What if the most powerful newspaper in a small New England state is taken over by two evil men under very compromising circumstances, and these two men are allowed to continue operating the newspaper behind the same veil of secrecy and privilege that the prior executives of that newspaper had always enjoyed?
That synopsis is the basic storyline of "The Probe" and the tale is told in an entertaining, and sometimes surprising, fashion.
The silent screaming of the whirling lights rotating on top of the police car and the rescue wagon were more incongruous on the wooded backroad than the lifeless body laying face down on the pavement, resting in its own blood. So out of sync were they with the quiet pastoral setting, to an observer with a fertile imagination, the attention grabbing beams of light could have served as a beacon for an extraterrestrial landing zone.
The life's blood of the bicyclist had been wasted on the sandy light grey asphalt, marking the spot where he had fallen. His undamaged ten speed lay beside him, the front wheel spinning slowly in the soft wind as if in perpetual motion, in contrast to the still form of its owner.
It isn't every day that the local police chief receives a wake-up call in the early morning hours from his barely coherent dispatcher, but, then again, it isn't every day that a dead body is found on the back roads of Little Compton. Chief Owen Regan arrived on the scene right after the beat patrolman damn near did a 360 trying to avoid an elderly gentleman leashed to a black labrador who jumped in front of his cruiser in a belated attempt to flag him down.
"What have we got here?" Chief Regan said to himself within earshot of Patrolman Ramon Rodriques who was rushing to the chief's side.
"An unidentified white male fell off his bike, hit his head on the pavement and expired," said Rodriques. "The subject in question has no identification on his person, and no one here knows who he is."
"It must have been a helluva fall," said Regan.
"It was, Chief."
"How do you know? Did you see it happen?"
"No sir... I didn't. But the guy's dead."
"True," said Regan, "very true." The unhurried pace of the para-medics told Regan all he needed to know about the condition of the man on the ground. With each passing moment, the body grew stiffer and colder like the wax surrounding a wick once the flame has been lost.
Roadside fatalities might be rare in Little Compton, but Chief Regan was no stranger to this type of scene. He had seen his share of roadside carnage during the twenty five years he patroled the highways as a member of the Rhode Island State Police, but rarely had he seen death come as quick as this one apparently had. He went right to the body and examined it and its immediate surroundings visually without disturbing a thing.
"Has the body been moved?" he asked.
"Not yet, Chief. I was the first to arrive and the subject was obviously beyond help so I told the rescue squad when they showed up to leave everything as they found it as best they could until you got here," said Rodriques with more than a little pride in his own efficiency.
"How about the bike... anybody move it?"
"They're both basically as I found them."
"Good... I'm sure we won't have to worry about an ID. Someone will be calling us soon enough," said the Chief as he continued to scope the body and the area around it as if he were trying to put a variety of pieces into the right order.
"He sure did take a helluva whack. That's a pretty nasty looking head wound," said Rodriques.
"It sure is," said Regan, "almost too nasty for a fall like that."
"Those skid marks are mine, Chief," said Rodriques sheepishly when Chief Regan focused his attention on the marks in the road. "I damn near killed the old guy with the dog when he ran in front of me. I didn't see them right away because of the curve down below."
"That's a good point," said the Chief. "We can rule out a hit and run... there's no damage to the bike... but it doesn't add up. He couldn't have been going very fast... he was almost at the top of a long incline after a sharp curve... and that's not the fastest bike around either. And he has a helmet on. How could he fall and hit his head that hard?"
"Funny things happen, Chief."
"I suppose you're right, Ramon. Funny things do happen. But just to be on the safe side, Call Mary and tell her to get a photographer out here likity split. I'll tell Charlie and his partner to leave everything as is until he shows up."
Chief Regan was right about the call. Before the photographer arrived, Mary notified the Chief on the squad car radio, again barely coherent she was so excited, that a woman called to report her husband had not yet come home from his eary morning bike ride and she was getting worried. And the missing husband was Francis Shepard, chairman, president and publisher of the Providence Beacon.
"Well, Ramon," said Chief Regan, "It looks like we're gonna earn our keep today."
