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Anson Hastings looked across his desk at the blue-eyed blonde who looked like she was about to jump up and lead a cheer for the Puritan Falls Patriots high school football team. “And what job are you interested in getting?” the owner of the local TV station WPTZ asked. Brenda Cashman, who had graduated from PFHS two weeks earlier, had a good idea of where she wanted to begin her career. “I want to be a reporter. I’d be willing to start as the weather girl, but my goal is to be the news anchor.” Anson’s eyes bulged, and he nearly swallowed his Nicorette gum as he fought the urge to laugh. Once he recovered his composure, he asked, “Do you have any experience in television journalism?” “Not exactly, but I was the editor of my school newspaper.” Hastings took a sip of his coffee and silently cursed his luck. With the economy in such a sorry state, the station’s financial situation was precarious. Brenda’s father owned a large car dealership and was the station’s leading advertiser. So when Artie Cashman came to Anson asking that the station owner give his little girl a job, what else could Hastings do but say yes? Of course, Anson had thought more along the lines of a receptionist job. He had no idea the girl would want to be on the air. “Maybe I could start you out as a copy editor,” Hastings offered. “How’s your grammar?” “It’s not bad, but I don’t want some boring desk job. I want to be on TV. Who knows? I might be the next Barbara Walters or Oprah Winfrey.” Anson was momentarily speechless. The girl might just as well have said she wanted to serve on the Supreme Court or run for president. “We usually require our interns to have either a degree in broadcast journalism or some prior reporting experience.” Brenda’s blue eyes registered disappointment. “Oh, well,” she sighed. “I’ll just ask Daddy to talk to the people at WOAR. They’re a much larger station; maybe they have an opening.” As Hastings saw WPTZ’s single largest source of revenue slipping away, he made a hasty decision. “There must be some way you can fit into our organization. I suppose we can start you out doing on-location pieces. You know, covering the goings on about town.” “Will I be on TV?” the former cheerleader gushed. “Yes, and often live, so I hope you’re not subject to attacks of stage fright,” he laughed. “Who me? I was both homecoming and prom queen, so I’m used to being the center of attention.” I’ll bet you are, Hastings thought as he spit out his Nicorette gum and reached into the back of his desk drawer where he kept a pack of Marlboros, just in case of an emergency. This, he thought glumly as he watched the bubbly blonde bounce out of his office, certainly qualifies as an emergency. * * * Brenda’s first assignment was a small one: a sixty-second spot announcing the opening of the annual science fair at Puritan Falls High Middle School. Hastings watched the tape with Ray Delgado, the station’s news producer, and was surprised at how well Brenda did. “The camera loves her,” Ray observed. Hastings, however, was less interested in how attractive his new intern looked than in how well she read the lines on the teleprompter. “She seems relaxed, she enunciates her words and she speaks at a proper volume and speed,” he declared as though going down a checklist. “Where did you find her?” the producer asked. “Her father is Artie Cashman of Cashman Motors.” “Ah,” Ray replied, his one syllable indicating his total grasp of the situation. “Well, at least she’s good.” “Yes.” Hastings sighed as he turned his attention back to the intern. “Thank God for that!” After a dozen similar assignments, Brenda graduated from being an intern to becoming a full-fledged member of the Channel 6 news team. * * * Things went smoothly until one summer day when Brenda was reporting live on the closing of a nursing home in Copperwell. In the middle of her broadcast, her blue eyes glazed over, her face lost its usual animated quality and her voice lapsed into a monotone. “This just in,” the young reporter droned. “There has been a three-car accident at the intersection of Old Bridge and Naumkeag Roads. Seventeen-year-old Barry Rankin, the captain of the Patriots, and three other students from Puritan Falls High School have been fatally injured.” “What’s she doing?” the producer asked his assistant who was seated beside him in the control room. “Is she high or something? Get her off the air for chrissakes.” The plug was figuratively pulled, and a commercial for Mr. Whiskers cat food was quickly put on the air. No sooner did the Mr. Whiskers jingle begin than the lights on the switchboard lit up. “Wait until Hastings hears this,” the producer predicted. “The shit’ll really hit the fan.” It didn’t take long. The receptionist had fielded only three calls before the owner of WPTZ stormed into the control room. “What the hell was that all about?” he screamed. In the middle of the station owner’s harangue, the receptionist popped her head in the control room. “Mr. Hastings,” she said, cutting the owner off mid-sentence. “That was Officer Shawn McMurtry on the phone. There’s just been an accident at the intersection of Old Bridge and Naumkeag. Four teenagers were killed, including Barry Rankin.” At that point no one but the four people in the control room knew that Brenda’s bizarre broadcast predicted the tragedy four and a half minutes before the accident actually occurred, and not one of them knew what to make of the strange situation. When Anson regained his senses after momentarily being flabbergasted by Brenda’s jaunt into the Twilight Zone, he immediately sent her to the scene of the accident to cover the story. The station’s anchor was notified, and as soon as the reporter and cameraman were ready, he announced, “Now a late-breaking story. We go to Old Bridge Road, the scene of a tragic crash, where Brenda Cashman is live with Officer Shawn McMurtry of the Puritan Falls Police Department.” People watching the news didn’t think it odd that Brenda’s broadcast was interrupted by a series of commercials nor that it was begun in Copperwell and concluded in Puritan Falls. A number of viewers assumed some bonehead at the station wasn’t paying attention to his job and pushed the wrong button; others were too shocked by the deaths of the four teenagers to notice. * * * “How did you know?” Hastings asked Brenda when she returned to the station. “Know what?” she countered. “About the accident?” “Zoe called me on my cell phone and told me to get over to Old Bridge Road ASAP.” “I mean before that.” The puzzled look on the blonde’s face was not feigned. Apparently, she wasn’t aware of her mysterious prediction. “Have you ever known something was going to happen before it did?” Anson pressed. “Well, yeah. I knew Jimmy was going to ask me to the prom before he did. I knew Kyle and Denise would break up right after graduation. I knew….” “Never mind,” Anson said, feeling like he’d been thrust into an episode of Saved by the Bell or whatever youngsters were watching these days. “You did a good job on the accident report.” “Does that mean I can start training for the news desk?” “Not just yet. After all, just because a high school pitcher throws a no-hitter, it doesn’t mean he’s ready to play for the Red Sox.” “I was thinking more along the lines of starting for the Yankees myself,” the blonde said with a wink as she exited her boss’ office. Had the foretelling of the fatal crash been an isolated event, no one would probably have ever considered Brenda’s prediction as anything by a weird fluke. But the incident proved to be only the beginning. Two weeks before Christmas the reporter was at Puritan Falls Mall reporting on the success of the Marine’s Toys for Tots campaign when she again slipped into a strange trance-like state. “A bomb exploded in Baghdad early this morning and claimed the lives of seven U.S. servicemen and women including that of Elroy Cousins from Boston. Cousins, whose tour of duty in Iraq was coming to an end, was due to return home in time to spend the holidays with his family.” Ray Delgado closed his eyes and waited for the sound of the slamming door to announce Anson’s arrival in the control room. The producer didn’t have long to wait. * * * Once again Brenda’s prediction came true, and once again only the people in the control room were aware that the reporter’s story before was broadcast before the event happened. Only this time, no one shrugged the incident off as a fluke. Hastings turned to his producer. “What do you think we should do about the situation?” Delgado’s eyebrows rose. “I honestly don’t know. They didn’t teach clairvoyance at Penn State. But I do think we ought to keep a lid on the whole psychic phenomenon. Once word gets out, The National Tattler and every other tabloid will be all over the station.” Hastings winced. His organization reported the news; he had no desire to see it become the news. “I’d hate to have to fire the kid,” the station owner said. “Despite my initial misgivings, she’s become a pretty good reporter.” He did not add that Cashman Motors had increased the number of its advertising slots once Daddy’s Little Girl began her broadcasting career. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” the producer opined. “Let’s just stop the live broadcasts. We’ll tape and preview all her stories before they go on the air.” “She might think we’ve lost confidence in her.” “You can tell her we’re grooming her to be an investigative reporter.” “Better yet,” Hastings said, “I’ll tell her we’re putting her on the fast track to becoming anchor. After all, if this kid wants to pitch for the Yankees, she’s gotta spend time in Scranton-Wilkes Barre first.” The producer, who didn’t follow baseball, failed to get the joke, but Anson didn’t bother explaining. * * * During the following year, Brenda accurately foretold an earthquake in Central America, the outcome of a gubernatorial race, a fire in a California theme park, a breakthrough in cancer research, the collapse of a long-established financial institution and the death of a beloved Hollywood icon. Although she was shown filmed evidence of her unusual gift and had come to accept its existence, Brenda couldn’t explain it, for she was not aware of anything when she fell into a trance. The reporter’s prophecies were kept within the organization. No one dared spread word of her psychic visions once Hastings insisted all his employees sign a confidentiality agreement. There was also the certainty that should word get out, someone would lose his or her job. Then, on the afternoon of December 18, after most of the employees of WPTZ left early to get ready for the station’s annual Christmas party, Brenda went into the studio to tape a short piece on a local building inspection scandal that would air on the eleven o’clock news. “All right,” the producer said, as the makeup man powdered Brenda’s face. “This should only take about fifteen to twenty minutes. We’ll be out of here in plenty of time to make it to the Sons of Liberty in time for cocktails.” Several moments later the cameraman and teleprompter operator were ready. The hairdresser patted down an errant lock of Brenda’s hair, and the reporter cleared her throat. But when the tape began to roll, Brenda’s normally shiny eyes glazed over, and the crew steeled themselves for what was about to happen. “An English professor from Essex Green may be granted tenure not at the college but at the Essex County Correctional Facility. The popular teacher is wanted in connection with the disappearance of a student missing since early December.” At the conclusion of the impromptu newscast, Brenda’s demeanor returned to normal, and she read the script on the teleprompter without incident. “Is that it?” she asked when she was finished. “I’ve got to run home and get changed for the party.” The producer nodded to her and then signaled to the film editor to cut out all references on the tape to both the missing girl and the English professor. Later that night, at the Sons of Liberty Tavern, the television station’s employees were in various stages of inebriation. Their voices were raised, and their tongues were looser than normal. Regrettably, Brenda’s latest revelation became a topic of conversation. “She said some English professor is to be questioned in connection with that college kid’s disappearance,” the makeup man declared in a voice that carried to the surrounding tables. “I said from the start that the police are never gonna find that kid alive,” his companion replied. “This professor must have killed her.” No one in the boisterous crowd noticed a handsome middle-aged man at a corner table drop his martini glass on the Tavern’s carpeted floor. * * * “I don’t get it,” the news producer said to Hastings the following day at their regularly scheduled morning meeting. “I checked with McMurtry over at the PFPD, and he said there’s been no word about an English professor being linked to the girl’s disappearance. On the contrary, the detective in charge believes she ran away with a boyfriend, possibly to get married.” “Brenda has never been wrong before,” Hastings declared. “There’s always a first time for everything.” Anson sighed. “Maybe the faulty prediction means Brenda is losing her power. It would be nice to have done with all this supernatural crap, wouldn’t it?” Delgado agreed. “It would certainly make my job easier.” While both men were looking forward to more normal working conditions, neither one guessed that Brenda’s latest prediction would also prove true with time. * * * On Christmas Day, most of the station’s employees with seniority were given the day off, leaving the less experienced staff to fill in. The same was true for the news crew. The station’s number one and two anchors were home with their families, and one of the senior reporters was given the opportunity of filling the chair for the day. Brenda, although one of the lowest people on the seniority totem pole, was asked to co-anchor the morning news, an unprecedented opportunity for one so young. Anson suggested the temporary assignment in the hope that her father would remember his generosity in the upcoming year. On the morning of December 25, the station owner tuned into channel 6 and caught the last ten seconds of the Mr. Whiskers jingle. After the station identification, the camera zoomed in on the anchor. “Happy holidays to all our viewers. I’m Dale O’Connor, and this is Action 6 News. Our top story this morning….” Hastings felt as though his Christmas Eve dinner was about to be regurgitated. He reached inside his pocket, pulled out his cell phone and called the station. The assistant producer answered after only one ring. “What’s wrong?” the owner asked. “Why isn’t Brenda sitting opposite Dale?” “She never showed up,” the assistant producer replied. “We tried calling her, and we even sent someone over to her apartment. We can’t find her anywhere.” Anson closed his eyes, already feeling a headache coming on. “I’ll call her father. Maybe she’s with her family. Meanwhile, have Dale go solo. Tell him I’ll make it up to him.” Although the sun had yet to rise, Hastings poured himself a glass of spiked eggnog before dialing Artie Cashman’s number. As he’d feared, the client had no idea where his daughter was. “Perhaps she overslept,” the father offered, trying to reassure himself more than his daughter’s employer. “I have a key to her apartment. I’ll go over and wake her up.” Anson downed another cup of eggnog as he waited for Artie to get back to him. The morning news coverage was almost at end when his phone rang. He hardly recognized the voice on the other end of the line; it was so choked with emotion. The news wasn’t good. Brenda Cashman was dead. Her father had found her body on the living room floor of her apartment. She’d been murdered by a blow to the head. * * * Despite the death of a young and well-liked employee, the news, like life, had to go on. On December 26 the regular anchors returned to work to cover the death of their colleague. When Hastings walked into his office shortly after six in the morning, he was surprised to find Ray Delgado waiting there for him. “You’re in early. What’s the occasion?” the owner asked. “I have something I want to show you,” the producer said and led Anson to the control room. “This clip was edited out of Brenda’s last broadcast. We didn’t pay much attention to it since her last prediction proved false.” He lowered his head and added sheepishly, “Plus we were all anxious to leave early and spend Christmas Eve with our families.” Ray Delgado pressed a button on the console, and Brenda’s smiling face appeared on the monitor. “Today a lowly reporter,” she laughed, “and tomorrow co-anchor. And I’ll bet Anson Hastings never thought I’d make it.” Her good spirits immediately vanished, and she stared, dazed, into the camera. “This just in. Channel 6 newscaster Brenda Cashman was found dead in her apartment this morning by her father, Artie Cashman, owner of Cashman Motors. The young journalist was killed by Professor Derek Stanley of Essex Green in an attempt to keep her from revealing details of a previous murder the teacher committed. Professor Stanley’s first victim was missing student, Libby Van Winkle. Miss Van Winkle’s body was buried in a wooded area near the old Puritan Falls Church and Cemetery.” The film clip ended, and the monitor went blue. Anson Hastings spit out his Nicorette gum and buzzed his secretary. “Call Shawn McMurtry over at the Puritan Falls PD and ask him to come here as soon as possible.” The biggest news story in Puritan Falls history was about to break. It would most likely be picked up by all networks and cable news stations across the country, but the prospect brought Hastings and Delgado no satisfaction, for both men were trying to deal with the guilty knowledge that they might have saved Brenda Cashman’s life had they not been so quick to discount her earlier prediction as false. As they waited for Officer McMurtry to arrive, the two men continued to stare at the blue screen of the monitor in silence, while from somewhere in the station, the cheerful sound of the Mr. Whiskers jingle added a jarring soundtrack to the solemn occasion.
It doesn't take a psychic to predict who will show up when the Mr. Whiskers jingle plays on my television.
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