"Chief, I have a preliminary report on the 68-year-old man who died on on the bench at 117 S. State Street."
"From the ME? "
"Yep. And some passersby who saw him there."
"Chief, are you ready?"
The Chief, AKA - Editor-in-Chief Jon M. Swinehart, was your typical gruff newspaper man, born of a crusty personality and honed by 40 years working the crime beat. Underneath this crusty exterior, Editor Swinehart, despite his name being 'the heart of a pig', actually had a heart of gold.
But he was so loath to let anyone know he was a softy that he kept his crusty exerior face forward. It seemed to Calista, the city's ace news reporter, that Swinehart was lost in thought. Again.
"Chief?"
"Oh. Yeah. Right, Flockman. Calista, I mean. Shoot. Tell me about the man."
"Well, Chief. He was a former prize-winning author in Peachblossom, Georgia. Age, 68. Death was from mycocardial infarction, with complications from diabetes. His name was...."
"Wait. Flockman. I know that man. Went to school with him, as a matter of fact."
"Really, Jon? i mean, Chief Swinehart."
"Damn straight, Flockman. He was Joseph M. McNibbon III, right?"
"Yeah." I was nothing short of amazed.
"Yeah. Old New England Familiy. Long on money, long on brains. Short on love."
"That is so sad. Chief, what else do you know about him?"
"He took to Johnny Walker and Wild Turkey after his third wife left him."
"Sad."
"But typical. But, Flockman. I knew him before all that happened. He could write like nobody's business. A combination of Hunter S. Thompson, Jack Kerouac and John Steinbeck."
"Wow."
"So, Flockman. Get me his file from the morgue. And file an obit with sidebars on his life, excerpts from his writings. Before 3 p.m."
"Right, Chief."
"And Flockman."
"Yeah?"
"You're the best we've got. But remember, don't do what McNibbon did."
"Drink Scotch and Bourbon?"
"No, Flockman. Give up. Never give up. Now, Get to it. Your deadline is in 2 hours."
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Comments: 47
ISABEL, thank you.