3. Kevin Gets the Goat

The three-bedroom cape with the two-car garage where Sara and Kevin were raising their three girls came with a squarish front yard.

A walkway of circular pavers bisected the lawn and led from the mailbox posted alongside Locust Ave to the front steps.

The first spring after they moved in, Sara and Kevin planted bushes to either side of the three-step, cement entry; those bushes, now a mature display, were pregnant with buds when Kevin drove home in the new car.

Dad getting a new car was a big deal at the Dell household (at least for Kevin, anyway).

“Time to pay homage,” Sara told the girls.

Under a bright, midday sun and a cloudless, sky spring sky, Sara, June, Kai and Zee trooped dutifully out the front doorway and down the steps and turned right past the waking shrubbery, crossing the grass to stand side by side alongside the driveway.

Stared at the vehicle parked in front of the garage.

Kevin joined them.

Settled into his tall-man slouch, hands on hips, looking proud.

Perplexed, Kai asked, “Why’s it a goat?”

Kevin said, “People used to call it that because of its name—GTO. That would be the model name.”

Kai only looked more skeptical.

Zee said, “I like it cuz it’s black.”

Kai quickly answered, “No, it should be yellow or forest green.”

“It looks like all the other cars,” June announced. “Boring.”

Kevin smiled and had a funny look when he answered, “Right you are at that, young lady.”

Smiling, because Kevin was thinking about how the GTO was one of the original muscle cars that came out of the early 1960s.

Muscle cars had big engines and were fast and curvy, but in a masculine way.

The most popular, such as the Mustangs, Cameros and Corvettes, evolved with the times and are enthusiastically sought after to this day.

In a much anticipated revival (to a car guy like Kevin, anyway), the GTO returned to showrooms just last year.

But, the model was largely reviled.

The sayonara for one of the truly great and original muscle cars was a placid looking sedan.

Meh.

Blah.

June was right—boring.

But for Kevin, the reincarnated GTO was a form of art.

Upon reading the specs, he recognized what the engineers had pulled off and had to find the right one.

There’s a saying—a wolf in sheep’s clothing?

Nah.

Kevin was thinking something more like a Jurassic Park velociraptor disguised as a pampered poodle.

Crouched below that boring body was a rugged, enduro inspired frame and underneath the hood breathed a corvette-sourced, 5.7-liter, V-8 engine, coupled to a Tremec, six-speed transmission, which in the hands of an expert (like Kevin), translated into 400 horses and barely a quarter mile to rip past 100 mph.

Fans of the legendary GTO could moan over the disappearance of all that raw masculinity, but for a family guy like Kevin?

A blase surface was a fine fit.

“I’m glad your Dad has a new toy,” Sara said.

Not long after they first met, Kevin went to share with Sara how he really liked to drive an automobile.

They were freshman in college and she got into his AMC Javelin and he drove her to one of his carefully scouted, secluded country roads where Kevin—as he carefully tried to explain—“found a good place to practice.”

Soon as he got up a good head of steam though, Kevin had to slow down even quicker.

Sara was screaming.

Kevin still hasn’t forgiven himself for that.

Making the love of his life slam white-knuckled hands to the dash and scream in terror.

He apologized to the point of verbal self-flagellation, of course.

Sara, being wonderful and understanding, knew that Kevin’s only desire was to share something that he was truly passionate about (other than her, of course).

She also quickly came to understand that her normally cerebral and docile boyfriend could transform behind the wheel.

Onward, whenever Kevin said he was going for one of his “drives”, Sara stayed home.

The birth of June ended Kevin’s solitary ventures sliding along forgotten dirt roads, practicing tricky maneuvers in abandoned parking lots and barrelling around the cambered corners on those afore-mentioned country roads.

Nowadays, Sara was happy to see him slip away every other week, usually around three in the morning.

Kevin would jump on the pike and head east to Palmer and the private driver’s club at the motorsports park.

Return home after hours of hurtling around a challenging, 1.9 mile track, usually with a smudge of grease somewhere on his face, weary and satisfied.

He loved cars. Always had.

The summer when Kevin became too old for Little League, his Dad brought home the Javelin (the ancestor of the Trans Am that Burt Reynolds would make famous in Smokey and the Bandit). He’d gotten it dirt cheap thanks to the oil embargo’s depreciating effect on all big-block engine types.

Kevin and his Dad stripped that 390 four-barrel piece by piece and put it back together again.

A few times.

Kevin learned a lot from that car and when he turned 16, the Javelin was his.

Practical yes, but also nostalgic, Kevin had the Javelin stored at the speedway.

Fortunate to have the finances to properly fund his passion for high performance, there’d been a variety of racing models that Kevin brought to the track over the years; though, currently the only other machine stored alongside his first love was a cherished, 1991 MR2 turbo.

The workings of gears and combustion translated easily for Kevin.

School counselors had encouraged him (sometimes desperately) to follow the footsteps of his brilliant, engineer Dad.

But Kevin loved writing stories, also.

Gathering information and telling a proper story wasn’t so different than rebuilding an engine or coding a program, he’d say.

He just liked the writing stuff a bit more than the other stuff, was all.

Sara gave him a squeeze and said he could take them to The House this weekend in the new car, which made Kevin so pleased that he bent down and locked lips with his wife (both of them adding exaggerated moaning sounds), knowing (without having to look) that June would roll her eyes in disgust.

The girls trooped back inside and Kevin fit his tall body into the GTO and took off for the paper.

***

From the Dell’s it was but a five-minute drive to the Chronicle and Kevin rolled to a stop in the paper’s parking lot just as Sergeant David Brillo hustled across the street from the police station.

The seller of lightning rods arrived just ahead of the storm.

Wondering what put Ray Bradbury’s beautifully ominous opening in mind, Kevin slid from the GTO and headed for the main entrance, where he knew the Sergeant was also heading.

Five-foot-ten with a mustache, tan Class A uniform pressed so the creases stood out, wearing a duty belt and side holster, David Brillo reached the double-door entry first.

“Mr. Dell, after you,” he said, swinging the door.

“Thanks Sarge. Nice to see you.”

“Likewise.”

David Brillo was a veteran of three tours in Vietnam. Transferred to Worthboro as a young trooper from a tough precinct in Brockton 24 years ago and had now run the Worthboro Detective Division for over a decade.

Bold and brash, but in a good way, was how Kevin liked to describe him.

When someone in town commented on Sergeant Brillo’s admirable career, the longtime cop would snap, “I thank my parents for instilling a strong, protestant work ethic.”

And he didn’t give a crap if that comment rubbed you the wrong way.

Kevin stepped through the glass-door front entrance and Brillo followed.

The Chronicle is housed by a single-story building of brick shaped like the letter L, the short end running parallel to Main Street, the long side extending back, with the parking lot between Hart Street and the police station.

The Main Street side of the L serves the business side of the paper.

The entryway opened to a large desk where Dotty Clarendon, simultaneously Office Administrator, Classified Manager and Human Resources, looked up with the phone pressed to her ear. Covered the voice end and mouthed hello as Kevin waived and cut left, the Sergeant on his heel.

Wall paneling from the 60s.

Blue-gray linoleum flooring from the 70s.

Three metal desks to each side form a short aisle through the work area, but only one desk is occupied.

Tom Sizeman, the paper’s lone surviving advertising rep, stared discolant into his computer screen.

Kevin knew the tower below the desk ran Windows 98 and the analog phone set on top of the desk was connected to copper lines likely older than anyone in Worthboro (and probably hadn’t rung all morning).

Tom offered a lazy wave as Kevin and the Sergeant hustled for the pickle room.

The pickle room was built into the corner of the building where the short end of the L meets the long. Half walls of cement, the upper half, clear wired glass.

The cinnamon hair of Jimmy, the Chronicle’s Editor in Chief stood out like a giant pencil eraser set against the back wall marker board.

Kevin and the Sergeant entered through a door frame with no door.

Four chairs set around a scuffed, beige table. Jimmy, seated against the back wall with the marker board, Chip Bryant to his left, shaved head reflected off the glass wall behind him.

Kevin slid right to take the chair opposite Jimmy.

Sergeant Brillo took the chair closest to the doorway and opposite Chip who said, “Hey Sarge, welcome to the fuckin pickle room.”

***

James (Jimmy) O’Brien arrived at the Worthboro Chronicle 34 years ago.

Occasionally, someone asked, why the pickle room?

Jimmy would explain that when he first arrived fresh out of UMass-Amherst, everyone in the building already called the 10 x 14 box the pickle room.

In its hey-day, the Chronicle had four times the staff as today.

When someone needed to hold a meeting, people piled into the only room available that could provide even a semblance of privacy.

Probably worth mentioning that even today, the Chronicle building has never had air conditioning.

So, even for a short meeting, you feel like you’re being pickled in there, ha ha.

Something like that, anyway, Jimmy periodically explained.

Jimmy and the Worthboro Chronicle, a 137-year-old publication, were now symbiotically embraced to the point that neither could live without the other.

And as long as Jimmy remained captain, hard-working reporter Chip Bryant would be his ever-faithful first mate.

Lifers going down with the ship.

Physically and in demeanor though, Jimmy and Chip were on opposite ends of the spectrum.

Jimmy, a stately, noble Great Dane, nearly seven-foot with the help of the sproingy, orangish fro, now fading like a pumpkin left on the vine.

Chip, a foot-and-a-half shorter and the same age, but still with the frenetic energy of a Jack Russell; perpetually red-faced with a white goatee and a predilection for profanity.

“Thanks for coming, Kev,” Jimmy said.

“Yes, good timing, '' Sergeant Brillo added, taking command.

This was his meeting, after all.

That morning the Sergeant had called from the station and requested to meet with Jimmy and Chip.

Jimmy had then called Kevin and asked if he could sit in, Lori desperately needing an afternoon off.

In Kevin’s many years at the paper, thousands of calls had gone from the direction of the paper to Brillo’s office across the street, but never once did he remember the Chief of Detectives initiating.

Brillo was a bit older than Jimmy. His jowls sagged and he didn’t lift weights with the guys anymore, but his voice retained all of its power, carrying the full weight of his responsibility as protector of the people for even longer than Jimmy had been at the paper.

“I would like some help, gentleman,” he said. Leaned back in the chair and folded his hands on the table. Offering the usual, stern look.

“We’ve been having robberies. Break ins.” Shook his head and added, “But not smash-and-grabs. Not what I’m talking about. The usual culprits coming in from Fall River. No. This is different. Expensive shit has gone missing. Jewelry.

“And a number of my guys have gotten similar stories. There’s no evidence of a break-in, so, you know, people are blaming a housekeeper or a kid with a drug habit. Or whatever. They want us to keep it hush hush. Right?”

Brillo took the time to look at everyone at the table. “But I don’t like the pattern. I’ve heard too many similar complaints. Expensive stuff and without any evidence of a break and entry. And since these crimes have a low percentage of reports in the first place, I’m worried there’s even more going on than what we’ve heard about.”

Brillo paused and Jimmy asked, “So what are you getting at?”

Showing concern, the Sergeant lifted and spread his hands and said, “I think we got a real pro going through our town.”

He refolded his hands on the table. “There are certain guys. Called ‘em cat burglars in the old days and people tend to confuse that term with peeping toms and other kinds of bullshit, but that’s not what I’m talking about.

“I’m talking about lone wolves. Guys who’ve learned from the street and in the joint. Older, with experience and tough to catch.”

“So you wanna warn the public,” Chip said.

“Without causing people to panic,” Jimmy added.

“Right,” Brillo said.

Now Jimmy leaned back in his chair. Put on a portrait of pensiveness.

Brillo said, “Gentleman, the thing is, I don’t like the feeling I’m getting.”

Chip asked, “Think there’s something more sinister?”

Brillo took a moment before answering. “If all of this is one individual, as I suspect?” He puffed out his jowls while shaking his head. “The guy’s well prepared. Does his homework.

“But he’s bold, which doesn’t fit. Like I said, these guys are older and cautious. But this … this is different. Makes me nervous of what he might be capable of.”

Chip said, “So you want us to write it up as a rash of break-ins while saying, keep your eyes open?”

“Yeah,” Brillo said. “Give folks a feeling of extra vigilance. And maybe inspire others to come to us. Who might not have considered it, yet.”

“Got it,” Chip answered.

The Sergeant took the time to meet the gaze of each of the three newspaper guys. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and catch the sonofabitch before he moves on to another place.”

Chip asked, “You wanna get started here?”

Brillo threw a thumb to his right, meaning the station across the street. “I’d rather you come over and talk to some of the detectives. I see my name in the paper enough already.”

The meeting was adjourned and Chip followed the Sergeant out of the pickle room and back over to the station.

Jimmy and Kevin remained, as Jimmy had indicated to Kevin that he wanted to talk.

***

In its long history the Worthboro Chronicle has had many iterations.

Currently, the paper was a daily, with the staff putting the pages together for lunchtime publication, Monday through Friday, with the Saturday edition put together on Friday night for the following morning.

Through years of grinding out thousands of papers together, Kevin and Jimmy were great friends.

Downhearted, Jimmy said, “Kev I just don’t have that fire. I mean, I work today so I have to take tomorrow off. But worse, I don’t know if I want to put in the effort anymore.”

Jimmy, 6-foot-9 with a sedentary lifestyle, had two months ago suffered a non-ST elevation myocardial infarction, also known as a mini heart attack. He was now limited to three work days per week, per strict doctor orders.

“Give it time,” Kevin said kindly. “Lori and I got things under control.”

A glum look on his face, Jimmy said, “Not what you signed up for, Kev. Not what Lori signed up for, either.”

“That’s for sure.”

Kevin had returned to the paper with the intent of writing feature articles only (he honestly didn’t care whether he got paid).

But after Jimmy’s heart attack, he found himself racing between the Chronicle and home, just as he did in the old days; only now, it was unpaid hours frantically trying to fill the multitude of roles Jimmy handled for years.

Officially, Jimmy was Editor in Chief, but he was far more than that.

The last decades had been brutal on the newspaper industry and Kevin often surmised that print-only publications were headed out to pasture once the last of the baby boomers like himself reached retirement.

As business marketing moved online, revenue dried and positions were eliminated and Jimmy took on more of the workload.

Even the best of us succumb to too-heavy burdens.

When Jimmy went down, the paperclips and rubber bands that he’d masterfully used over the years to keep the Chronicle afloat disappeared.

Lori Massad, the paper’s Assistant Editor (as well as City Reporter) gallantly took on most of the newside editing role that Jimmy performed on a daily basis.

But, while Lori was supremely capable, she was mother to a pre-adolescent child and had a life outside the newsroom.

“There just aren’t enough hours in a week anymore, is the real problem,” she said. Every day.

Kevin, filling in as Page Designer and Copywriter, as well as assigning stories, scheduling photographers, answering the phone, troubleshooting computers and fixing the damn copier and printer (because Jimmy had always done that), couldn’t agree more.

He looked fondly at his Editor-in-Chief, one of the rare individuals he had to look up to and looked up to. “Come on man,” he gently chided, “Just a few months ago we were down 3 - 0 against the dreaded Yankees. And what happened?”

Jimmy managed a smile.

Kevin couldn’t resist adding, “And the Patriots won their third Super Bowl in four years.”

Jimmy, grateful for the effort, couldn’t help but sigh. “That’s the thing Kev, the world moves on. You saw this coming. I didn’t.”

Kevin knew he wasn’t talking about his health or the Internet or the Patriots’ juggernaut or even the Red Sox ending The Curse and winning their first world series title since 1919.

He said, “I didn't see the challenges of the last decade coming. Nobody did.”

“You keep telling me that newspapers trying to pagenize themselves as some kind of website won’t work.”

“It won’t. More than ever we need people gathering stories. The big newspapers have the finances to make those adjustments. Hopefully.”

“And what replaces what we do at the local level?” Jimmy asked.

“That’s what we should all be worried about.”

Jimmy finally smiled. “Thought you were trying to cheer me up?”

“You’re the one who called me in.”

“Right.”

Jimmy gave Kevin a thoughtful look. Said, “Keep an eye on Chip for me. He’s shook to shit with me being gone so much. Liable to get wound up with this story and be banging on people’s doors and asking too many questions. Driving Brillo crazy.”

“Got it,” Kevin said. “So Sarge called you, eh?”

“Yeah. Peculiar, I know. Guess there’s a real bad guy out there.”

Even the slightest whiff of danger and Kevin’s thoughts immediately turned to his children.

“Brillo was born a bloodhound,” he said with confidence. “He will find him.”