all-nighter at the office again. “When are you going to settle down and meet a nice gal?” Obviously, for the last forty years, she’d been watching the life of a ghost, not realizing that he’d never become that kind of assembly-line sap. He didn’t have the stomach for it. He was born for the pen. His thoughts, however repulsive, revolved around stories and not being fulfilled in the good, American way that happiness seemed to be packaged.
But still, the thing that gnawed at him, really bugged him deep down, was that he still was a nobody. As far as this city was concerned, he was merely a miniature string of letters pasted in a section of a dying newspaper. No one recognized his face. Hardly ever even spelled his name right when they sent him hate mail. His favorite was when they called him Dr. Vaseline. Not even close to Vallace, but that one made him chuckle, even if, at the same time, it filled him with anger.
He hated being labeled so pedantically. So formless. So void. He was well aware that nobodies only ever got noticed when they did what no one else could, when they shone at the center of a crowd of people. That’s how a nobody got remembered.
As his fingers raced across a sticky keyboard, he knew that if he was at the right place at the precise times, and if he mixed fiction with accuracy in a pristine manner, then this case with Jude Foster and his new partner would be the case that could make Chase Vallace, nobody reporter for The Post , shine.
Chase let his imagination run wild, throwing in tidbits of facts into his article. Sentences were born, aborted, and reborn with new appendages and joints. He stitched selected words together with poise and precision. Detectives like Jude Foster, after all, weren’t ready for cases like this one, not by a long shot.
Speaking of, how did someone as stained as Foster manage to slip back into his position as lead detective in so short a time? Perhaps he was a prime suspect. Perhaps he possessed similar traits to the ghost killer from yesterday. A certain Victor Sedeiko. Chase relished the opportunity to unleash more arrows of doubt at Foster, a once-upon-a-time knight within this metropolis.
“Soon, very soon, you’re going to fade for real. The public will see you with new eyes. With my eyes.”
The article was close to completion. Just sentences and a picture download away from being ready for Frank’s inbox. If he could have his way, this would be a new beginning.
“We like to watch heroes fall, Detective,” Chase murmured as he prepared the email. “We can’t wait to see them bleed.”
10
JUDE SHUFFLED INTO THE department at eight a.m. He passed by the clones he saw every day, disregarding the pleasantries and the façade of waves and hellos. He hardly slept the night before. His eyes, sunken and tarnished by unkind hours, glared out of a groggy face.
Before making it to his desk, Jude noticed Rachel hanging up the phone. She appeared disturbed. “Something wrong?” he offered with almost no emotion.
“Not sure.”
Vague. He was only a fan of vagueness when it was him selling it. Making a mental note of her mannerisms, tone, and how she had already claimed half of the section near his desk as her own space, Jude pulled off his jacket and sat down. Her clutter, disorganized files, and several personal effects lay scattered across both their areas. It was already starting, he could tell. Mike must like this one, he thought . Here Jude was, trying to readjust to his life, to a new case, and get back into the real swing of things, and in strolled chaos in she-devil form.
“Morning,” she said at length.
He nodded. “Making yourself right at home, I see.”
“Trying to get organized, making notes and copies. That sort of thing. Helps me think and focus. Is it bothering you?” She looked flustered.
“Couldn’t be more thrilled to be sharing this cramped area with you.”
“Look, Jude, last night sucked, I get it. We were meeting each
But still, the thing that gnawed at him, really bugged him deep down, was that he still was a nobody. As far as this city was concerned, he was merely a miniature string of letters pasted in a section of a dying newspaper. No one recognized his face. Hardly ever even spelled his name right when they sent him hate mail. His favorite was when they called him Dr. Vaseline. Not even close to Vallace, but that one made him chuckle, even if, at the same time, it filled him with anger.
He hated being labeled so pedantically. So formless. So void. He was well aware that nobodies only ever got noticed when they did what no one else could, when they shone at the center of a crowd of people. That’s how a nobody got remembered.
As his fingers raced across a sticky keyboard, he knew that if he was at the right place at the precise times, and if he mixed fiction with accuracy in a pristine manner, then this case with Jude Foster and his new partner would be the case that could make Chase Vallace, nobody reporter for The Post , shine.
Chase let his imagination run wild, throwing in tidbits of facts into his article. Sentences were born, aborted, and reborn with new appendages and joints. He stitched selected words together with poise and precision. Detectives like Jude Foster, after all, weren’t ready for cases like this one, not by a long shot.
Speaking of, how did someone as stained as Foster manage to slip back into his position as lead detective in so short a time? Perhaps he was a prime suspect. Perhaps he possessed similar traits to the ghost killer from yesterday. A certain Victor Sedeiko. Chase relished the opportunity to unleash more arrows of doubt at Foster, a once-upon-a-time knight within this metropolis.
“Soon, very soon, you’re going to fade for real. The public will see you with new eyes. With my eyes.”
The article was close to completion. Just sentences and a picture download away from being ready for Frank’s inbox. If he could have his way, this would be a new beginning.
“We like to watch heroes fall, Detective,” Chase murmured as he prepared the email. “We can’t wait to see them bleed.”
10
JUDE SHUFFLED INTO THE department at eight a.m. He passed by the clones he saw every day, disregarding the pleasantries and the façade of waves and hellos. He hardly slept the night before. His eyes, sunken and tarnished by unkind hours, glared out of a groggy face.
Before making it to his desk, Jude noticed Rachel hanging up the phone. She appeared disturbed. “Something wrong?” he offered with almost no emotion.
“Not sure.”
Vague. He was only a fan of vagueness when it was him selling it. Making a mental note of her mannerisms, tone, and how she had already claimed half of the section near his desk as her own space, Jude pulled off his jacket and sat down. Her clutter, disorganized files, and several personal effects lay scattered across both their areas. It was already starting, he could tell. Mike must like this one, he thought . Here Jude was, trying to readjust to his life, to a new case, and get back into the real swing of things, and in strolled chaos in she-devil form.
“Morning,” she said at length.
He nodded. “Making yourself right at home, I see.”
“Trying to get organized, making notes and copies. That sort of thing. Helps me think and focus. Is it bothering you?” She looked flustered.
“Couldn’t be more thrilled to be sharing this cramped area with you.”
“Look, Jude, last night sucked, I get it. We were meeting each
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