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by Scott Normandin
Roger looked at Tom, but saw nothing
in his eyes that showed any compassion.
He would never have done anything different.
All he cared about was his own selfish purpose.
Roger continued, "Afterward, when
all of the adrenaline wore off, all I could
see for months were the faces of those people.
I can remember each and every one of them
as if it happened two minutes ago. The open
blank staring eyes of men, women and children.
I remember, every face, everything they
wore, the dead child I pulled out of the
flames still clutching her doll. I just
threw her on the pile with the others and
went in for a couple more."
Tom forced a smile, "Yeah, I remember,
that made a great picture. I got a Pulitzer
Prize for that one. You know that picture
was on the front page of one hundred ninety
three major metropolitan newspapers?"
Roger was in awe at the callousness Tom
displayed. He was beginning to feel he wasn't
reaching him.
Roger replied, "The family members
call me up and write me daily telling me
how seeing these pictures over and over
again are hurting them. Each time I see
these photos I relive it, and so do they.
It's like the dead aren't resting. They
are haunting me in dreams every day that
I am reminded of that fateful day. I have
lost almost everything. My wife left me,
my kids just don't talk to me anymore, and
they feel they can't communicate with me.
And the victims' families? They think I
am like you, as if I am asking for all this.
At the same time I get pats on the back
from people placing me in some kind of office
of sainthood or something. Give me my life
back, Tom. I am begging you, please."
Tom was looking down into his lap, in
a way that suggested to Roger that maybe
he was reaching him. Tom looked up at him
and was deep in thought, as if searching
for the right words to say, to maybe ease
this man's suffering.
Tom answered, "I understand. To
you this has been a great tragedy, but to
me it has been the other way around."
Tom actually managed a real smile, "I
am telling you man, I am only twenty three
years old and I already got a Manhattan
office, a secretary, a Pulitzer prize, and
I my photographs are wanted by everyone.
Do you have any idea how this has changed
my life? How much money I have made? How
many years other people work their asses
off and never get to where I am? I mean,
I am getting laid every night!!!!"
Roger had gotten nowhere with Tom and
it was looking like the conversation was
over. Roger had only one more thing to tell
him, and his time was almost up. "Tom,
well I am taking it that you are not willing
to stop this madness no matter whose lives
you are ruining. I didn't think I would
be able to get through to you, and I was
right. However, I had to try, and that's
why I went through such drastic measures
to get those six sticks of dynamite, and
make you listen."
The phone rang again. Roger's time was
up. He picked up the phone and listened
for a moment.
"Yes, officer I know it's been a
half an hour, and it's all over now."
Roger reached into his desk drawer and pulled
out a revolver and pointed it at Tom. Tom
braced for the gunshot. He closed his eyes
tight, clenched his fists and prepared himself
to die. That's when he heard the click.
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