By The Hermit

Jeffy Osbourn's Saturday started out to be a miserable disappointment, and ended by being the most horrifying experience in his short eleven years. Dad promised faithfully to go to Little League this time, but just like always, right at the last minute, he came up with the lame excuse that the state auditors were coming on Monday, so he had to hurry to work and straighten out some accounts. Sorry, but he'd probably be gone all day.

"I'll just bet he's going to his office," Jeffy grumbled under his breath -- the one time he'd followed his dad through the heavy traffic on his bicycle, he only had to follow for about six blocks. Dad pulled into a parking lot, walked across the street to a motel, and knocked on the door. A red-haired lady in her bathrobe let dad in, and he didn't come out for a long time. Jeffy hadn't told mom 'cause he knew what happened to kids when moms and dads got divorced, so he just kept his mouth shut.

Jeffy was sprawled on the couch watching cartoons while mom got lunch ready, when somebody rang the doorbell...

"I'll get it maw," he yelled over the noise of the TV. He opened the front door and stared up at several people standing on the porch.

"Is your Mother home, Sonny?" asked the nearest, a big, bald man -- holding a microphone in Jeffy's face.

"Yeah, she's in the kitchen. Whatcha want her for?" He was roughly jostled aside as the bald guy told the others,

"Great! we're here first. Get set up inside. Run those cables through that window, so we can lock this door...the whole damn crew will be here in seconds. Now move, damn it, there's no time to spare." Jeffy leaned against the wall and watched dumbfounded as these strangers took over his house. The fat, bald guy grabbed him by the arm,

"What's your name, boy?"

"Jeffy Osbourn"

"Jeffy, let's go see your mother." Jeffy lead him into the kitchen, where his mom was still cooking -- the noise of the cartoons drowning out all other sounds. He tugged on her sleeve, and when she turned around,

"Maw this guy wants to talk to you." She frowned and walked into the living room to turn off the loud TV.

"Don't turn off that TV," the bald guy shouted, "just turn down the sound and turn it to channel twelve." She did as he asked and was turning toward the man when something caught her eye. She turned back to the TV and said,

"Oh my God, that's Harry, my husband. What's he doing up there?" By this time the room had filled with the cameraman and the other technicians. The bald guy wiped the sweat from his shining dome and answered,

"Missus Osbourn, that's exactly why we're here. I'm Brad Patton from TV12 news and this is my crew. This morning your husband returned to his place of employment to cover up a nifty piece of creative bookkeeping -- one in which he ended up with forty thousand dollars more than he was entitled to. Fortunately for the company, they had the auditors in last night, and after working all night, they were ready for good, old Harry when he came sneaking in to hide the evidence. Harry panicked and now, he's up there on the roof threatening to jump at any minute now."

"Can't someone help him? where's the fire-department? Aren't they supposed to help in emergencies like this?"

Brad Patton said something into his lapel-mic and the TV picture changed -- it slowly panned the waiting crowd, many were news media snapping hundreds of pictures and the rest were eager lookie-loos waiting hopefully for Harry to jump.

"No help there," Brad answered, "and the fire ladders won't reach that high. I'd get the kid outa here if I was you. You don't want him watching when his old man splatters his brains all over the sidewalk." Jeffy's mom was so much in shock she just nodded, so Brad told a technician to take Jeffy to the kitchen and watch him.

The technician didn't want to miss seeing the jumper, so when Jeffy went to the bathroom the technician returned to the door to the living room to watch. Jeffy zipped into his bedroom and locked the door. With tears streaming down his cheeks he watched the camera from the TV12 helicopter zoom in on his father. He could see that his father was also crying, his thick glasses were steamed, tears running down his cheeks and a look on his face that would stay with Jeffy forever. His dad hunched his shoulders and started beating himself in the face ... again, again and again until horribly bloody he just stepped off the edge. The camera followed the twisting body all the way down and then had the incredible poor taste to linger on the slowly spreading pool of blood.

Jeffy listened in to the conversation going on in the hall. Patton was talking to the cameraman,

"Did you keep the camera on her face, as he was jumping and then that beautiful spectacular landing. God! And we got an exclusive. When I asked her how she felt being married to an embezzler and how much of the fifty-thou she had stashed away, I thought she was about to have a stroke...did you get that on camera, too? We're good for at least ten rating points for this piece of work." They packed up their equipment and left, leaving Jeffy and his mom huddled together on the couch.

The next month was a living Hell for both Jeffy and his mom. The police arrived with a search warrant and tore their home apart -- they found nothing and left the home a shambles. The media camped out on their lawn and questioned everyone who would talk to them. Jeffy couldn't go to school without having a microphone thrust into his face and being asked how he felt about his dad's suicide, being the son of a thief and did he have a clue as to the whereabouts of the money. He got beat up at school for defending his dad and for refusing to loan the big guys a coupla hundred.

Jeffy kinda knew why his dad took the money and where it went, but for some perverse reason he couldn't bring himself to telling his mom about the red-head. He rightly figured that she was on the ragged edge and it wouldn't take much more to push her over. The police weren't that considerate though. They were turning over every rock in the neighborhood in search of the fifty-thousand, and when they discovered that Harry Osbourn had been keeping a mistress in quite a lavish lifestyle, they lost no time in accusing Jeffy's mom of ripping Harry off to get even. It was a stupid accusation, at best only a fishing expedition, but it did the damage Jeffy had been dreading. When he got home from school, he found his mom with her head in the oven. He shut off the gas and opened the windows -- now he was alone.

Jeffy knew if he hung around, the County or the State would put him in an orphanage or a foster home, but he remembered his dad had a brother in Oregon. He dug through his dad's papers, found the address, removed all letters to or from his dad and his brother, kept one and burnt the rest. He found his mom's "cookie jar". It had almost two-hundred dollars in it. He put the money in different pockets and in his shoes, filled his backpack with cloths and headed for Oregon.

He was hitch-hiking up the coast highway and his third ride was a trucker going into Medford. He hitched from Medford to Salem and called his uncle, Pete. Pete told him to stay at the phonebooth where he was calling from, he'd be right there. When Pete arrived, he explained that the Long Beach Police had already contacted him about a missing, eleven-year-old boy. Jeffy hadn't known it, but his mom gave Pete's name and address as next of kin, when Harry died. The cops were just touching all bases. Pete said,

"Jeffy, I guess you been through Hell fer just being a little tyke, but you're going to hafta hide out a little longer before you can come on home and live with your aunt Martha and me. Those cops will have someone out to check me out before they give up on the idea that you're here somewhere."

"Where you gonna put me, Uncle Pete?"

"I've got some real good friends who have this Militia camp up in the hills. They've got their whole families up there, including kids your age. They'll hide you and even fight to protect you, so don't worry about a thing -- you're safe now, Jeffy." It was warm in Uncle Pete's station-wagon and soon Jeffy drifted off into a fitful slumber. Time ran backward in Jeffy's mind as he dreamed about the day's events. When he discovered his mother's dead body, he started sobbing quietly, and continued crying until the vision of his father's body hitting the concrete sidewalk. Suddenly, he screamed and started struggling. Pete pulled over and held the little boy tenderly, as he threw up violently in the bushes.

The more Jeffy struggled, the louder he shrieked, and slowly it dawned on Pete that the tears that were now coursing down the little tyke's cheeks were tears of rage. Pete tried to calm him saying,

"Jeffy, I know how you must feel. Harry was my brother, and when I saw the whole thing on TV, I couldn't believe my eyes. You poor little guy -- and then your Mom, too." He held Jeffy close and rocked back and forth.

"You, You don't know nothin' 'bout what happened! That damn TV guy, Mister Patton told the camera guy to keep the camera on my mom's face so they could get a good picture of her when dad jumped...they come crashing into our house, set up their cameras, locked me in my bedroom and ruined our lives forever. Just so they could get a lousy picture." Pete knew better than to say anything, so all he said was,

"Well Jeffy, where I'm taking you them damn media guys don't dare come around, or they'll get their asses shot off! And, old Johnny Law don't bother us any, unless he brings a small army. Like I told you, you're safe now."

"If they hadn't camped out on our front lawn and stuck a microphone in my mom's face everytime she went outside; and if they'ed kept their damn mouths shut about my dad's girl friend, she wouldn't a went and killed herself. It's all their fault!" He started crying again, but finally fell asleep.

Pete passed through the Sons of Freedom perimeter gate and drove up to the stockade. He left Jeffy asleep in the wagon while he explained the situation to the members. In less than fifteen minutes, Jeffy had a volunteer family including two brothers and a baby sister. Pete went back outside and brought the sleepy, and now suddenly shy Jeffy in to meet his new family. Pete left Jeffy with the Ferguson family for three months. During that time Pete had been visited by the police twice, the insurance detective hired by the estate to track down Jeffy and three times by the media who were sniffing around for a story. They finally wrote Jeffy off as a missing runaway. When Pete gave Jeffy the option of coming to live with him or staying with the Fergusons, Emily Ferguson put her arms around Jeffy and said,

"Pete Osbourn, you just try to take this boy away from me and you'll be sorry. Jeffy wants to stay with us, don't you honey?" Jeffy just grinned sheepishly and nodded. He walked outside with Pete.

"Uncle Pete, I 'preciate what you did for me, but I really would like to stay here. These folks have come together here because, like me, they been hurt or shit on. They came together for, Carl says, 'mutial protection' and I sorta like that idea. I'd like to learn how to fight back, and this is sure the right place to learn that. They got schools for school stuff and schools for all kinds of fighting stuff. When I leave here, those damn media guys better not try to mess with me, or ruin the lives of folks I like."

Jeff at the age of twenty-two was almost the invisible man. He had never been fingerprinted, he had never worked and had no social-security number. His mentor Carl had overseen his training for the past eleven years, and now Jeff was ready to embark on his career. The 'Militia Family Group' understood and approved his vendetta with the media. After hearing the complete story of the Osbourn family's destruction, the 'Group' had been keeping tabs on the most unethical in the media and deciding how much help they could offer Jeff without endangering the continued existence of the 'Group'.

The 'Family' would supply the necessary funding and equipment, but not sanctuary. Jeff would supply his own transportation. Jeff would always leave his fingerprints -- insuring that no other would take the blame or the credit. Last, Jeff would always leave in a prominent place the following excerpt from The Society of Professional Journalists, Sigma Delta Chi,

                                 "CODE OF ETHICS
   The Society of Professional Journalists, Sigma Delta Chi,
believes the duty of journalists is to serve the truth.

  * FAIR PLAY: Journalists at all times will show respect for
the dignity, privacy, rights, and well-being of people
encountered in the course of gathering and presenting the news.

   1. The news media should not communicate unofficial charges
effecting reputation or moral character without giving the
accused a chance to reply.

   2. The news media must guard against invading a person's right
to privacy.

   3. The media should not pander to morbid curiosity about
details of vice and crime."

They had carefully cut the words from many newspapers and pasted them onto a master. Then ran zerox copies at a local post office. Carl handed Jeff ten copies saying,

"This should do for starters. If you need anything else, just run the ad in the paper and it'll be in the box in two days. They shook hands and Jeff left. Pete drove him into Eugene and left him off at the bus depot.

"You sure this is what you want to do?"

"Uncle Pete, it's what I've looked forward to for eleven years. I either do it now, or kill myself -- I just can't wait any longer. I don't know, Pete, but I'm beginning to understand them. They attack in a pack and in their feeding frenzy they destroy everything, even each other, to get the story -- to get the rating points. The more blood, the more points they get -- well Pete get ready, 'cause there's gonna be a lotta points flying around. When I get through, they'll be afraid to step off the sidewalk onto someone's private property." He got on the bus, waved out the window and was gone.

It was just a week later, when a fatter Brad Patton and his crew piled out of their truck and set up their camera equipment in the front yard of a small house in North Long Beach. The dispatcher's report was that there was an aborted robbery at the Seven/Eleven store at Lomita and Long Beach Boulevard. One robber was in custody and the other had taken refuge on the roof of the apartment building next door. The SWAT team had taken positions after evacuating the area. They had exchanged fire with the man on the roof whose name was Sam Sastonie. There was only one Sastonie in the phone-book -- a Mable Sastonie...

Brad as usual was giving orders left and right...

"Set up that big portable TV right by the front door, so we can watch the action, and God Damnit, this time, keep your camera on her -- don't be watching the damn TV and miss another good shot. You got that?"

"Yeah, Brad, I'll be more careful this time, I promise."

"Well, you better, or you'll have a lotta time to watch the damn tube." When everything appeared to be ready he turned and knocked on the door. A little old lady came to the door and spoke through the screen,

"What do you want? Who are you and all these people?"

"I'm Brad Patton from TV12 news. Are you Mable Sastonie?"

"Yes, why?"

"Do you know a Sam Sastonie?"

"Sam's my grandson. What's he gone and done now?"

"He was involved in an armed robbery and now he's engaged in a shootout with the SWAT team. Come out on the porch; I've got a big screen TV set up, so you can watch, while you tell me about Sam." Brad helped her out and onto the sofa on the porch. He sat beside her, stuck the mic. in her face and asked,

"How do you feel about having a thief for a grandson? Did his parents just dump him on you, or are they in jail, too?" Mable Sastonie turn from the TV to glare at him. She just managed to say,

"Well I never..."

When she felt the mic. fall into her lap, and a neat round hole appeared in the center of Brad Patton's forehead. He fell forward into the shrubs and she fell into a deep, dark hole where bad things weren't happening.

When she woke up, there were police everywhere, and all her visitors were covered with white blankets. They questioned her for several minutes, but all she remembered was that hole in Brad Patton's head. Bill Phillips, the investigating detective didn't press the issue because he had already figured that the hit was by a long range sniper, and a damn good one at that. The sniper had selected his targets in such an order that none of the others noticed, and each with such deadly accuracy that no one had cried out. Bill shuddered, he had been part of a spook team in Nam, trained in the art of killing, but none of the team could have made those shots.

When Bill Phillips turned in his report, his supervisor read it and whistled softly. He read it again and shook his head,

"No Bill, I think you're jumping to conclusions, one snowflake doesn't make it Winter. It's an interesting theory, but you've really got nothing to back it up except a hunch and a lot of admiration for a job well done. You bring me some proof that there's someone out there with a blood feud against the media, then I'll give you the go-ahead to open the case and some manpower. Right now We'll wait and keep our mouths shut. We don't want to start a panic, and that's an order!"

"Okay Boss, but just remember, the next one belongs to you -- you go tell the families!" Bill Phillips stormed out of the office before his mouth got him into any more trouble. He spent the rest of the day working out the logistics of the bullet paths until he had a reasonable fix on the location of the sniper when he fired his six perfect shots. He found the spot on the roof of a warehouse a half-mile away from the Sastonie house.

Under six shell casings he found the excerpt from the

 
                          "CODE OF ETHICS
   The Society of Professional Journalists, Sigma Delta Chi,  

The more he learned, the more worried he became. Those shots had to have been mechanically controlled -- a human heartbeat would throw the shot off a couple of inches from that distance. This guy was using telescopic equipment controlled by computer tracking and motion control. Instead of using the telescope to look into a crater on the moon, he was using it to look into a man's ear a half-mile away and firing a bullet at the third hair on the left lobe. God, This guy could kill anyone, anytime, anywhere and never get caught. It gave Bill the creeps just thinking about it.

He knew the next time some TV crew started invading someone's privacy, that crew would die and there was nothing he could do to keep it from happening. He returned to his office and rewrote his report. He wasn't really angry about his boss, Captain Edwards, being reluctant to believe his theory about the killings, but he didn't want him to ignore the impending danger that was lurking out there somewhere. He took his report, the shell casings and the excerpt from the code of ethics and caught Captain Edwards just as he was leaving his office for the day.

"Could you spare me a couple a minutes, Captain? I've got something on those killings you should see. It won't take but just a few minutes."

"Can't this wait 'til tomorrow morning?

"I don't think so -- this guy's got a hard-on about the media's invasion of people's privacy, and I think he's gonna kill any crew he finds sticking a mic. into a private citizen's face. He's a highly skilled nutcase, and not about to stop."

Captain Edwards grumbled, but he did turn around and unlock his office door. They went inside, and Bill sat on the edge of the Captain's desk as Edwards read the report, looked at the casings and read the portion from the code of ethics pledge. He leaned back and closed his eyes..."Half a mile away, you say," he mumbled, "pretty damn smart for a nutcase, even the TV cameras wouldn't have picked up a picture of his vehicle at that range. He has to set up some equipment to make a shot like that. Okay Bill, you win! Go find the bastard and put him out of business." He took a sheet of his stationary and wrote Priority Red on the top line and signed the bottom line. He told Bill to get whatever help or equipment he needed and to use the signature for authorization.

Bill stayed at his desk calling every TV news service in the area -- including the one station in San Bernardino. He warned each station manager that the Long Beach Police had reason to believe that a mentally disturbed person had killed the six TV12 newsmen because he considered what they were doing was not ethical. The station managers for the most part, thought that Bill was putting them on, but when he assured them he wasn't joking; they angrily told him that no nutcase was going to dictate media policy. They had their first amendment rights and they fully intended to exercise them.

Bill sat back and sadly shook his head. He was thinking how foolishly stubborn people could be, when an incoming police call caught his attention. The Fire Department's Paramedic unit had called for police crowd control. They were trying to get to a private residence in response to a 911 call about a small child in the family swimming-pool. The Mother was trying to give CPR, but the child wasn't breathing. access to the street was blocked by two different TV crews dragging cables from their trucks and trying to get set up on the residence front lawn. The resultant lookie-loos made the street impassable. Bill jumped to his feet. He thought, If he hears this on a scanner and gets there first, I'll never be able to save those assholes. This is just what he's looking for...Damn.

By the time Bill got to the scene, the Paramedics and the ambulance were leaving. Bill showed his badge and asked the officer guarding the front gate,

"What happened? I was at the station when I heard it on the scanner. How's the child?"

"She didn't make it," the cop replied, "they worked on her, but she was too far gone, it's a crying shame."

"Are those Vultures from the TV station still inside with the mother?"

"Yep." Bill thanked him and went to the house. A burly figure with a TV12 emblem on his jacket blocked his way. Bill flashed his badge and brushed past him. When he entered the house, it was lit up like a sound stage. The mother was moaning and sobbing while the cameras were grinding away. Bill walked over and unplugged the lights, the cables and told the crew to vacate the premises, or he'd run them in for trespassing.

A silver haired fellow who looked to be about fifty sat on the sofa beside the mother. he held a microphone in one hand and had been holding it close to her face as she cried. At the sound of Bill's voice, he stood up and spoke into the mic.

"You're overstepping your authority young man. We're conducting a perfectly legitimate interview here, and you have no right to interfere." He pointed the mic. at Bill, who smiled and spoke into the mic.

"You Sir, are under arrest. I've spoken to the Paramedics and to the Police who were dispatched to this location for traffic control. They are in agreement that if you and your crew hadn't obstructed access to this property and created a congested condition, that poor little girl would be alive right now, so in an indirect way, you Sir are guilty of the murder of that poor child...you have the right to remain silent, you have the right to an attorney....." The silver haired one shut up and remained silent as his crew quietly packed their gear into their trucks. TVchannel8 was already loaded ready to roll, but when they saw TV12's star newsman in handcuffs they decided to wait and watch. Of course they had their cameras rolling.

Bill put Steve Spellman, the TV12 newsguy in his car and headed for the station. He had an uneasy feeling that something was wrong, but couldn't put his finger on it. He knew the sniper should have put in an appearance. These vultures had even gotten under his skin, so why the sniper hadn't done his thing was a real mystery. It didn't remain a mystery for very long because before they had gone two miles the scanner went crazy: calls for Fire-trucks, Paramedics, and Police to the on ramp from Lomita Street to the Long Beach Freeway South came in from several sources. Two panel trucks had exploded while on the onramp -- no other traffic was involved, but the onramp was impassable. Bill continued on to the station and turned Spellman over to the booking officer. He called TV12 to find out if their panel truck made it back or had reported in. He was told that the truck had exploded on the freeway. 'I knew it, I just knew it, but where will I find the pledge?'

Jeff watched as the tall, slightly-grey headed police detective methodically traced the trajectory of the bullets to the six shell casings and the paper left intentionally. This detective was a tracker -- a hunter that he'd have to watch out for, but, "He'll have to move faster than that, if he expects to catch me." However, when Detective Bill Phillips arrived on the scene in time to save the prime target Steve Spellman, Jeff had mixed feelings. He was angry at missing Spellman, but figured he could always get him later, and he was excited by the promise of a real battle of wits. It was obviously his move.

"Detective Phillips was probably keeping quiet about the obvious link between the journalistic code of ethics pertaining to violating the right to privacy and the punishment he was handing out to those who violated that pledge. Maybe Detective Phillips needs a push in the right direction."

Bill was exhausted, he knew Steve Spellman would be out on the streets before he finished his paperwork, but he hoped Spellman would realize that the only reason he was alive was because of being busted and driven to jail. TV12's high priced attorneys would probably sue the police department for violating his first amendment right, but right now, Bill didn't care.

Once again, Bill was right. He was just finishing the paperwork on Spellman when he heard the commotion at the duty desk. He hear the word bodies and hurried to the desk. People were rushing out the front door of the station, he followed and stopped short in disbelief. Spellman and probably his attorney had tumbled down the twenty steps to the sidewalk. They both had holes in their foreheads. "That s.o.b.! He followed me here to the station, so he could get Spellman. I wasn't helping Spellman, so he didn't kill me -- the attorney was, so he got it, too! Damn, I'm beginning to get scared...this guy is a real spook." Bill went back inside, turned in his paperwork and headed home.

There were twelve copies of the pledge stacked neatly on the passenger-side, seat of his car. They were held down by a cassette. He slipped it into the player and listened as Jeff outlined his plan to terrify the media into complying with all the items in the code of ethics, they pledge to uphold. He appealed to Bill to get the word out, start a panic if necessary, but make sure that every media employee knew he was out there somewhere, and wouldn't hesitate to kill anyone who violated the privacy of another citizen and made a public spectacle of their pain and suffering...and that included natural disasters -- Public Service, Yes -- Pain and Suffering, No.

His final statement indicated that even if his plan worked perfectly, which he doubted, he had a short list of TV interviewers whose crimes were so egregious that they had to be executed. Their actions had produced so much pain, misery and havoc in the community that they had to be punished. Those he would kill individually and exempt their crews. And last, he hoped Bill wouldn't get too close, because he must complete his work...at all costs.

The last made little fingers of fear run down Bill's spine. He had never been afraid of anyone before, but this guy was so good at what he was doing and so invisible, it was like trying to put smoke in a bottle on a windy day.

Bill knew if he took the story to the top brass at any of the TV studios, they would suppress it. They couldn't afford for their field crews to refuse to respond to breaking news. Newspapers, radio stations and TV studios were all syndicated or owned by conglomerates, so he couldn't go that way. He finally decided to take the story to PBS the Public Broadcasting System. If he could get it aired and on the TV news report, the others would have to pick it up and go with it. Otherwise, they'ed run the risk of being charged with withholding information having to do with public health and safety -- maybe even being charged with responsibility in the deaths of the second, two news crews and Steve Spellman. They were warned by the Long Beach Police and chose to ignore the warnings. Hah!

PBS was happy to make a public service announcement on the evening news. Bill gave them copies of the Pledge and let them run a copy of the tape cassette. They interviewed Bill for almost an hour, then had him wait while they edited and cut the tape to fit the news program. They played the edited version for his approval, he signed the necessary releases and they were ready to roll.

Bill went to visit his boss, Captain Edwards, at six-fifteen that evening. Edwards opened his door,

"Bill, this is a surprise. You got something that can't wait 'til mornin'?"

"Yeah Boss, I thought I'd better be with you when you get the news -- that way the folks down at the station don't have to see you turn purple. Turn your TV on the PBS channel, I'm gonna be on TV."

"What did you go and do now?"

"You'll see -- oh by the way did you hear about Steve Spellman?"

:"No, Why?"

"Well, I arrested him for obstructing traffic at the scene of an emergency and causing the death of a little girl who drowned. Paramedics couldn't get to her because of Spellman's camera crews blocking the whole damn street. Anyway, it seems like that P.O.ed our sniper, so he came down to the station and knocked off old Steve and his shyster attorney the minute they stuck their noses out on the street. Tumbled down all twenty steps. Neat Huh?"

"What the matter with you, Bill? This maniac murders a prominent citizen on the top step of the police station and all you can say is...neat, huh! When you gonna catch this guy?"

"Watch the TV, after the news hour, we'll have a lot more to talk about." Bill shut up, turned up the volume on the TV and sat on the end of the couch." Edwards sat in stunned silence as the program unfolded. When it was over, he looked at Bill in amazement,

"This murdering nutcase asks your help in shutting down the entire media system in this country, and you do it -- you help the S.O.B.! He warns you that if you get too close, he'll kill you, too, and you still help him! Have you gone out of your mind, boy?"

"See, I told you, you're turning purple. What I'm trying to do is save some lives. If you'll notice, he's killing whole crews -- everybody who accompanies the butthead with the microphone is getting killed along with the butthead. He's doing that to get the word out that he'll kill anyone who violates private property. Once the word is out, he'll just concentrate on the names on his hit-list and leave the poor crew people alive. The networks wouldn't listen. I tried, they just laughed and more people died. I felt partially responsible, so when he left me the pledges, the tape and the opportunity to stop the killing, I grabbed the chance and made a deal with PBS. Now you can fire me, or let me get some sleep because I've got a very clever killer to catch, and I can't do it in the condition I'm in."

Edwards didn't say anything, so Bill walked past him and out the door. He felt so mentally drained, he drove home and dove into bed. the only articles of clothing he removed were his shoes.

While he slept, Jeff was busy scanning the networks for reactions to the PBS broadcast. The media was surprisingly quiet. The coverage of breaking news events was almost non-existent, and what coverage there was -- was low key and geared to reporting only the factual portions of the incidents. Jeff was elated, he couldn't believe he had won so easily; however, BMC World News at eleven quickly burst his bubble of joy,

Frank Larson, the nightly anchor snickered as he reported that a nutcase with a penchant for knocking off TV camera crews had the West Coast News media hiding under their beds. He bragged that World News was sending several crews from the East Coast to cover the story, and while they were there, they'ed try to pull the local news guys from under their beds and get a first hand interview to find out why they were so terrified of just one psychopath with a rifle.

Jeff took the 'Red-Eye' flight to New York. He traveled light, not even any carry-on luggage. After landing at noon, it took him six hours to locate Frank Larson. He managed to be alone with Larson on the elevator to the Skyroom Restaurant, and it only took three seconds to snap his neck. He got off two floors below the restaurant and sent the body back down. Then he took the adjacent elevator to the basement parking lot, drove his rental car to the airport and caught his flight to Dallas. A bus to Fort Worth and a flight to Ontario, and he was back in Long Beach, but not in time for the eleven o'clock news.

A much refreshed Bill Phillips strolled into Captain Edwards office and sat on the edge of his desk,

"'Mornin' Captain," he grinned sheepishly, "well, do I clean out my desk, or should I get my butt to work? I've got a couple of ideas about how to trap our terrorist. I think I can get him mad enough to make a big mistake, and then we'll nail him."

"You're gonna have to be fast on your feet and have a sizable travel allowance, if you hope to get that S.O.B." Edwards answered, "While you were sleeping, I think he went to New York and executed old Frank Larson from BMC World News...broke his damn neck in an elevator. Why? -- why!! just because he didn't like the way Frank was talking about hin! That's why."

"What'd Frank say?" Bill asked...suddenly worried.

"I got a copy of his news-cast. he was a little mouthy, but that ain't no reason to break his neck." Edwards slipped the video into his machine, and Bill watched and listened as Larson condemned his news-crews to death with his big flapping mouth.

"That idiot, someone should have broke his neck a long time ago. Do you realize what he did? The first time they go out on a story and go into territory where they ethically don't belong, our guy will kill them like a flock of sheep. Can you get them to go back to New York 'til we clean this up?"

"You know better than that. We'll be lucky if they don't sue our asses off for not protecting their first amendment rights. I expect the Feds any moment now." Bill just shuck his head and hurried out the door. On his front seat were airline ticket stubs from LAX to New York, New York to Dallas and Fort Worth to Ontario...'That bastard is mocking me, defying me to catch him, well, we'll see who laughs last!"

World News refused to believe that some two-bit terrorist from Long Beach, California had flown to New York and Killed Larson for just mouthing off. They blamed it on local talent and decided to send Sid Porter in his place, but they would appreciate it if the Long Beach cops would kinda watch their backs while they were there.

The local media snickered openly when their inside guy from police headquarters told them about the request, and made a statement over the networks that the Long Beach Keystone Kops couldn't even protect their own station from the guy...how did anyone expect them to protect the public. The Mayor was angry, the Police Commissioner was furious and if Edwards hadn't been black, he'd have had red blisters all over his fat butt. He called Bill Phillips in and in no uncertain terms warned him about letting anything happen to the crew from the Big Apple. Bill got the flight number from the New York office. He commandeered a paddy-wagon, four SWAT specialists and headed for the airport -- enroute he put in a call to the tower at John Wayne Airport..

The 747 carrying the World News crew landed and instead of taxiing to the terminal, stopped at the end of the runway. The news crew were forced to exit down a portable ramp and herded into a police paddy-wagon. The wagon left by way of a side gate, as Bill displayed his credentials and introduced himself.

"What about our luggage and equipment?" Sid Porter asked. "We don't even have any film -- it's all still on the plane. Are we under arrest, under protective custody or what? this is ridiculous." The others growled their agreement.

Bill started out by giving a firsthand description of just how deadly this terrorist was. He went into some graphic detail about how deadly accurate the sniping had been from half a mile away because he wanted to scare them enough to take this whole situation seriously. When they got to the safe house, he sat with Sid and discussed strategy for several hours.

Jeff was also waiting for the 747 to land. He had listened to the on-the-air verbal battle between the two news agencies and the ridicule of the local police. He was angry that the New York bunch hadn't taken the warning, so he'd decided to talk a little plainer. He'd meet the plane and during the passage through the crowded terminal to pick up the luggage and exit the terminal, he figured he'd kill as many as he could without creating a commotion. A shot of quick acting poison should do the trick. He could do the injection and be stalking the next one up ahead before his first victim dropped. Probably get three or four before the panic started to set in. He'd be home watching on TV before they even started searching the terminal for the ghost who did the killing.

When that plane stopped at the end of the runway and Jeff saw the tall, dark-haired detective, Phillips unloading the news crew into the police paddy-wagon, he wanted to scream. He felt suddenly empty and frustrated -- 'wasn't really angry at Phillips, the guy was pretty clever...dangerous. More angry with myself for failing, making mistakes and wasting precious time, mistakes could end this game way too soon...Can't let that happen!' . He had Phillips' car bugged and his office phone, that's how he'd learned the flight number, but somehow he'd missed the call that arranged for the transfer at the end of the runway. 'Oh well, Mister Phillips, all you did was buy them a few more days on this planet.' He turned and swiftly left the terminal.

Nothing earth shattering happened during the next three days. The news reports were limited to local government issues and some litigation filed by minority schools for replacement books and other essentials which disappeared faster than they could be purchased. Sid and his crew were getting hard to contain. They were beginning to believe Bill was keeping them off the airways to embarrass World News, and make the local TV news look less like fools to the viewing public. Finally, Bill agreed to their doing a broadcast, but only if they would agree to a police escort their first time out.

Shortly after nine that evening, a plane, loaded with Peace Corp volunteers returning from Jicarta, crashed on landing at the Burbank Airport. The plane had exploded into a fireball and there were no reported survivors. Sid jumped to his feet, his face aglow with excitement,

"'Bout time something happened around here," he shouted, gleefully, "Ronny, you take Bill and Harry and get to that Airport as fast as you can. Get plenty of pictures and some personal interviews. I'll make some phone calls and find out who was on that plane. Now get out of here!" He grabbed the phone out of Bills hand with a curt apology, and placed a person to person call to Mildred Bishop at World News Headquarters in Jicarta.

"Milly, ...Sid Porter here, Yeah, I know. -- Milly, a flight TransAsia flight 593 from Jicarta just crashed and burned here in Burbank, California...No, no survivors. Had a bunch of Peace Corp people on board. Milly I need that passenger list like yesterday, and if possible any next of kin you can dig up. I need to get to the next of kin before the cops or the airport people notify them. The best stories come from the relatives when you first break the news -- really great camera stuff. Call me right back will you, Milly? I'm at area code 818 - 555-1435." He hung up and grinned at Bill, "Gotta get up early to get ahead of ole Sid Porter." Bill shook his head in disgust and walked out the door.

Sid followed him outside and found him sitting on the steps with his head in his hands. He didn't look up.

"Look Detective, don't be acting so holier-than-thou. Who the hell are you to be judging me? This is what I do for a living, and I'm damn good at it, too. There's a million stories like this out there, and someone's going to make big bucks telling them. By God, Sid Porter is going to get his share." When Bill didn't answer, he got up and walked back inside. What he didn't know was that Bill had been wrestling with a moral dilemma, and Sid's greed and lack of consideration for the victims had tipped the scales in his decision.

It seemed obvious to Bill there was either a leak at the station or the terrorist had the communication system bugged because he appeared to be able to get to the scene and arrange his ambushes before the TV crews arrived; therefore it was equally obvious that the best way to catch him was to be at the scene before he arrived. That meant orchestrating a fake disaster or feeding him fake information about a real one.

Bill jumped up, went inside and called the station and when he got Captain Edwards on the line, he started talking excitedly -- not letting Edwards get a word in,

"Captain, this bunch of nuts from World News have got a hold of the passenger list from that TransAsia flight that went down over in Burbank. They've located the mother of one of those Peace Corp volunteers who died in the crash and insist on going over there to get some human interest footage when they tell her that her son died in that flaming inferno. I can't talk them out of it, so I'm sending the three officers assigned to guard them, and I'd like you to send a SWAT squad to meet us at 5435 Lemon. I'll meet them and set up a safety net that mister terrorist won't stand a chance of penetrating." He hung up quickly and hoped that Edwards would realize that 5435 Lemon was the safe house, where Bill had been calling from and would take appropriate action.

He hurried outside and called a conference on his walkie-talkie and met his three man crews at his car. After explaining his plan, he opened the trunk and took out a large suitcase. He gave his keys to a young officer recently assigned to the detective division and told him to park it at least two blocks away, come back and get the other department vehicle then wait for the SWAT squad and lead them back quietly to the area. He explained about not wanting to spook the guy. After the young officer left in Bill's car, he explained the rest of his plan. He sent one officer to bring in the news crew -- one person at a time. The second officer helped restrain each one as Bill gave each a generous injection of tranquilizer. Soon, everyone, including Sid, was stacked like cordwood in the bedroom and the door securely locked.

Jeff, once again, was forced to hurry, when he should have taken the time to carefully plan his actions. The address was all the way across town from his motel; however it was thoughts of his mother that sent him speeding to Lemon Street in an effort to protect some other mother from the same agonizing experience. If he could get there quick enough, those ravenous vultures wouldn't get the chance to feed on her pain and misery -- they'd never get to find out how she felt about losing her baby boy. He stopped his angry ruminations and parked one block past Lemon. He cautiously tested the area behind the small house where he was parked...'Good, no dogs.' He slid over the back fence like a ghost, and once again, there were no yapping dogs to give away his presence. He crept silently between the houses and gazed across the street at 5435. There were no cars in the driveway or in front of the house. There was light in one window and an amber 40 watt bulb glowed providing a little light on the front porch. Jeff could see a cloud of moths circling the bulb in the hot, sticky, evening air. The humidity was so oppressive, sweat was already running from his forehead into his eyes.

In the glow of that amber bulb, Jeff could dimly make out someone sitting in an old wooden rocker. He pulled out a small pair of binoculars and gave the figure a closer look. It appeared to be an old woman with, of all things, a shawl over her head. It looked like she wore a light blue night gown and wore a long string of rather large beads. Her hands were busily fingering the beads as she sat and rocked. Suddenly, Jeff had a plan. He'd started out intending to just play it by ear, but by God, now he had an idea that would work... He would put the old lady in a safe place, borrow her clothing and when the TV vultures descended into her front yard to get her reactions to their bad news, he'd take out the whole damn bunch right on camera. Maybe then they'd get the message and start leaving folks alone at the one time when they needed privacy the most. He checked out the AK47, made sure the spare clips were securely clipped to his back-belt and melted into the darkness.

Bill was beginning to think the terrorist wasn't going to show. He had one officer under the porch at each end. Their only job was to lie in wait, and listen to what came over from his walkie-talkie, which had the transmit button taped tightly down, so it transmitted constantly. If Bill gave the signal, they were to come out to assist him with the capture; otherwise, stay in place until he called them out. He was looking at his big right hand -- wondering if the killer would notice the lack of wrinkles when he felt a hand on his shoulder...he almost screamed...

"Mother, it's time for you to take a little nap." Bill felt the sting of the needle as it penetrated his shoulder. "There are some bad people coming. They're coming to hurt you, but I won't let them. Stand up now, so I can take you inside and put you to bed -- I need to borrow your clothes before they get here." Bill kept silent, as he fought the drug that was blurring his vision already. A hand reached down and took his right hand to help him up. He grabbed it firmly and snapped the handcuff he held in his left hand on the extended wrist. The arm jerked back, but it was closely coupled to Bill's left wrist. He screamed his rage and pulled the shawl from Bill's head...

"You! It's always you. Why are you doing this to me I never did anything to you?" He started to drag Bill across the porch toward the street. Bill was too weak from the drug to resist; in fact, he would have dropped into that deep, black hole of unconsciousness if Jeff hadn't fired the AK47 about a foot from his head. His eyes jerked back open just in time to see Jeff fire again at the chain linking the handcuffs together. This time he was successful.

The two officers, thinking that Bill needed backup had crawled out from under the porch. They stood up just as Jeff fired the second round and saw Bill slump to the floor unconscious. They had their weapons leveled at Jeff, and when Bill hit the floor, the both emptied their weapons into the spinning, screaming Jeff. When his dead body rested beside Bill's sleeping form, both officers marveled that the terrorist hadn't fired a single round in their direction. They were more than embarrassed to find that Bill had no holes in his hide either.

Bill opened his eyes in a private room at Saint Mary's Hospital. Captain Edwards came into his room after he'd been awake for about a half hour. He sat next to Bill's bed,

"Well, Detective Phillips, you're quite the hero with the media and with some of the brass, but tell me Phillips, what ever possessed you to use yourself as bait to catch that madman? You could have been killed. If your backup hadn't killed him, you wouldn't be here today. And that stupid bit about drugging the entire crew from World News -- do you realize if your plan hadn't worked, the City of Long Beach doesn't have enough money to settle the lawsuit? How are you feeling, Bill?"

Bill smiled sadly and replied, "I'm alright. I just wish they hadn't killed him. He wasn't trying to kill me -- he was shooting at the chain between the handcuffs. He coulda killed me if he wanted to, and I'm sure he could have taken my guys with him, but he couldn't hurt anybody except the people working in the news media. He had a blood feud going with them and couldn't stop. I'd have liked to hear his story."

"Bill, he was a killer and a madman, his story doesn't matter...in fact, it's better if we don't know their stories." Edwards replied in a fatherly tone of voice. "Now, if you're okay, why the hell are you wasting the taxpayers money laying there. Get up and go solve a murder or something."

Somehow or other, World News in the person of Sid Porter refused to let the story die. Repeated efforts to find any next of kin to the phantom killer of the media crews came up dry. His fingerprints were not on record, he didn't have a social security number and a search of his motel room produced at least forty identification kits, so the only thing left was to offer a reward to anyone who could positively identify the killer. His photo went on the complete media network both domestic and international, and a starting offer of fifty thousand dollars was announced.

Old Pete Osbourn had sold off his livestock some time back. The ever increasing pain of his arthritis made it impossible for him to keep up with the demands of keeping a small string of quarterhorses. He loved the horses too much to neglect giving them the care they needed. Soon after that, without the exercise to keep him mobile, his movements were reduced to painfully shuffling to the porch steps and sitting in the morning sun until the heat drove him inside to sit in darkness and watch the damn tube.

When Pete saw the picture of Jeff on the TV and a close up of the poster offering the fifty thousand dollars, he knew it was just a matter of time before they'd come beating on his door. He made a couple of calls to the Militia encampment warning them of the uninvited company that would soon be littering the neighborhood, asked for a couple of favors and hung up. Called his buddy, Chad Tucker ... Chad was the local sheriff,

"Chad, Pete Osbourn here. Just wanted to warn you, there's gonna be a herd of TV camera crews and what all comin' through town, looking for me. Chad, them big city news paper people aren't to be trusted, so you better keep your kinfolk off the streets. Yeah, I know you can't legally make em stay away, but for God's sake, Chad, don't let them follow those bastards out here. Just might be some bullets flying around and I don't want anyone hurt."

It was over a week before the former owner of the hardware store, now living in Eugene, Oregon remembered seeing Jeff riding to town with the Fergusons to pick up supplies. Missus Simms from the hardware asked Missus Ferguson about Jeff 'cause she'd never seen him before. Emily Ferguson said he was old Pete Osbourn's nephew. The boy's parents had committed suicide and he'd come to live with Pete.

Within twenty-four hours an armada of news vehicles decended upon Salem. To keep them moving and not stir up the town, Chad offered to lead them out to the turn off to Pete's ranch. He said, Pete had forty acres of alfalfa and the only blue barn in Oregon. Sid Porter was impatient, but agreed to wait while Chad got his keys. From his office Chad called Pete and told him he was leading a whole army of news people out his way, but was going back to town because he didn't want to be a witness if Pete started shooting at them.

"Good idea, Chad, go on back and make sure I don't get no unexpected company. Pete hung the phone back on the wall hook looked around his familiar room and hobbled out to the porch. He got comfortable as he could, filled his pipe with a full load of rum and maple and lit up. He was sitting there looking up at the fleecy clouds seeing first one image then another when the mob arrived. From between slitted eyelids he could read, TV7 on one truck, World News 15 on another and Portland CableTVN on another: the crews raced against each other trying to get set up. They dragged cables through his pansy beds Knocked down the delicate little lattice border that lined the walkways...Mildred had worked for months making the lattice, painting it powder blue and digging the tiny trench that fit it so perfectly. That was the year before she passed.

Sid Porter raced up, hand extended, "You must be Pete Osbourn, Jeff's Uncle...Let me introduce myself, I'm Sid Porter, World News 15. We've come all the way from New York City just to interview you on TV."

"Don't rightly recollect anyone invitin' ya out here to trash my front yard and invade my privacy," Pete replied -- his pipe gripped tightly between his clenched teeth.

"That's the price you pay for being famous, Pops," Sid answered as he checked out their images in his monitor. Satisfied, he turned to Pete and continued, "Okay, Pete, now we're taping for the networks, but we're live in Portland and locally, so watch what you say now. Tell me Pete, how did you feel when you found that your nephew was a mass murderer?"

Pete went a little pale, but he managed to answer, "Shucks, Sonny, I been watching you folks on the TV for quite a spell, so I can't say I was surprised by what he done."

Sid choked back an angry retort, he couldn't lose control of the interview, so he decided to put old Pete on the spot and make him explain, "Wait a minute there, Pete, I don't understand, what possible reason could anyone have, for killing newsmedia people for just doing their job -- just like we're doing right now. Is this invasion of your privacy so damn bad that Jeff had the right to kill us? No, Pete, I don't think so! Now tell me darn it, why did he do it?" Old Pete grimaced against the pain, turned and smiled a yellow-toothed grin, "Just runs in the family, I guess," he grunted as he pushed down on the detonator.