dots on their next story. Pete wasn’t sure how closely his movements when using these programs were tracked, but he knew he was leaving some footprints. He only hoped they weren’t big enough to be noticed. The thought struck Pete as odd. He was now officially violating his job, arguably threatening it, and clearly going against his ethics as a journalist. Still, he wasn’t moved to stop. Something was tugging at him, the same spark of excitement and energy he had felt years before in New Jersey when he was chasing a story or looking for the perfect turn of a phrase to close out a profile piece on a new player or coach. He was hungry for information. He didn’t know Kathy enough to really care about her well being. But he did feel like something was happening, and he wanted to be doing something for once, instead of just sitting around feeling bad for himself. He typed Kathy’s name in the search field.
A quick scan of the Times’ database only pulled up Kathy’s actual work for the paper: cop beat pieces, crime stories and the occasional police profile. He noticed that, of late, Kathy’d been spending a lot of time writing about Miami’s criminal history—specifically, about the Cuban gangs and their ties to the drug trade. One headline jumped out at Pete: “Who is the ‘Silent Death’ of Miami?” He clicked on it and got a rather lengthy, speculative piece about the killer who’d haunted the dark side of the Miami streets for years, working as an enforcer for the Cuban mobs. Kathy’s story suggested that the Silent Death was responsible for a string of murders involving the Cuban cartels and that it was one man, a previously unheard-of hypothesis. Understandably, she had little concrete information to go on. Pete found himself engrossed in the reading, reeled in by Kathy’s staccato writing style. The story ended on a hypothetical note, wondering when the Silent Death would strike again. Pete checked the date on the story—it was from a few weeks before. He sent it to print, hoping there’d be something of use in it, and went back to scanning Kathy’s clips. She was a prolific writer, and she was good. She covered the cops beat with aplomb and seemed to generate a wide range of pieces, not limited to the usual police report rehashing and publicity-seeking pieces. He found the historical pieces—which had increased in frequency lately—the most interesting. She knew about the criminal history of the city, the drug lords, the gangs, and corrupt cops, and could weave a compelling narrative. Could this be what got her in trouble? He wasn’t sure. She had never been the story herself. Pete did a quick background check on Kathy and also found nothing out of order—she paid her taxes on time, and, at worst, had two unpaid parking tickets from earlier in the year. Otherwise, she was a model citizen. Why hadn’t Chaz mentioned anything about the stories Kathy had written? Why hadn’t he done a basic search any Times employee could do if he was so worried about his daughter? The thought troubled Pete.
Kathy’s boyfriend was another story, Pete realized. Not only did Javier Reyes’ name pop up a handful of times in the electronic archives—small news briefs reporting on petty robbery or arrests—but his actual arrest record was spotty at best. Pete scanned Javier’s rap sheet quickly, starting at age 18—a few misdemeanor arrests, a DWI about five years prior, and one charge for possession with intent to distribute. He’d been nabbed on the last charge a few years back and was currently on work release and serving probation, meaning he worked at a sanctioned job for five days a week and then served the remainder of his sentence under house arrest.
Pete felt a sharp jab in his stomach. This is what Javier’s life had become. Pete knew he himself was fucked up—desperately in love with a woman who had cheated on him and left him, on the brink of being fired and drinking away his sorrows and hopes
A quick scan of the Times’ database only pulled up Kathy’s actual work for the paper: cop beat pieces, crime stories and the occasional police profile. He noticed that, of late, Kathy’d been spending a lot of time writing about Miami’s criminal history—specifically, about the Cuban gangs and their ties to the drug trade. One headline jumped out at Pete: “Who is the ‘Silent Death’ of Miami?” He clicked on it and got a rather lengthy, speculative piece about the killer who’d haunted the dark side of the Miami streets for years, working as an enforcer for the Cuban mobs. Kathy’s story suggested that the Silent Death was responsible for a string of murders involving the Cuban cartels and that it was one man, a previously unheard-of hypothesis. Understandably, she had little concrete information to go on. Pete found himself engrossed in the reading, reeled in by Kathy’s staccato writing style. The story ended on a hypothetical note, wondering when the Silent Death would strike again. Pete checked the date on the story—it was from a few weeks before. He sent it to print, hoping there’d be something of use in it, and went back to scanning Kathy’s clips. She was a prolific writer, and she was good. She covered the cops beat with aplomb and seemed to generate a wide range of pieces, not limited to the usual police report rehashing and publicity-seeking pieces. He found the historical pieces—which had increased in frequency lately—the most interesting. She knew about the criminal history of the city, the drug lords, the gangs, and corrupt cops, and could weave a compelling narrative. Could this be what got her in trouble? He wasn’t sure. She had never been the story herself. Pete did a quick background check on Kathy and also found nothing out of order—she paid her taxes on time, and, at worst, had two unpaid parking tickets from earlier in the year. Otherwise, she was a model citizen. Why hadn’t Chaz mentioned anything about the stories Kathy had written? Why hadn’t he done a basic search any Times employee could do if he was so worried about his daughter? The thought troubled Pete.
Kathy’s boyfriend was another story, Pete realized. Not only did Javier Reyes’ name pop up a handful of times in the electronic archives—small news briefs reporting on petty robbery or arrests—but his actual arrest record was spotty at best. Pete scanned Javier’s rap sheet quickly, starting at age 18—a few misdemeanor arrests, a DWI about five years prior, and one charge for possession with intent to distribute. He’d been nabbed on the last charge a few years back and was currently on work release and serving probation, meaning he worked at a sanctioned job for five days a week and then served the remainder of his sentence under house arrest.
Pete felt a sharp jab in his stomach. This is what Javier’s life had become. Pete knew he himself was fucked up—desperately in love with a woman who had cheated on him and left him, on the brink of being fired and drinking away his sorrows and hopes
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