The Other Daniel - A Camille Grisham Novella by John Hardy Bell Page A

laid out. The problem has been getting people to talk
to me."
    "I thought all you needed was some
background on the guy. How hard is it to get people to talk about
what kind of teacher he was?"
    "Now that word is
spreading that this book is some kind of sympathy piece on Sykes,
which we both know isn't true, it's been incredibly hard. I've been
to Pennsylvania twice now. I've seen where Sykes grew up, visited
the school he taught in, I even sat through a church service with
his old pastor. The people I encountered couldn't have been nicer,
until I told them who I was and what I was doing there. Then I suddenly felt like the
mass-murderer. People hate this man. Even the ones who love him
hate him. To them, the life he lived prior to becoming a killer
doesn’t even exist."
    For the duration of Jacob's ham-handed
explanation, Meredith found herself doodling on her desktop
calendar. It was a portrait of her family - husband, herself, and
three daughters in stick figure form with tall grass, lush trees,
and a smiling sun high above. Her six-year-old would have been
proud of the craftsmanship. The doodle was designed to keep her
calm, to maintain perspective, to prevent her from unleashing an
unruly temper on her already fragile client. It only worked for a
moment.
    "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I assumed the
purpose of this book was to use the people in Sykes' life – namely
family and friends - to show the world that he was more than the
headlines portrayed him to be."
    Jacob ran fingers across the dense stubble
on his otherwise smooth, youthful face. “That’s right.”
    "So if you can't talk to these people, you
don't have a book. Is that what you’re telling me?"
    The author's long frame sank deep into his
chair, weighed down by the defeat of her perceived rejection. In
addition to being prideful, writers were entirely too damn
sensitive, Meredith thought. She forced a smile in hopes of easing
the tension.
    "Okay, what do you say we change course here
and do a little brainstorming. Is there anyone on your list whom
you haven't yet spoken to?"
    Jacob remained quiet and Meredith could see
the wheels of his memory turning. When his blank eyes met hers a
few moments later, she knew what the outcome of his mental query
had been. Still, she waited for him to say it.
    "Not really."
    Meredith's sigh was louder than she
intended.
    "Cut me some slack here, would you? It's not
like I can talk to any of Sykes' victims. In case you haven't kept
up with the story, they're all dead. That leaves me with a bunch of
family members and friends who spend most of their waking hours
trying to disown the guy. I've tried just about everything short of
putting a gun to their heads. Trust me, no one is biting."
    The resolve in Jacob's
voice almost had Meredith convinced of the futility of the project
and she had just begun contemplating how she was going to recoup
the publisher's advance. Then she thought about something Jacob
said: I've tried just about everything
short of putting a gun to their heads . It
came to her like a flash of light, so brilliant that it almost
blinded her. An idea. A solution. A book.
    "Camille Grisham."
    Jacob's mouth flew open before he could
formulate the words to come out of it. "The FBI agent?"
    "Former FBI agent," Meredith corrected.
"Look, I understand it's a bit outside of the box."
    "A bit?"
    "But it's also the perfect angle. Camille is
the only person we know of who saw the worst of Sykes and lived to
tell the tale."
    "The problem is she isn't telling that tale
to anyone. Do you know how many people have angled for the rights
to her story? We're talking huge names offering huge money. And
Camille has said no each and every time. What makes you think she'd
give me two seconds, let alone enough sit-down material for an
entire book?"
    He made a good point, and deep down Meredith
knew he was probably right. But she refused to let her enthusiasm
be sobered by something as trivial as reality. She wrote the