Sacred Angel - Part 2

He understood that he should be lucky and that he should value his position.  But having done the years of hard work indulging himself in all aspects of education he wanted more.  He had the qualifications but  Tony Watkins did not have the experience.  It was a catch 22 situation he didn’t have the experience and he couldn’t get the job to gain the experience.

After applying for positions in every major national publication the local paper had given him a shot.  Three years he told himself and then he would have that experience.  With the varied amount of projects he was assigned to he would get it in all aspects of journalism.  It was a matter of time and everything would fit into place so by the time he was 30 he would be on his way – somewhere!

Today obituaries and writing up finished edits for this week’s edition.  If it wasn’t already a Monday blues kind of morning now he had to write up the dead.  There was the usual short polite and vague details of how each had died, their age, life, family and the untimely death at age 91 etc.  He tried not to think it and shut it out but his sarcasm sabotaged his mind and he mentally giggled – untimely at 91?

The after effects of the night before were wearing off and so it should after three cowboy coffees.  For those unaware of this celebrated beverage it is a three scoop coffee, three scoop sugar combination with a three quarter a cup of water topped up with just a little milk.  His own recipe but nicknamed by an old acquaintance which still made him smile even now.

Rubbing his hand over his chin and neck he really should have shaved.  But what of it nobody would see him here in the back end of nowhere.

Tony always did a good job in his writing.  Be it obituary or community fair he always made it a good read full of detail and imagination.  Bringing even the dullest of items alive with colour and vibrancy and when the situation permitted a little humour. 

But obituaries were no place for humour, of that there was no doubt. 

He reached into his bag for a bottle of water to try and rinse the taste of stale coffee from his pallet.  One more folder to write up and he would be done before lunch he thought.  Absently he fingered the folder and opened it clumsily accidentally fanning the contents over the desk.  This one was different and he at first thought he was reading a story meant for someone else.  In fact he was sure he was and this was meant to have been passed to a front line reporter.

It was a death.  But it was in suspicious circumstances and considered by all a crime of killing.  He had a murder case in his hands, mixed up with the obituary pile straight from the morgue.  What he should have done was stand up and walk directly to the reporters desks and hand it over.  But this one struck a chord with him for some reason he felt an odd sense that this story had chosen him.

He stayed where he was and read.  He read everything twice and a burning desire in him was lit for the first time since joining this rag.  This was something real tangible and possibly something that could be read and reported on much further afield than this little town.

There was a picture of the victim.  Taken post mortem.  It showed the face of a woman whose life had seen much abuse and toil.  No name had been provided she was a Jane Doe which in this day and age he thought impossible.  Cause of death was a blunt force trauma to the back of the skull causing severe brain damage and internal bleeding.   The medial report also noted of serious liver and kidney defects, so much so that death would have been not too far away in any case.

But this was not a natural death it was murder.  There was a police investigation and he could just run with it and prove himself and get his name out there.  So that is what Tony Watkins decided to do and nominate himself as chief reporter on this story.

He made detailed notes on all aspects of the case and more importantly listed all the questions needed to be asked.

She had died on a busy high street full of people.  None of whom had lended a hand or even tried to help her.  This lonely old woman with no name had died alone and as nobody thus far had come forward to claim her.  She would soon be laid to rest all alone too.  He couldn’t let this happen not while he had a chance to give her some respect. 

He called the local incident office and got the name of the detective working the case.  Detective Collins, Robert was the man in question and he called his number to get the story started.

“Detective Collins my name is Tony Watkins with the local gazette I am assigned to the Jane Doe case recently deceased in suspicious circumstances”

“I don’t know what you are talking about Mr Watkins but I am a very busy man”

“Your incident office just gave me your name as the assigned officer just now Detective”

“Then perhaps they should inform me before the press, I shall have to get back to you Mr Watkins”.

The line went dead and he suddenly felt like he had set off a bomb under himself.

His experience limited in these matters he had no idea what was going to happen with the police and how long if ever they would get back to him.  So he decided to do what any good journalist should do and get out there and follow the story himself.

He used to like this town but after a full afternoon interviewing the local residents he was starting to change his mind.  There as a genuine lack of empathy regarding this Jane Doe and her death in front of multiple witness.  He did get some snippets of information from business owners and some locals and he admitted a few people did show concern.  But for the most part there was ‘no comment’ and ‘no time’ to answer.

He pieced together what he had and planned his next move.

“I hadn’t seen her in a while to be honest.  She was always hanging around like a bad smell with a few other undesirables.  I had chased them away and even had the police out to move them on a few occasions over the last three or so years.  Local piss heads and homeless they were always off their heads in public making a show of themselves and upsetting people”

“Mad Mary we called her, although she didn’t like that one bit!  Always pissed always angry and bitter asking for money like a reptile she was”

“There a was a bunch of them you would be better asking them, she rarely mixed with normal people”

“Normal?”

“You know none piss heads roaming the streets I mean”. 

He answered as he sweated over what was easily his sixth pint of the day in a rat hole of a pub.  Don’t kid yourself mate.

“I did feel sorry for her if I am honest.  I had tried to help her and get her to talk to me.  Once I almost got her going on something deeper than her usual ramblings.  But she seemed to steady herself as her guard slipped.  She bucked right up and just walked off snarling at someone, such a shame I thing she wanted to be saved from this life deep down”.

From these comments and the others he included in his findings he put together a picture of what he thought was Jane’s story.  But needed to interview the ‘others’ that she was surrounded by or hung around the back streets with.

At this moment he could only paint the picture of what he had.  Correct in the last chapter of her life.

He could not have known though how far from the truth he was.  How much further we would travel or to which depths her story would bury into his heart and mind.