Vengeance Road. Rick Mofina

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      A deputy with the Erie County Sheriff’s Office said, “Yeah, we’ve got people there, but the SP is your best bet.”

      He called the New York State Police at Clarence Barracks. Trooper Felton answered but put him on hold, thrusting Gannon into Bruce Springsteen’s “The River.”

      Listening to the song, Gannon considered the faded news clippings pinned to low walls around his desk, his best stories, and the dream he’d pretty much buried.

      He never made it to New York City.

      Here he was, still working in Buffalo.

      The line clicked, cutting Springsteen off.

      “Sorry,” Felton said, “you’re calling from the Sentinel about Ellicott Creek?”

      “Yes. What do you have going on out there?”

      “We’re investigating the discovery of a body.”

      “Do you have a homicide?”

      “Too soon to say.”

      “Is it a male or female? Do you have an ID, or an age?”

      “Cool your jets there. You’re the first to call. Our homicide guys are there, but that’s routine. I got nothing more to release yet.”

      “Who made the find?”

      “Buddy, I’ve got to go.”

       A body in Ellicott. That was a nice area.

      He had to check it out.

      He tucked his notebook into the rear pocket of his jeans and grabbed his jacket, glancing at the senior editors in the morning story meeting in the glass-walled room at the far west side.

       Likely discussing pensions, rather than stories.

      “Jeff, tell the desk I’m heading to Ellicott Creek.” He tore a page from his notebook with the location mapped out. “Get a shooter rolling to this spot. We may have a homicide.”

       And I may have a story.

      3

      Gannon hurried to the Sentinel’s parking lot and his car, a used Pontiac Vibe, with a chipped windshield and a dented rear fender.

      The paper was downtown near Scott and Washington, not far from the arena where the Sabres played. The fastest way to the scene was the Niagara leg of the New York State Thruway to 90 north.

      Wheeling out, with Springsteen in his head, Gannon questioned where he was going with his life. He was thirty-four, single and had spent the last ten years at the Buffalo Sentinel.

      He looked out at the city, his city.

       And there was no escaping it.

      Ever since he was a kid, all he wanted to be was a reporter, a reporter in New York City. And it almost happened a while back after he broke a huge story behind a jetliner’s crash into Lake Erie.

      It earned him a Pulitzer nomination and job offers in Manhattan.

      But he didn’t win the prize and the offers evaporated.

      Now it looked like he’d never get to New York. Maybe this reporter thing wasn’t meant to be? Maybe he should do something else?

       No way.

      Being a reporter was written in his DNA.

       One more year.

      He remembered the ultimatum he’d given himself at the funeral.

       One more year to land a reporting job in New York City.

       Or what?

      He didn’t know, because this stupid dream was all he had. His mother was dead. His father was dead. His sister was—well, she was gone. His ultimatum kept him going. The ultimatum he’d given himself after they’d lowered his parents’ caskets into the ground eleven months ago.

       Time was running out.

      Who knows? Maybe the story he needed was right here, he told himself while navigating his way closer to the scene, near Ellicott Creek.

      It was on the fringes of a lush park.

      Flashing emergency lights splashed the trees in blood red as he pulled up to a knot of police vehicles.

      Uniformed officers were clustered at the tape. Gannon saw nothing beyond them but dense forest, as a stone-faced officer eyed his ID tag then assessed him.

      “It’s way in there. There’s no chance you media maggots are getting any pictures of anything today.”

      The others snickered.

      Gannon shrugged it off. He’d been to more homicides than this asshole. Besides, guys like that never deterred him. If anything, he thought, tapping his notebook to his thigh, they made him better.

       All right, pal, if there’s a story here, I’m going to find it.

      After some thirty minutes of watching detectives in suits, and forensics people in overalls, walk in and out of the forest, Gannon was able to buttonhole a state police investigator with a clipboard heading to his unmarked sedan.

      “Hey, Jack Gannon from the Buffalo Sentinel. Are you the lead?”

      “No, just helping out.”

      “What do you have?”

      Gannon stole a glimpse of the data on his clipboard. Looked like statements.

      “We’re going to put out a release later,” the investigator said.

      “Can you give me a little information now?”

      “We don’t have much, just basics.”

      “I’ll take anything.”

      “A couple of walkers discovered a female body this morning.”

      “Is it a homicide?”

      “Looks that way.”

      “What age and race is the victim?” Gannon asked.

      “I’d put her in her twenties. White or Native American. Not sure.”

      “Got an ID?”

      “Not confirmed. We need an autopsy for that.”

      “Can I talk to the walkers?”

      “No, they went home. It was a disturbing scene.”

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