BUT...I BLEW THE INTERVIEW
(© 1997) by KAIN MASSIN
The car careened along the road, swerving from side to side, but still picking up speed. In the foreground, the woman with the baby turned in time to see the car change course for the last time; now, it headed straight at them. The man holding the camera screamed "NO!", but continued filming, frozen with fear. The car flashed through an area of shadow and its driver could be clearly seen. The cameraman finally started moving forward, and the picture began to jump up and down. But it was futile: suddenly the woman and child were framed by the front of the car.
The view jumped again and a dreadful crash could be heard offscreen. The cameraman screamed, a piteous wail wrenched from deep inside him. Then, the picture resolved again. The car was smashed beyond recognition, rammed hard into a huge gum tree. The woman and child, both now crying uncontrollably, cowered behind the massive trunk.
The car was empty, its driver seemingly vanished.
Bishop O’Malley sighed as he watched Father Ravessi finger the remote-control and switch off the VCR. He looked at the hissing static for a few moments. No matter how many times he saw the video, he could never get over being troubled by it. He waited for the silence to stretch a while longer before turning his attention to the stout, third person in the room.
Monsignor Howard glared at the television, his red eyes showing how long his flight had been from Rome. No doubt, he was also suffering jet lag, with his body telling him that it was time to be asleep. A far-from-ideal condition in which to determine whether or not he had just viewed a recorded miracle.
Eventually, the monsignor tore his gaze from the screen and looked directly at O’Malley. "And that has got to be the damndest thing I’ve ever seen." His American accent, exaggerated by his exhaustion, nearly made O’Malley smile: it was rare to hear such an accent in South Australia, except on television. "Are you sure that tape hasn’t been tampered with?" the monsignor continued.
Bishop O’Malley smiled back. "I’ll have to defer to Joseph on this matter, monsignor." He indicated Ravessi. "He’s the one who’s had to do all the detective work on this. I just forwarded the issue to Rome."
"Yes, of course, Patrick," the monsignor smiled. "By the way, the name’s Ben. Let’s keep this as informal as we can, shall we? I’m only here to get the dirt on this matter. The really heavy boys won’t come in unless we definitely find something concrete. Those boys can be real sons of mothers. They’ll make you wish you were facing the Inquisition. Perhaps you should pray that we don’t find the goods.
"Now, Joe, is this tape the real McCoy?"
Ravessi swallowed, uncomfortable with that stern gaze, no matter how "informal" it was supposed to be. He nodded. "Yes mon - Ben. As far as I can determine it shows the actual event. And it concurs with the evidence from other witnesses."
Howard cleared his throat. "Well, I didn’t really have any hopes along that line, anyway. I assumed that you’d check that thoroughly before you contacted Rome. No harm in trying, though. And the woman who’s pushing this issue - this Virginia Wells - that’s the woman with the child, isn’t it?"
"Yes mon - Ben. She’s saying that the driver sacrificed his life."
"Oh, Jesus!" The monsignor groaned. in mock horror "Don’t tell me we’re going to get another application for martyrdom." He sighed heavily, then rubbed his tired eyes. "Can someone get me a large coffee? Then tell me about the driver. This Lance Redding. Has he been found yet?"
Ravessi frowned: This was where it was going to get murky.
(story continues)