You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.
The Manhunt.
I’ve been on a hundred in my career. Maybe 500.
It’s hard to say.
Friday is another day and another manhunt.
It all starts at the 2pm at the news meeting.
“We want you to look into the killer’s background,” they say.
“OK,” I reply, not sure what they’re talking about.
I’ve watched no news today so I am at a loss.
“He murdered his wife this morning,” they continue. “Chopped her up and put her in a freezer,” they say. “Now he’s on the run and there’s a BOLO across the mid-state for him.
I look at the bewildered producers.
I’m no longer phased by heinous acts of barbarism. After 25 years of covering humanity’s darkest atrocities day after day, I am immune.
“The only thing he forgot to do was kill himself after the 911 call,” I say nonchalantly.
There is some nervous laughter around the table.
“OK, I’ll look into this guy,” I say.
Within 30 minutes the assignment desk summons me.
“The Tennessee Highway Patrol has spotted him and is following him up I-65.”
And that’s it. I’m out the door, driving up I-65.
“Where we going?” my photographer asks.
“Good question,” I respond. Maybe North Nashville, maybe Louisville. Nobody has said.”
It’s crazy if you think about it. We are driving north on I-65 with no idea where we are heading.
We are looking for a white car driven by a maniacal killer. We are looking for a bunch of police cars. We are looking for anything. But where? Side of the road? Off ramps? Gas stations? Truck Stops?
This is not an easy task.
I call my friend the police chief in the last Tennessee city on the Kentucky border along I-65.
He tells me that he has not heard about this pursuit through his jurisdiction. I think he’s pissed nobody has invited him to the party.
He checks with his dispatchers who confirm my tip.
Police chiefs don’t like when they learn of breaking news from a civilian.
He texts me.
“He’s in Kentucky at the 8 mile post.”
I smile.
That call was informational goal.
Now we have a destination. We don’t have to drive to Louisville.
We only have to drive 8 miles into the Blue Grass state.
I get a second text.
“He’s killed himself.”
I smile again.
“you were right,” my photographer said. “The only thing he didn’t do this morning was kill himself. Now he has.”
“Yup. And now we don’t have to rush. He’s not going anywhere.”
My photographer knows it. There will be no chase, no manhunt through the woods. He will not be arrested, cuffed, stuffed and shipped off to the nearest police station.”
This will be one stop shopping at the 8 mile marker.
We know we are getting close when the interstate comes to a screeching halt.
My photographer puts on the wig wag flashing lights and we pull into the emergency lane of traffic.
We drive the next 2 miles past cars that are at a standstill.
We have to be careful not to hit motorists who have exited their vehicles to walk their dogs and stretch their legs.
We finally arrive at a barrage of blue lights.
We are kept 100 yards back, but I can see the little white car on the side of the road. The door is open and there is a sheet over the driver’s door. I see the coroner taking notes.
We are an hour ahead of the nearest competitor.
Why?
Could be a number of reasons, but I am guessing because the other stations don’t have a police chief who is feeding them intel, telling them where to drive to in another state.
I do. And because I do, my station does.
They don’t know how I get what I get.
The station benefits from this information. We are 1st on-line and on air. We exclusively present images and facts the other stations will have to learn from us.
It’s over an hour before the first competitor shows up. We are leaving the scene.
In news, this is an ass whoopin.
We get the 911 tape the killer made to authorities.
It’s so evil it’s hard to listen to.
His voice is calm. His tone is reserved, almost bored.
911 what’s your emergency?
KILLER: I’ve been married twelve years on the fourth. Which would’ve been two nights ago at 4 am. I shot my wife in the temple of her head. I thought I killed her. And I put her in the freezer in the garage, and I checked on her that night and she was not dead. She’s got a big hole in the temple of her head. I saw her body and um um to get her body moved around, I think I broke her ribs, she’s frozen. She can’t talk,she can’t blink. she’s still alive, she’s frozen solid, its amazing she’s still alive. she’s got a big hole in the temple of her head.I shot her with a 38 caliber hand gun. I love her i still love her.”
That call comes in at 2:45 am.
12 hours later he will be dead on the side of the interstate with a self-inflicted gun shot wound.
Senseless.
The newsroom is excited to get the 911 tape.
“It’s crazy good,” a producer says.
Crazy Good?
That means it’s horrific and probably so graphic we won’t be able to air it in its entirety.
I laugh. Crazy good? Spoken like a person who has never been on a manhunt, or even left the newsroom to drive up an endless interstate looking for a killer with no conscious.
Crazy Good?
Nothing about today was crazy good. But that’s news.
Crazy. Evil. Always changing.
Life’s Crazy.