Meth: A Green River Crime Novella
Coming in 2013!
The Green River Police Department does not discuss ongoing undercover investigations.
Below is all the information that has been leaked thus far.
More details will be released in 2014...
The Green River Police Department does not discuss ongoing undercover investigations.
Below is all the information that has been leaked thus far.
More details will be released in 2014...
“You know,” Gina told the newspaper reporter, “these were just a couple of ordinary guys trying to make a little extra money. It’s not like they were hardcore criminals or anything.”
The reporter was slightly reclined in his chair in his cubicle. Midday sun streamed in through the big glass windows of the newspaper office. Brilliant dust motes floated everywhere. The reporter took notes on an iPad in his lap rather than with a pen and notebook. Gina noted that while the reporter made a pretense of dressing well, he was sloppy - thrift store tie off center, khakis threadbare and shiny with tattered cuffs above his scuffed loafers, no belt, white shirt too tight around his soft belly. His desktop was a mess of scattered papers and empty soda cans.
“Did you know they were making meth?”
“No. Not until two days ago, when all this happened.” Not the first lie she’d told during this interview, likely not the last.
“How about this as-yet unnamed female, this second casualty they aren’t releasing details on? Anything you can tell us about her? Who she was? What she might have been doing there?”
“No. I can’t say. I’d imagine she’s a friend of Lou’s, somehow involved in the operation.”
“Any idea where Lou … what’s his last name?”
“Goodhugh.”
“Any idea where he is?”
“No. None.”
“He’s the one you say introduced your husband to the meth business, right?”
“He was an old friend of Randy’s. He’s the one the police say was the … mastermind, so to speak, yes. Randy was just helping him out.”
The reporter looked up from his iPad. “Is it true you and your husband were separated? That you weren’t even living at the house that burned down?”
How the hell had he found that out? Gina supposed it was the guy’s job, but still.
“Why is that important?” she asked.
The reporter shrugged. “It probably isn’t.”
Who else had he talked to? What else did he know? She’d come dressed well, in somber, tasteful black, the perfect image of the mourning wife. Her poise was not going to be broken, but she was going to have to tread more carefully than she’d anticipated.
“I’m here for my son and daughter,” she said without knowing she was going to say it. “I want people to understand Randy was a father. I want the public to know the man my son and daughter knew, not this monster the media has already made my husband into. Like I said, these were basically good men, just making some survival money on the side. They were both out of work, out of options. They didn’t use the stuff themselves.”
“So … you’re condoning that they sold it?”
She blinked, didn’t immediately answer. But she would not drop eye contact with the reporter. “I’m saying they were decent men who were out of work and out of options. This was a way to put food on the table. Clear?” Her lips went tight a moment, but she silently vowed that was going to be the only body language she was going to let slip here. She closed her eyes, took a breath, continued: “Tell you what. Go into the factories around here. Talk to people. Everyone who does have a job will tell you that these days they’re expected to work at least twice as hard as they had to for exactly the same pay just a year or two ago. From what I hear you’re probably experiencing the same thing in the newspaper business.”
The reporter nodded, frowning briefly. “Tell me about it. I used to just do the cop beat. That was it. All cops, all the time. Now, on top of that, I’m expected to do a touchy-feely feature story a week, cover school board and county trustee and plan commission meetings, even high school musicals and church socials for God’s sake.”
“See what I mean? So what I’m saying is … people need fuel to function like this. There’s a market. They only sold it to their friends in the factories - I don’t think I’m snitching or giving away any big secret or making some great revelation by saying that. The police and anyone reading your article should be able to put at least that much together without my help. I know there are ways you could twist my words here, but, in a way, they were actually helping the local economy. They were helping their friends stay productive, stay employed.”
The reporter raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying our local factories are fueled by meth?”
Gina pointed to the clutter of empty Faygo Diet Cola cans on the reporter’s desk. “How many of those do you go through in an average workday?”
The reporter laughed. He set the iPad on the desk and rolled his chair next to a space between his desk and the far corner of the cubicle. He patted something that made a hollow, tinny sound. “I’ve got three cases right here. That’s maybe a week’s supply.” He reached down and grabbed a fresh can.
Gina allowed herself a thin smile. “My husband was a good man, sir. Probably half your readers will cluck and shake their heads when they read what I said about the factories. But the other half will just nod and agree I’m only telling the truth.”
The reporter nodded, popped open the diet cola, toasted her with it and guzzled down half the can.
“Want one?” he asked, holding up the soda.
“No, thank you.”
“Okay then. So....” He set the can down, picked up the iPad. “What can you tell me about how Randy first got involved with making meth?”
The reporter was slightly reclined in his chair in his cubicle. Midday sun streamed in through the big glass windows of the newspaper office. Brilliant dust motes floated everywhere. The reporter took notes on an iPad in his lap rather than with a pen and notebook. Gina noted that while the reporter made a pretense of dressing well, he was sloppy - thrift store tie off center, khakis threadbare and shiny with tattered cuffs above his scuffed loafers, no belt, white shirt too tight around his soft belly. His desktop was a mess of scattered papers and empty soda cans.
“Did you know they were making meth?”
“No. Not until two days ago, when all this happened.” Not the first lie she’d told during this interview, likely not the last.
“How about this as-yet unnamed female, this second casualty they aren’t releasing details on? Anything you can tell us about her? Who she was? What she might have been doing there?”
“No. I can’t say. I’d imagine she’s a friend of Lou’s, somehow involved in the operation.”
“Any idea where Lou … what’s his last name?”
“Goodhugh.”
“Any idea where he is?”
“No. None.”
“He’s the one you say introduced your husband to the meth business, right?”
“He was an old friend of Randy’s. He’s the one the police say was the … mastermind, so to speak, yes. Randy was just helping him out.”
The reporter looked up from his iPad. “Is it true you and your husband were separated? That you weren’t even living at the house that burned down?”
How the hell had he found that out? Gina supposed it was the guy’s job, but still.
“Why is that important?” she asked.
The reporter shrugged. “It probably isn’t.”
Who else had he talked to? What else did he know? She’d come dressed well, in somber, tasteful black, the perfect image of the mourning wife. Her poise was not going to be broken, but she was going to have to tread more carefully than she’d anticipated.
“I’m here for my son and daughter,” she said without knowing she was going to say it. “I want people to understand Randy was a father. I want the public to know the man my son and daughter knew, not this monster the media has already made my husband into. Like I said, these were basically good men, just making some survival money on the side. They were both out of work, out of options. They didn’t use the stuff themselves.”
“So … you’re condoning that they sold it?”
She blinked, didn’t immediately answer. But she would not drop eye contact with the reporter. “I’m saying they were decent men who were out of work and out of options. This was a way to put food on the table. Clear?” Her lips went tight a moment, but she silently vowed that was going to be the only body language she was going to let slip here. She closed her eyes, took a breath, continued: “Tell you what. Go into the factories around here. Talk to people. Everyone who does have a job will tell you that these days they’re expected to work at least twice as hard as they had to for exactly the same pay just a year or two ago. From what I hear you’re probably experiencing the same thing in the newspaper business.”
The reporter nodded, frowning briefly. “Tell me about it. I used to just do the cop beat. That was it. All cops, all the time. Now, on top of that, I’m expected to do a touchy-feely feature story a week, cover school board and county trustee and plan commission meetings, even high school musicals and church socials for God’s sake.”
“See what I mean? So what I’m saying is … people need fuel to function like this. There’s a market. They only sold it to their friends in the factories - I don’t think I’m snitching or giving away any big secret or making some great revelation by saying that. The police and anyone reading your article should be able to put at least that much together without my help. I know there are ways you could twist my words here, but, in a way, they were actually helping the local economy. They were helping their friends stay productive, stay employed.”
The reporter raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying our local factories are fueled by meth?”
Gina pointed to the clutter of empty Faygo Diet Cola cans on the reporter’s desk. “How many of those do you go through in an average workday?”
The reporter laughed. He set the iPad on the desk and rolled his chair next to a space between his desk and the far corner of the cubicle. He patted something that made a hollow, tinny sound. “I’ve got three cases right here. That’s maybe a week’s supply.” He reached down and grabbed a fresh can.
Gina allowed herself a thin smile. “My husband was a good man, sir. Probably half your readers will cluck and shake their heads when they read what I said about the factories. But the other half will just nod and agree I’m only telling the truth.”
The reporter nodded, popped open the diet cola, toasted her with it and guzzled down half the can.
“Want one?” he asked, holding up the soda.
“No, thank you.”
“Okay then. So....” He set the can down, picked up the iPad. “What can you tell me about how Randy first got involved with making meth?”