Chapter 34
Thirty Four
The scanner popped like it was angry. A voice cut through the hum of the newsroom, and every head lifted at once.
“Shots fired, Boston Common. One down. Units en route.”
Chairs scraped. Phones started ringing in clusters. Henry leaned over the assignment desk, one hand gripping a stack of rundowns, the other cupped around his ear. “Who’s closest? I need a crew rolling in sixty seconds.”
“I am,” Jamie said, already on her feet. Tilly had the camera bag slung over their shoulder before Henry even turned. They tossed her a spare battery and grabbed two more.
“Jamie, you and Tilly. Grab the live kit. Take car three,” Henry said, voice clipped. “IFB stays open. I want you ready for a phoner within five.”
“Got it.”
The room crackled with motion. Producers shouted about a breaking double-box. A graphics editor swore as he rebuilt the lower third. The air itself seemed to vibrate. Jamie snatched her coat and sprinted for the elevators, the noise chasing her all the way down.
By the time they hit the parking garage, her pulse was racing. The air outside was cold and wet, that sharp November smell rising from the pavement. Tilly popped the trunk and shoved the tripod and live pack inside before sliding behind the wheel.
“Scanner,” Jamie said.
They handed it over while backing out. A dispatcher’s voice filled the car, clipped but calm. “Central to units on Common. One victim, gunshot wound. Witness reports a male in a dark jacket fleeing on foot, direction unknown. Possible narcotics activity in the area. Use caution.”
Jamie pressed her palm against her thigh, trying to keep her focus where it belonged. The press conference replayed in her head—the way Erin’s voice had almost faltered, the tightness around her mouth.
“Hey,” Tilly said, eyes on the road. “Breathe.”
“I’m fine,” Jamie muttered, though she wasn’t. The city blurred past in streaks of red and white.
Her IFB chirped. “Jamie, you with me?” the producer said.
“Yeah. Just crossing Beacon.”
“First live hit in three. Confirm single victim, nothing else.”
“Copy.”
They parked two blocks away. The sound hit first—sirens, overlapping radio chatter, the shuffle of onlookers pressed behind tape. The air was thick with exhaust and the faint bite of cordite.
Jamie climbed out, gripping her mic and notepad.
The glow of blue lights painted everything cold.
Officers moved in tight lines, heads bent toward radios.
She caught flashes of latex gloves, evidence markers staked in damp grass, and a shape on the ground covered by a white sheet.
The edge of it fluttered when the wind pushed through.
Her throat tightened.
“Stay here,” she told Tilly, but she was already stepping closer, careful to keep her press badge visible. The tape hummed against its post in the wind. A uniformed officer lifted a hand, stopping her.
“Media perimeter’s back there.”
“I just need a closer look for color,” Jamie said, voice steady out of habit.
He hesitated, then sighed. “Two minutes. Don’t cross the line.”
She nodded, crouching slightly to see past a cruiser.
The puddle near the curb caught the flash of red and blue, turning the street into a smear of color.
A medic zipped a bag of equipment shut. Another officer whispered something low—she only caught the words “female,” “mid-twenties,” “mayor’s office is being notified. ”
Her chest went cold. She looked up just in time to spot Erin.
She was on the far side of the scene, framed by cruisers, talking fast to a lieutenant. Her shoulders were rigid, one hand pressed against her temple like she was holding herself together by force. Even from that distance, Jamie could see the tension in her jaw.
She lifted her mic as the IFB crackled again.
“WCVB live in ten.”
Jamie swallowed hard and forced herself into position, the glare of the cruiser lights washing her out. When the cue came, her voice found its rhythm.
“This is Jamie Garrison reporting live from Boston Common, where police have confirmed one person was shot earlier this evening,” she said.
“Sources tell WCVB this may have been a drug deal gone wrong. The victim’s identity has not been released, but officers remain on scene gathering evidence and canvassing witnesses. ”
She finished clean, voice steady. The moment the light clicked off, she lowered the mic, heart hammering.
Tilly started rolling b-roll, zooming on the police tape, the medics, the cluster of detectives near the bench line.
Jamie tried to focus on what she’d just reported, but her gaze kept drifting toward Erin.
She was talking to someone again, her movements sharp, her expression breaking through in flashes of panic.
Reporters around her were whispering, comparing notes. Someone from Channel 8 murmured that the victim might be connected to a city employee. Another guessed a bad deal near the bus stop. The rumors piled fast, and none of them sounded right.
Jamie kept her eyes on the taped-off clearing.
She could see where the grass was torn up, a scattering of personal items sealed in evidence bags at the edge of the path—a wallet, a lighter, a single sneaker.
The sheet covering the body had been secured with small metal clips, but one corner fluttered in the wind. She looked away.
A medic knelt beside the command vehicle, rinsing his hands with bottled water, the faint pink swirl running into the gutter.
Jamie’s throat tightened. She rubbed her palms down her coat, forcing herself to think like a reporter again: scene context, timeline, witness angle.
But the part of her that wanted the facts kept colliding with the part that just wanted to make sure Erin was okay.
Tilly shifted beside her, lowering the camera. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Jamie said, though it sounded thin.
“Looks bad,” they muttered.
Jamie nodded. “It’s bad.”
A group of detectives moved past, their voices low but urgent. She caught a few stray words—“young,” “no ID,” “mayor’s office”—and felt her pulse skip. She told herself she’d misheard.
She packed away her mic, then hesitated, watching Erin in the distance. Erin was pacing now, one hand gripping her radio, the other pressed to the bridge of her nose. Every few seconds, she looked toward the bench, then down at the pavement, like she couldn’t stand still.
Jamie could tell she was unraveling.
When the other reporters began peeling off, calling their newsrooms with half-sure updates, Jamie stayed. The Common felt colder now, quieter. The sirens had died out to background noise, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the occasional radio crack.
Tilly checked their watch. “We’re good if you want to head back,” they said softly.
“Go ahead,” Jamie replied. “I’ll follow.”
They hesitated but nodded and started toward the car. Jamie waited until they were gone before slipping beneath the tape, the nylon brushing her shoulder as it swayed.
The grass squished under her boots as she crossed the clearing. Erin stood near the command vehicle, talking fast to a lieutenant who finally nodded and walked off. Her face was pale under the lights, eyes red-rimmed but focused.
Jamie slowed when she reached her. “Hey,” she said quietly. “You need to breathe. It’s handled now.”
Erin turned, eyes glassy and hard. “Handled?” Her voice cracked. “I can’t fucking relax, Jamie. The mayor’s daughter was just shot and killed in a public park.”
Jamie froze.
“What?”