Chapter 9: Vanessa

Vanessa's Ford sped down the road.

Fortunately, she encountered no police along the way, allowing her to reach the disposal site within fifteen minutes.

But Vanessa didn't rush to get out of the car, for she knew exactly where she was: a chaotic neighborhood frequented by homeless men and Black people.

It might have been fine during the day, but now it was nearly 8 p. m., and this area had grown decidedly unsafe in her eyes.

Only because of a major story would she risk coming here.

So she pulled over across the street, reached into her bag, pulled out a pepper spray, and shoved it into her chest, then took the taser from the glove compartment and stuffed it into her backpack.

After preparing herself, she stepped out of the car and walked quickly toward the garbage site's entrance.

"Tap-tap-tap."

Roger heard the sound of high heels outside and cracked the door open a sliver to look out.

Sure enough, a young female journalist with an elegant figure stood at the entrance.

"Seattle Times?" Roger asked.

"Correct. You're the one who called?" Vanessa stared at Roger's face and clothing.

Although his face showed no bruising or signs of drug-induced lethargy, his shabby clothes and the faint, lingering stench still proved he was a thoroughgoing homeless vagrant.

Vanessa cautiously reached into her backpack.

"Yes, come in."

Roger could see the reporter's wariness in her eyes; he said nothing, merely opened the door and let her in.

Vanessa slowly entered the garbage site and quickly squinted from the acrid stench.

But her sharp journalist's nose soon locked onto Juan, and the two twisted figures inside the garbage cube beside him.

"Oh, my God!"

"How could this happen?"

Vanessa widened her eyes, immediately pulled out her phone and took several photos of the man inside the garbage cube, then turned to Roger and fired off rapid questions: "When did you find him? How did you find him? Who compressed him into the cube? The site owner? Or another employee?"

Roger crossed his arms: "We just stumbled upon him while working. We don't know who compressed him into the cube."

"Alright, then did you call the police?"

"Miss Reporter," Roger said, looking at her with a gaze that mixed confusion and pity, and spoke vividly:

"Do you really think two illegal immigrant vagrants, each earning three dollars an hour in this stinking garbage dump, would voluntarily call the police and say, 'Hey, officers, we found a corpse compressed into a garbage cube—please come investigate and arrest us as suspects'?"

After hearing this long speech, Vanessa froze, then after two seconds reflexively nodded: "Sorry, I didn't think it through."

Damn it!

Is this vagrant mocking her?!

The female reporter felt embarrassed, but didn't dwell on the issue.

Because she had dealt with these low-class vagrants before and knew their personalities were somewhat prickly.

So she quickly adjusted her expression and said: "I'll call the police right away, but before that, I want to know exactly what happened here. Can I record this? Just for reporting purposes."

"Of course." Roger gave her a brief explanation.

After listening, Vanessa couldn't find any word adequate to express her shock.

"God, this is the most infuriating thing I've heard today."

"I'll report every single detail!"

She turned off the recorder, her face furious, then pulled out her phone and dialed 911.

"Hello, this is Vanessa, a reporter for the Seattle Times. I've discovered a homicide here and need police to respond immediately to the intersection of Third Avenue and Clay Street—this is the Josephton Garbage Disposal Site. Yes, I'll wait here for you."

She put down her phone, pulled out her wallet, and handed Roger a hundred-dollar bill: "Thank you for the tip. This is your payment."

"Two hundred dollars." Roger immediately doubled the price.

"That's already too high," Vanessa explained. "If I weren't desperate for a story, I wouldn't pay this much."

"Three hundred dollars."

"Are you joking?" Vanessa glared at him.

"If you refuse, I'll call other reporters and say the Seattle Times intern Vanessa can't even pay three hundred dollars."

"How do you know that?"

Roger pointed at her badge: "You forgot to take it off."

Fuck.

Vanessa cursed inwardly, covered her badge with her hand, forced a smile, and said: "I don't even know your name."

"I'm Jose."

Juan, beside him, couldn't suppress a slight upward curl of his lips.

"Alright, Jose, three hundred dollars is way too high—it far exceeds normal informant fees," Vanessa said as gently as she could. "How about this: become my Informer. Any similar stories in the future, you call me, okay?"

She pulled out her business card and handed it to Roger.

Roger took it, flicked the card with his finger: "Fine. I'll give you a discount—two hundred dollars."

"One hundred fifty."

"Two hundred."

"One hundred eighty?"

"Two hundred."

Helplessly, Vanessa winced and nodded: "Deal."

Not long after, Roger and Juan left the garbage site with the money.

Vanessa stomped her foot hard behind them, accidentally stepping in black sludge, splashing droplets everywhere.

"Ah! Shit! My socks!"

The female reporter wanted to cry but had no tears, yet out of excitement and dreams of a front-page headline, she forced herself to endure the stench and filth, picked up her camera, and began snapping shots everywhere.

Although not many people had died in this incident, the manner of it was so bizarre that the odds of making the front page were very high.

By the time she had finished shooting, the police cars had also arrived, late as ever.

……

Roger and Juan watched the police and ambulances arrive at the junkyard, then left from the street corner across the way.

Although he couldn't stand the female reporter's habit of taking pictures the moment she arrived, he didn't want anything to happen to her in the junkyard either—after all, if something did happen, he and Juan would certainly become the prime suspects.

After leaving the nearby streets, he took a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to Juan.

"I didn't discover him."

"Take it."

Roger stuffed it into his hand.

"Without your recommendation I wouldn't have been able to get into the junkyard, let alone discover the person inside the garbage block—it's just a shame it cost you your job afterward."

Forget Juan—even that junkyard boss would probably be fined a hefty sum.

Juan shrugged. "No worries. I've had it with that fat pig for a long time."

"Same here." Roger smiled.

Reaching the fork in the road, the two said goodbye and parted ways.

Roger shoved his hands into his pockets and hurried toward the spot where his tent was.

And when he arrived at the park tent and lay down on his mat, system prompts appeared before his eyes one after another.