She lay on the bed stiff as a board, not daring to move a muscle until her breathing returned to normal and the prickly sensation subsided.
“Thank you for that report, Tanya,” Susan Donallee said as the screen cut back to the studio. “We will hear from Tanya again as new developments arise in this tragic story.” Susan turned to her co-anchor. “Jason.”
Jason Morris had been a fixture on the national news scene for over thirty years. In his mid-60’s and with dignified grey hair appearing at his temples, he was the epitome of a ladies’ man: handsome, intelligent, muscular, warm and caring. Almost secondary to his looks was his talent to sniff out a news story. As a reporter he’d covered every worthwhile war, election, assassination attempt and breaking story with the same intensity of a cub reporter looking for his first big break. Even though he’d made enemies over the years, his reputation was unassailable.
So today, as whenever a major story broke, households across the country turned their news channels off and switched to their one and only source of the facts: Jason Morris.
“For those of you joining us, The Nation Today has suspended its operations. This after an unidentified man was shot in the head as he was preparing to ask Presidential candidate Douglas Adams a question. The man, described as in his mid-40s, had stepped up to the show’s street microphone when an unidentified woman came up from behind and shot him in the right temple. An explosion then detonated from within a gym bag placed amongst the crowd gathered to view the show through its new bulletproof windows.
“In the ensuing confusion, the woman escaped from the scene in a grey 4-door vehicle, possibly a Volvo. The woman is described by witnesses as being in her 40s, approximately 5’7” tall, with a slim figure. At the time of the killing she was wearing a blue and white dress, dark glasses and a blonde wig. The victim was pronounced dead at the scene and his identity is being withheld until his family is notified.
“Our reporter Tanya Grahame was told by officers at the scene that a clue to the shooter’s identity was recovered. However, police are withholding that information from the public at this time.
“What we don’t know yet is if there’s a connection between the victim and Presidential candidate Douglas Adams, who is also the head of the powerful Health and Welfare Committee. Upon observing the shooting, Mr. Adams was rushed out of the studio by armed bodyguards and his whereabouts are not known.”
Lynn felt sick to her stomach.
Douglas was safe but where was he now? Was there a connection with the dead man? More troubling she thought, was there any connection to why she was in this room?
The answers her brain feverishly provided didn’t make sense. Neither did her current situation. With her tired mind now fairly clear, Lynn clutched the bedspread with both hands and pulled herself upwards. The room, its walls, the TV, the bureau, the menacing blue strobe flicker, all began to spin out of control.
You have to hold on, Lynn kept reassuring herself. It’ll pass.
A moment later, Lynn stood tentatively. She took small steps toward the bathroom, putting her outstretched hand against the wall for support. Behind her, Susan Donallee was telling viewers that the scene they were about to replay was of the actual killing and small children should leave the room. The co-anchors then talked for a short time, allowing those conscientious parents throughout the nation to shepherd their children away from the TV set.
Lynn made it to the bathroom door and stood against its frame. She turned to witness the murderous footage, as the anchors described what was taking place. As she swung her head around, something caught her eye above the bathtub. There on the shower rod, was a . . .
“The woman was wearing a blue and white dress.”
neatly hung blue and white dress.
Lynn gasped at the sight.
She next looked on the vanity and saw . . .
“She also wore a blonde wig and dark sunglasses.”
a blonde wig and dark sunglasses.
The room began to revolve slowly around her. Steadying herself, trying to rationalize a logical explanation, she turned her full attention back to the TV.
The screen cut from a two-shot of the smiling morning show host and candidate to a close-up of a man on the street at a microphone. His head was tilted slightly downward and the fedora he was wearing obscured much of his face.
“I have two questions for Mr. Adams,” the man said.
Before he could utter another word, the woman in the blue and white dress was upon him, placing a gun to his head and pulling the trigger. As he felt the barrel make contact with his skin, he looked up in startled surprise. An instant later, he became a nationally televised murder statistic. This was immediately followed by an explosion heard off-camera which engulfed the area in smoke around the dead man.
Lynn collapsed to her knees. She again began gasping for air, eerily emulating the crowd’s coughing and feeling their confusion at what they’d observed. Yet it wasn’t the bystanders she was concerned about; it was him. The split-second full-face image of the murdered man became etched in her mind.
With a sickening thud Lynn fell onto her side and fainted dead away.
The last thoughts that flashed through her mind frightened her beyond belief.
Where am I?
How did I get here?
Why am I here?
And finally, why would I kill my husband?
TWO
There was turmoil inside and outside the television studio. For the people who hadn’t witnessed the shooting, the immediate interest was that of a motorist passing an accident. Their dismay at narrowly missing out on the year’s biggest story wouldn’t hit them until they heard the news at their office or were asked by a security guard if they had seen The Nation Today.
For those who’d stood next to the mysterious orator (who now lay face down on the sidewalk at the base of the microphone), only one question ran through their collective minds: What if I had asked the first question?
The smiles they’d been wearing when the outdoor camera’s red light flashed on had been replaced by lost expressions and tear-stained faces. Their once-waving and animated arms now hung silently at their sides. Those not openly showing their emotions stood uneasily, shifting from foot to foot, unsure of what to do next.
What if I had asked the first question?
He was dead. Everyone knew this. There was no need for a good Samaritan to step forward to comfort the man. He ceased to exist the moment the shot rang out. He wouldn’t have to worry about money problems, finding a job, finding romance or simply trying to keep going until the sun rose again.
He also wouldn’t have to carry the horrific memory of seeing a man shot in the head as he was about to ask a question on a network morning show.
What if I had asked the first question?
Stanley Unger stood so close to the window that the fog his breath produced on the glass obscured his view. He didn’t seem to care as he absently watched the scene before him. As the newly appointed producer of The Nation Today, he knew he was to blame, or that he would be blamed for this. It had been his suggestion to go back to the winning formula that had suited the show in the mid-60’s. It was his idea that the public should see what goes on behind the scenes and allow them to be part of the show, instead of merely as observers. He’d pitched these radical ideas to the network bigwigs who decided they had nothing to lose. That was why they had hired the 32-year-old hotshot from the competition in the first place. Although $15 million to renovate the main studio seemed a bit excessive, it was a better idea than replacing one of their hosts. In the past that tactic had temporarily boosted ratings until the public caught on the show remained virtually the same. Interchangeable talking heads couldn’t hide