Orville Anderson, a young reporter for the Corinth Tribune, dropped by at the Emergency Room of the General Hospital late in the afternoon of 25 November in search of a story. Sadie, the nurse at the reception desk, looked up when he entered and shook her head. He knew this meant he was wasting his time.
The only interesting story he encountered was a new clerk at one of the desks who gave him a sort of half-smile when he entered. Orville was just beginning to make his pitch when two men came through the swinging door. He was mildly interested.
Both men were in their 30’s, well-dressed, and one was half-supporting the other, who had a hand on his backside. The bigger, a ruggedly handsome man, seemed to be trying to calm down his companion, who seemed as much indignant as hurt. They were muttering to each other.
“Crazy nut” - this from the hurt man - was the only phrase in the conversation that Orville could pick up.
They went clumsily to Sadie at the reception desk. She asked them a question or two, then quickly guided them through a door into an inner room. She seemed slightly flustered when she returned to her desk. She promptly picked up the phone and dialed a number.
Orville’s journalistic senses were aroused. What she did could mean only one thing! He moved quickly over to her desk.
“What’s up, Sadie?” He asked. “Don’t try to give me the brush. I know you called the police.”
He knew that Sadie was one of those administrative robots whose mouth opened and shut as scheduled by her superiors. Often she was forthcoming – today she was not. She simply shrugged.
Orville’s eyes narrowed. “Gun-shot wound, wasn’t it? That’s why you called the gendarmes.”
“I have nothing to say at this point in time,” she replied. So there was nothing he could do but wait for the police to show up which they did fifteen minutes later, and disappeared into the emergency room.
Prospects for a story seemed better than usual. The dark-haired man who was wounded, and the sandy-haired man who had been supporting him did not fit the usual pattern of shootings in Corinth. Usually they involved some guy shooting his wife’s lover, or a wife shooting her husband just for kicks. These two guys seemed to have more class.
Twenty minutes later, the policemen sauntered out of the Emergency Room. Orville knew one of them slightly, and seized his arm as he walked by.
“What’s up, Jack? How ‘bout giving me a line.”
Jack blinked. “Some kind of shootin’.”
“Yes – I could see that,” Orville noted impatiently. “What I need to know is who, when, where, why.”
“Who - a couple of Profs - when, this afternoon, where, at Hodgson’s Acre, why - we don’t know. There - now you got your story.”
“You say - a couple of Profs. That’s a class act. Come on, give me more.”
Jack suddenly clammed up. “You know yourself, Orville, that the University don’t want bad publicity. We gotta clear it at headquarters.”
Orville begged to see his report, but was refused. So there was nothing left to do but to go to Hodgson’s Acre, and see what he could dig up on his own. There was a police cruiser parked on the road on one side of the field, and Orville spotted a policeman standing in the middle of the field evidently interviewing a farmer.
Orville approached them in his best the-public-has-a-right-to-know manner.
“Get lost,” the policeman ordered, and, when Orville hesitated, he added: “Beat it, you’re obstructing police business.”
So Orville drew off a few paces and strained to hear some of the conversation, but they lowered their voices, and it was futile. When the policeman left, he ran up to the farmer.
“Anderson of the Tribune,” he informed him in a businesslike manner. “What happened out here this afternoon?”
“I’m mum,” the farmer answered.