Today's five o'clock news

His clammy hands felt clumsy and refused to fit in his pockets. He stopped trying to shove them in once he noticed that the receptionist’s eyes were on him, perhaps for the better since the blue plastic envelope had started to slide out from under his arm. He could just see himself desperately trying to pull out his hands, now stuck in small damp pockets, to gather up his papers after they’d flown all over the place. He readjusted the envelope and resigned himself to the awkwardness of empty hands – better than to crease his documents in their compulsive fidgeting, but unpleasant nonetheless.

“Baxter?” the voice broke the relative silence of the lobby, not so much asking as expectantly stating the name. His head whipped around, fists clenching involuntarily at the sight of the tall woman stalking predatorily towards him. As she approached, he noticed that he towered over her by at least a head, but her fast pace and focused expression gave her an edge and made him sweat under her dark, piercing gaze.

“Miranda Crossgrove.” She extended her arm and raised a thin, almost mocking eyebrow before he hurried to shake it. His stomach clenched as his sweaty palm squelched embarrassingly in her grip. She flashed him the ghost of a smile, barely stretching her lips for a second, a polite façade that was never intended to hold up to the slightest scrutiny.

“I trust HR has given you the tour yesterday? Your first event is tomorrow, so today you’ll be working with Andrews - she’ll be giving you the rundown on all the photo protocols the newspaper has in place.” She’d started walking away as she spoke and he hurried to follow. She didn’t even pretend to pause for him to answer, thankfully. He didn’t want to know how he would fare with words in her presence.

“Although word around the water-cooler is your portfolio is impressive enough to not warrant much instruction.” Her tone said just how highly appreciated it must have been to draw such praise, but her speculative gaze and apathetic expression showed her doubt at his ability to get through a conversation, let alone perform in a professional capacity.

She was right to do so. Peter Baxter was a great photographer, if rather obscure. He was also currently volunteering with orphans in Vietnam and in no position to protest someone fishing through his portfolio and taking credit for his work. And technically stealing his identity. Harry had taken no delight in breaking into the poor man’s home and rummaging around for his driver’s license or paying a back-alley hacker to get into his computer, but needs must. There was a limited number of very good photographers he vaguely resembled that also had little to no social media presence outside of work accounts (two, there were only two that he had found after a week of searching). Peter had been the unlucky schmuck that lived alone and was conveniently leaving the country at just the right time - only for two weeks, but it would be more than enough time.

Andrews wasn’t at her desk when they finally reached it and Miranda’s lips puckered, his own fingers going white and bloodless at the visible sign of her displeasure. A week of her company might just end up giving him an ulcer. She left him to wait on his own, awkwardly shifting his weight from leg to leg, back against the wall so as not to impede free traffic on the corridor, not daring to breach his boss’ space, invade her office, without her there.

 He dreaded Andrews coming back from her early break. She might be a more creative Miranda - who probably wouldn’t appreciate him calling her by her first name, but surnames had a way of fleeing his head the second he heard them. Some organisations attracted similar people, all of them alike in feeling if not looks. It might be even worse if she was different - if she turned out to be personable and excited about her work. She was expecting the guy behind the pictures she’d evaluated, the one who masterfully captured the quiet dignity of the elderly or the burning spirit of a protester. Harry was a good photographer, but more of the Instagram variety than the art gallery kind. All of the pictures had been carefully chosen to get him this job. He’d only left in the portraits and the candids, letting the quality of the work do the talking. It had worked, since he’d been hired as the photographer for politics and current events in spite of an interminable nerve-wracking interview he’d stuttered and mumbled senselessly his way though, all the while slowly sweating through his ill-fitting suit jacket.

The sound of porcelain shattering in the distance broke him out of his reverie. He lifted his eyes from the tasteful but bland and worn carpeting and cast a look down the corridor, but there was nothing new to be seen. The sound of yelling made its way to him, high pitched and furious, but too far away to make out the words. The intern in the cubicle on the opposite side of the corridor took in a shuddering breath and looked ready to cry.

“It’s barely nine in the morning, Andrews, keep some for later.” He was muttering to himself and would not be overheard by his colleagues, both of which were equipped with bulky headphones and looked immersed in their work.

So Andrews was not like Miranda after all. Miranda looked like she would hiss and threaten you in a vicious whisper. Andrews obviously had no such qualms about privacy or maintaining silence in a shared working space when it came to expressing her take on the depth of someone’s ineptitude. His abdomen was uncomfortably tight and he could feel his short fingernails start to dig into the meat of his palms but was helpless to release the pressure. He was not made for high-stress situations, his brain pointed out as his breaths shortened and he broke into a sweat. No, he acknowledged, not if they involved talking to people. Thankfully he was much better about actual emergency management or his plans would have never gotten to start, let alone the chance to be played out in the following days.

The TV was turned on, silent in the background but still showing mayor Hawkins as Clark worked. As the Editor in Chief the work really took up all of his scheduled hours, but he liked to keep an eye on most events where they sent newspaper representatives. The sudden blur of movement on the screen caught his attention and he watched as the man fell over his podium, a red stain blooming against the luminous white of his shirt. People were panicking, the camera transmitting live starting to jostle as the crowd hurried towards the back of the room and out the door, only a crafty few choosing to go on the stage and use the access doors there. Peter was one of them. Clever boy, if he hurried out through the backstage he could make it outside before they cordoned off the entire block – none of the members of the stampede would be let out by security at the building entrance, not until everyone was searched, interviewed and taken note of for the investigation follow-up.

His newest staff member wouldn’t have to suffer through all of that. He was prepared for action, probably because he’d been the shooter. There was a reason he’d hired Peter. Sure, his beautiful portfolio helped, but what had sealed the deal was how little he resembled the image on his ID. It was close enough that most people wouldn’t question it – not everyone had Clark’s eye for faces. There were a limited number of reasons to apply for a job that would get you into places under a fake identity and he’d gotten lucky. He still had the contact numbers of his second and third choices for the post, so it would be filled by next Monday – thankfully photography was one of the job markets that never lacked talent in search of a steady, paid job.

 Really, Clark had done nothing to incriminate himself, the opportunity catching his eye just ripe for the picking. Hawkins’ repulsive policies and corrupt entourage would cease to drain the life out of the city without him having to dirty his hands. A long career in the media had shown him both the power as well as the powerlessness of information. Exposing someone over and over wasn’t always enough to accomplish much of anything and a more straight-forward approach had been required.

The police would be by soon enough for a statement. He turned the news to channel five to better get into a suitable mood for that encounter. The blatant lies the commentators casually dropped into the conversation never failed to evoke the right mix of anger and surprise.