made Aaron squirm. Sure the economy was great, and his mortgage rate was lower than ever before, but that was coming anyway, that was 'Farnsworth's luck,' as he called it. Farnsworth, as far as Aaron was concerned, had strolled into a paradise. No matter what scandal followed him and no matter how many lies he told, he looked like a Savior. That simple fact ate away at Aaron more than anything.

  As Aaron pulled into the parking lot of Computer City on the outskirts of Columbia, South Carolina, he laughed at himself. He was about to enter the nineties. Granted, he was ten years late, but at least he had arrived. This was primarily because his children were at the age. They had been bothering him for a computer for some time. He had not purchased one after their first few hundred requests because he did not want them to get the impression that Daddy was there to give them whatever they wanted. They asked a lot. He wanted them to learn the importance of earning money so they could avoid welfare and some of the other governmental programs he despised.

  Actually, he was more excited than they were. He had heard so much about the Internet and had even 'surfed' a couple times at the office when no one was looking. He would spare no change on such a major purchase.

  The transaction was a simple one. He told the young man what he was looking for and the high school sophomore delivered.

  God, he thought, kids are so damn smart these days.

  When he was a high school sophomore he watched black and white television. That was all he knew. This kid -- the salesman -- started reeling off computer terms, lingo, you name it. He got the feeling the kid was showing off a bit. But Computer City had no problem fulfilling his needs quickly; he must have smelled like money. Within forty-five minutes the Jeep Grand Cherokee was filled with boxes. A computer service tech would meet him at the house in one hour. As he pulled into the driveway, he sensed his manhood. His children would hug him and thank him; his wife would smile. Daddy had delivered. Daddy had provided.

  The computer service tech, another high school sophomore, showed up on time and had the computer up and running quickly. The children fought over who was going to access the Internet while Aaron relished his role as the 'proud parent.' All he could really think about was how and when he would discover the Internet on his own after they all fell asleep.

  He started formulating his plan as he sipped his beer. First, he would look at all the sports sites. Then, he would read the New York Daily News and the New York Post, the two newspapers he grew up reading but could not read since he moved to South Carolina. He was also curious about these 'chat rooms' he had heard so much about. Miles, his closest friend at work, told him there were chat rooms for everything. Even sex chat rooms were available. He could not wait.

  Emily, his wife, fell off to sleep about an hour after the kids had been tucked in. He knew she was close to sleep when he saw her put on her silk pajamas. For a split second he felt tempted to jump in bed with her. She was, at least in his eyes, as attractive a woman that a man could find. She was just about his height -- maybe five foot eight -- her beautiful brown hair ran down her tan neck across the amber silk strands that held the nightie in place. She removed her make up like she did every night before bed to reveal perfect light blue eyes that were like diamonds embedded below two thin light brown eyebrows. Her body was sculpted from a massive aerobic routine. The sight of her moving towards the bedroom would tempt any man. For this one night Aaron fought off his manly urges to explore this unknown world -- the Internet

  He fired up the computer and was ready to take it for a test drive. He made a few miscues with the mouse. He got lost here and there, but he did OK for an over-the-hill child of the Sixties. Some of his favorite new sites were ESPN, New York Daily News, CNNSI and some others associated with sports. However, one stood out above the rest. The Republican Party home page was phenomenal. He could have read for hours because he was such a loyal servant to this great party but he was tired now and needed some sleep. He anticipated the excitement of reading more tomorrow night.

  It was getting late. He knew his wife was in a deep sleep because he could hear that faint snore from down the hall. She had a slight snoring problem, although she would never admit to it. All she did was accuse him of snoring loudly. She was in denial of her midnight grumbling. He never snored. With everyone in a deep sleep his manhood took over. He got his second wind and decided to stay awake a little longer.

  He had to see the “naughty” sites. It was mostly curiosity that brought him to these sites but they were a bit liberating as well. He started with the obvious. He looked at all the well-known magazines web sites. He thought it was kind of cool that he did not even have to purchase the magazine to see these naked women. He did not have to worry about hiding the magazine afterwards in the garage behind the workbench, not that he had done that before. After a while the nude sites were all the same. He wanted to talk to someone. He wanted to talk about the Knicks previous season, or he would talk about President Farnsworth's mismanagement of our country, or anything, he just wanted to talk.

  Aaron typed in the word “CHAT” and four thousand six hundred and seventeen listings came up. He immediately went to the letter “R” to find his favorite topic. He scrolled down and found it, Republican Party Chat - No Democrats allowed. He clicked on the icon. Another screen came up instantly asking for his screen name. He typed in “A-A-R-O-N,” hit OK, and zipped to another screen. He saw conversation; it continued to advance up on the screen like a muted television set. He could hardly follow because new lines from the fifty-two people in this chat room were appearing in rapid succession. He noticed immediately that no one used his or her real name; everyone gave himself or herself some catchy, relevant nickname. He saw “RePublican,” another used the name “DonkeyHater”,” while another was “Farnsworth~Sux.”

  He immediately clicked on “Options,” chose “Change Screen Name,” and thought. He wanted to be something catchy, something witty. “RePublican” was too obvious and boring, that was not his style. Suddenly a name came to mind, bringing a smile to his face. He typed in “Condition Political,” hit OK, and re-entered the chat room. The government, in his opinion, was in a “Condition Critical” state. This was his play on words. Immediately other chatters responded with admiration for his nickname. This was great. He chatted until half past three in the morning and actually made a friend or two. It was addicting, and Aaron knew that “Condition Political” would return to the room the next evening, as would the other addicts.

  When the alarm went off the next morning, he could hardly get up because he had stayed up so late the night before. When he did finally drag himself downstairs, he kissed his wife, told Christopher to pick up his hat off the floor, patted four year old Matty on top of her curly brown locks, and finally made his way to the coffee and newspaper. How in the hell he would make it through work today baffled him.

  He was up until three thirty in the morning the night before. It was now six in the morning. Two and a half-hours sleep was not enough, but the loss was worth the fun he had had.

 
When Aaron walked into the office, Miles could tell immediately by the look on his face that he had been up all night. Aaron walked right past him, made a you-guessed-it smirk, and went straight for the break room. He needed another cup of coffee. Miles strolled into the room two steps behind him. His receding hairline, charismatic brown eyes, and slightly enlarged belly being supported by his six-foot frame were always an amusing sight for Aaron. They were both suffering from post-college syndrome. They were both popular with the ladies when they were younger, but age and overindulgence in food and beer over the years had finally gotten the better of both of them. Miles was bigger, which made Aaron feel thinner.

  “So man, you got the computer, you got on the net, the kids played on it for a little while then they fell off to sleep, the wife fell asleep when she realized you were hooked and she was not getting any, you checked out the Republican sites, checked out ESPN, and then you went right for the porn. How accurate a guess is that?” rambled Miles.

  Aaron muttered, “Actually dude, as much as I know you want me to tell you that I spanked it all night at the computer, I was impressed; it was cool, but the porn gets boring after a while.” His voice was as tired and monotonous sounding as he could make it.

  Miles sounded let down. “C'mon man, you're kidding. Did you get in any chat rooms?”