Shot Girl by Karen E. Olson

temporarily, was getting in the way of finding compassion. I bit back a snide remark.
    "Reverend Shaw is working with high school students from the West Rock projects at the nature center there. They’ve planted a community garden. We need a story for Monday, and I know you’re on the weekend shift, so you can work on that today and tomorrow." Marty’s eyes conveyed his apologies. "You can do it," he said, and I felt like Rocky when Burgess Meredith was encouraging him to get back in the ring even though he was beat-up and bleeding.
    "The good reverend is a fraud," I said quietly. No one knew if Shaw was really a minister; he had no church, appearing out of nowhere a year ago to "give to the community." With a flamboyant air, he crashed into our little city like he was getting Jesse Jackson’s speaking fees. He’d become a victims’ advocate, a gadfly with a loud voice throughout the city. He fought with the city for money for after-school programs for underprivileged kids and raised hell when it was suggested the cops wanted a lockdown at one of the city projects. No one knew how he made a living; he seemed to have a stream of unlimited cash, but no one questioned as long as he helped. I’d Googled him at one point, after the lockdown rumors, but nothing came up except stories from the Herald ; it was like he’d never existed before he came to New Haven.
    He nodded. "Yeah, I know. But it’s a story, and if you do it, you’ll redeem yourself."
    We walked slowly back to the newsroom, trying to act casual but without any food or drink from the cafeteria, which would’ve raised red flags if anyone had been paying attention. Dick was still at his desk, Charlie still in his office. The other metro editors were doing whatever they did at this time of day, and no other reporters had come in yet. The business editor was hunched over his desk, the Wall Street Journal spread out in front of him, the features editor was on the phone, and the clerk was silently putting mail in everyone’s slots along the side wall.
    Marty found the Reverend Shaw’s phone number in Renee’s Rolodex and brought it over to me. He was doing that only because he was feeling like shit.
    "Thanks," I said to him again, wondering if I was going to have to keep apologizing forever.
    I itched to call Vinny, just to hear a friendly voice, but dialed Shaw instead.
    "Yes, how can I help you?" he asked when I identified myself. His voice was deep, smooth as chocolate. It was a voice that sounded trustworthy, but I wasn’t going to let myself get sucked in.
    "I’m doing a story about the community garden," I said, my voice stiff. Hell, I can ask the medical examiner about cause of death, how deep those stab wounds were, but this was completely unnatural for me. For a brief second I wondered if I’d been a cop reporter too long.
    Nah.
    "I was hoping we could get together sometime today and talk about it." Nothing like perseverance and Charlie Simmons watching me from the doorway of his office.
    "We can meet at the garden. How delightful." Who the hell talks like that? "How about in an hour? There are several young people I’d love for you to meet."
    Yeah, and I’d probably be the fucking highlight of their day, too. I agreed and hung up, realizing it was lunchtime and I’d have to get something to eat before I met with Shaw. I picked up my bag but had one more thing to do before I left. I’d need a photographer. This could be dicey, since Ben Riordan, the photo editor, liked everything scheduled by three p.m. the day before. Unless it was breaking news, getting a photographer to actually shoot something without a formal typewritten photo assignment was like getting management to give us a ten percent pay increase.
    Fortunately, the photo editor was nowhere to be seen. But photographer/miracle worker Wesley Bell was Photoshopping an illustration for the Sunday health and science page. It was obviously a story about the dangers of poison ivy, because