My whole body is vibrating. I’m too excited to sit down. Too anxious to possibly think about dinner. All I can do is pace from the window to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the window, over and over, chewing the thumbnail of one hand and obsessively refreshing Twitter with the other.
But the television gets to it first.
Just as the six o’clock local broadcast is about to wrap up, the anchors turn serious.
“We’re going to delay your regular seven p.m. programming to bring you some breaking news out of Bethesda,” says the woman at the channel 4 desk. A red banner begins to tick across the bottom of the screen:Body recovered from Grovemont home.
I dive toward the TV and kneel in front of it like a kid glued to Saturday morning cartoons. My heart rages so loudly I worry I won’t be able to hear the report. I crank up the volume.
“We’ll toss it to Chad Benson, who arrived on the scene earlier this evening,” says the anchor. “Chad, what can you tell us?”
The camera cuts from the studio to a live shot. The dream housefills the screen, still immaculate even in the downpour. Even with yellow police tape strung between wooden stakes in the shining front lawn. Even with grim-looking cops milling around, and a medical examiner’s van parked out front.
Chad’s report starts as a voiceover, allowing the house to linger on center stage: “Thanks, Doreen. That’s right, I’m here in Grovemont, a mostly residential neighborhood in Bethesda, where we just saw the medical examiner wheel a body bag out of the home you see on your screen. He was followed closely by another gentleman carrying a very large black suitcase. A spokeswoman for Montgomery County police tells me there’s so far no information to share about the identity of the deceased, but she does confirm this is being investigated as a homicide.”
The shot zooms out—I can tell now that the camera is stationed across the street from the house. Chad enters the frame, wearing a black rain slicker, his generically handsome face fixed into made-for-TV concern.
“I can tell you this is normally a very quiet, family-centric part of town. Neighbors here are quite shaken.”
A smile tugs at the corners of my lips.
“One of them, a man who did not wish to appear on camera, says police first arrived here just after four o’clock. I should also note for our viewers that this home is currently for sale. The Redfin listing”—Chad holds his phone screen up for the camera—“says there was an open house here on Saturday. We don’t yet know whether that’s in any way related to what’s happened here, but it does seem significant that dozens, if not hundreds of strangers have had access to the house in recent days. Neighbors tell me the property was swarmed all weekend long. The details of this horrific story are clearly still developing, but we’ll be sure to bring you more information as soon as we have it. For now, in Bethesda, I’m Chad Benson, News 4.”
The studio comes back into view, Doreen and her male co-anchor both shake their heads in disbelief.
“My goodness, Jim, a real tragedy seems to be unfolding there,” says Doreen.
“It sure does,” says Jim. “Beautiful neighborhood, too.”
33
By morning, the murder victim in the house-for-sale isn’t just the top local story. All of cable news is collectively orgasming over it. At some point, our friend Chad Benson from channel 4 started using the hashtag #BethesdaBasementBody and now that’s everywhere, too—viral doesn’t cover it. The story made the A block of bothGood Morning Americaand theToday Show, and all this before they’ve even identified the remains. The only thing police have confirmed is that the homeowners and their young daughter are unharmed.
Who could’ve been inside that suitcase is pretty much all anyone’s been able to talk about on my office Slack. Which is great for me, since I’m far too wired to get any work done. I never made it to bed last night; I’ve been wide awake, here on the sofa, flipping between CNN and all the networks for hours. Now it’s almost noon, which means the local news is about to come on again.
My phone rings from the coffee table. It’s Derrick.
“How are you holding up?” he asks.
“I think I’m just kind of numb,” I say, twirling my fingers in the white patch on Fritter’s back while he naps next to me. “It’s all just so tragic, I can’t really wrap my head around it.”
I suppress a grin so Derrick won’t hear the elation in my voice.
“I know what you mean,” he says, letting out a sigh. “Twenty years in real estate and I’ve never dealt with anything even close to this.”
“Yeah, it’s horrific.”
I’m doing my best to sound sympathetic, but good Christ, when is he getting to the point?
“Have you, um, heard anything from the sellers?” I prod gently. “I can’t even imagine what they must be going through.”
“Well, that’s why I’m calling,” he says. “Crass as it may be, business marches on, you know?”
I laugh weakly.
“Theresa called a minute ago,” he continues. “She says the police should be done processing the house in a day or two. But it’s hard to tell if she really knows that for sure, or if she’s only trying to paint a rosier picture than what’s all over the TV.”
“Mmm.” The twelve o’clock broadcast starts in one minute. Doesn’t he realize that?
