Call It a Hoax
By: Matthew Black
Tags: Short Story, Fiction, Horror, Short Fiction, Speculative Fiction

I woke up the next day, and Eric told me the news. The police had released the video, and it was still pretty damning. The cop made no real attempt to deescalate the situation, and the sight of the killing was still disturbing and hard to justify. But the kid had moved his hand towards his pocket as if he had a gun — a direct contradiction to Eric’s article, in which the witnesses he interviewed claimed the victim had done no such thing — and for some people that was good enough.

Now that it was no longer a clear-cut case, public anger was no longer directed at the officer or the precinct. It turned into a whole debate amongst each other over what exactly the officer should or shouldn’t have done, and when no agreement was found, the debate died out and some new story dominated the news cycle.

Eric’s career, meanwhile, came out unharmed. After all, all he’d done was report what the witnesses had told him; it wasn’t his fault they’d decided to lie. He did catch some flak for being sensationalist, though, and some criticized him for being too quick to take his witnesses at their word.

The next couple of months flew by. There were no new controversies with the local police — apparently that last shooting was enough for them to finally get their act together — and I went back to doctoring photos for magazines.

This wasn’t as risky as it sounds; the fact that these tabloids often relied on photoshop was a bit of an open secret, but the government never really cracked down on them because the slander was always over such trivial, meaningless details. It was harmless gossip, nothing more. They could arrest you for tabloid photoshop just like they could arrest you for jaywalking, but they wouldn’t actually do it unless you really pissed them off.

Meanwhile, Eric was making legitimate money covering real stories. He was out of the house a lot now, off meeting important people in important places. Around September he’d gotten a new lead about that governor candidate who was up to something shady, (said candidate had won the primaries with flying colors,) and after that his career became his only concern.

At one point he asked me when I came back from my morning walk, “You were a private investigator, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. You already knew that.

“You want one last gig?” he said. “It’s about that story I’ve been stuck on, with Arthur Pimento. You’re good at following people around, right?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “But I’ve given up the trade. Too much trouble for what it’s worth, and I was only following regular people around, not any bigshot politicians. I don’t want to get killed or anything.”

He laughed at this. “I doubt anything so dramatic’s gonna happen, man.” When I didn’t answer he continued, “I mean, I thought it would be cool for us to work together for once. Combine our skills, see how it goes?”

But I didn’t actually know anything about following people around for more than a couple hours, so I declined.

“It’s okay,” he said, with a sigh. “I’ll find someone else, I’m sure.”

After that I barely saw Eric at all. The next week passed with little sign of him, and one Friday morning I came home to find a note he left on the refrigerator. ‘Dennis,’ it read, ‘Discovered something huge. Probably won’t be back ’til Sunday.’

I turned on the TV and put on the local news. I sat on the couch with Dopey lying beside me, waiting to see if something Eric was covering would show up. It was hard to think about, but he’d probably be moving out soon. That newspaper was always intended as a stepping stone for him, and if he had a big story about to get out, he’d be probably getting job offers from real, big-time media outlets. Hell, maybe he’d be an anchorman, and I’d be seeing him every weeknight at nine.

Around four o’clock the doorbell rang. Dopey started barking, and kept on barking even as I yelled at him to sit still and shut up. When I opened the front door it was that same policeman again, and this time I had to grab onto Dopey’s collar to stop him from lunging at the man. “Hey, hey!” I had to drag him into the other room before he calmed down. I yelled at him to calm down, and despite some whines he did as he was told.

“Sorry about that,” I said when I got back to the officer. “Never seen him that angry before.”

Again, the officer did not acknowledge this remark. “Houston’s got another job for you.”

I considered this for a moment. Then as if I had a choice in the matter, I said, “Okay. I’ll hear him out.”

There was no need for handcuffs this time. I willingly walked into the back seat and he drove me down to the station. Houston led me into the back and, instead of taking me to his office, he led me to that same closed off interrogation room he’d taken me to that first time. “Just to avoid potential eavesdroppers,” he said. He sounded like he was trying to be playful, or comforting. Before he opened the door he took a long look at me, as if he wanted to tell me something. Then he sighed and led me inside.

Two strangers sat across the table. Both middle-aged, one man one woman. Both were in formal attire, and the man wore a very noticeable golden watch, peeking out under his sleeve. As I sat down, the man kept looking around the room with a sort of amused curiosity, and the woman just sort of stared at me, like I was an ugly little painting at an art exhibit.

Houston cleared his throat. “Dennis, this is Congressman Arthur Pimento and his wife, Sarah.” He sat down between them, as both of them nodded at the sound of their names.

So, this was the guy Eric was always talking about. I looked at Arthur, finally connecting his faces to those campaign ads I kept seeing on TV. I never paid too much attention to them, but when they repeated ad nauseam on every single channel, you started to absorb the information whether you wanted to or not. Arthur looked both exactly like he did in them, and somehow not at all. Arthur on TV was someone you’d want to grab a beer with; this Arthur seemed cold and lifeless, barely there.

“Nice to meet you both,” I said.

“It really isn’t,” Houston muttered, as he pulled a yellow envelope out of his jacket pocket. It shook me a little to realize Houston’s hands were trembling. Not a lot, but enough so it was impossible not to notice. Houston looked over to Arthur and said, quietly, “I think you should explain it to him.”

Arthur took the envelope and looked at it, and it was at this point I realized he was looking at everything in this room except me. When he talked his eyes focused on the table between us; every moment or so he glanced up at me, then looked away. “We came here today, my wife and I, because rumor has it, you’re great at photoshop. Good enough for you make a living off of it, apparently.”

Okay. They probably wanted me to change some photos for them, not a big deal. Maybe create some dirt on his opponent and give him that extra boost heading into the election, seemed simple enough. But what was up with the envelope? It was way too thin to hold the sort of cash they usually gave me for this sort of thing. And if it was the photographs themselves in there, why would they bother with the physical copies? Why not use the images on their phone, like Houston did?

Arthur continued, as Sarah glared at me. “Recently, a journalist at the Daily Connection obtained images of me in a compromising position. It was supposed to be a private moment, with no press anywhere nearby, but unfortunately that wasn’t the case. And these images, despite the dubious manner in which they appear to have been obtained, aren’t just bad enough to end my campaign. I’d likely be facing prison as well.”

He paused, as if expecting me to ask a question. Houston tugged at his collar, refusing to look me in the eyes as well. I had questions, but I certainly wasn’t going to voice them out loud.

“We’ve received word, through sources within the newspaper, that they’ve already turned the pictures into the police.” He gave the slightest nod of the head towards Houston. “And they will have a warrant for my arrest very soon. These pictures are a little too intense to be published in a newspaper, but we’ve already seen them popping up in little pockets of the internet, and it’s only gonna be a few hours before everyone has seen it. So,” he said, finally looking me in the eyes. “We would like you to take credit for these pictures.”

I stared at Arthur, waiting for him to crack a smile, or laugh, or anything. Houston didn’t smile either. Sarah still stared at me, and I almost kicked her leg under the table, just to see if that got a reaction.

“No,” I said. “Absolutely not.”

Sarah chipped in now, with none of her husband’s fidgeting and stalling. “The thing is, Dennis: you are going to jail no matter what. They’ve got evidence from Holly Duncan’s murder still lying around, and they’ve been monitoring your computer for months. They know about all the cons you pulled as a PI, about your work for those magazines. They’ve got enough evidence to send you away for a good forty, maybe fifty years. But if you confess to forging these photos at the payment of this reporter — of your own volition, without any apparent prompting from anyone — you can get that sentence down to less than a year.”

“I’ll make sure you aren’t charged for anything else,” Houston added. “Just these photos, that’s it.”

Sarah continued, her voice seeming further and further away. “And if you plead guilty, you’ll have half a million dollars waiting for you when you get out. Which will be soon.”

“Just take the deal,” said Houston. “I’m sorry, but it’s your best option.”

“No,” I said, more to myself than anyone else. No. I wasn’t going to prison. That was something that happened to other people, not me. I tried to imagine what it would be like, to really picture myself sleeping in a cell every night with no phone and no internet, stuck living with a bunch of criminals for months on end. Real criminals, too. People who were actually tough and violent, who didn’t hide behind a screen all day making tiny adjustments to photographs and videos. That’s all I did, really. Just tiny changes to images. A couple of pixels on a computer screen, nothing more.

“Would you like to see the pictures you’ll be taking credit for?” asked Arthur.

“I’m not taking credit for anything,” I said, but when he offered me the yellow envelope, I took it.

It took a good twenty seconds to peel it open, and while I did my heart pounded in my neck, my chest, my temples. I managed to calm myself down a little as I took out the pictures. Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been any worse than what I’d already seen. I’d spent days looking at a video of a man getting shot to death, then of a kid getting shot to death. The worst-case scenario with these pictures was that he was probably having an affair with some prostitute, maybe a girl a year or two below the age of consent. That wouldn’t be that bad. It would be easier to stomach, at least.

But the moment I saw that first picture, every thought going through my mind simply trailed off into nothing. I opened my mouth to speak but only a faint whimper came out. The room swayed for a moment like I was out at sea, and putting a hand on the table did nothing to help steady myself. This was a level of depravity I wouldn’t have considered in a million years, and the sight of it drained my body of any warmth, any comfort. I flipped to the second picture and suddenly there were spots around the corner of my vision. My skin grew hot and clammy and it felt like I was going to collapse on the floor.

“Oh come on, it’s not that bad,” said Arthur, but the mere sound of his voice made me shudder now. “It’s just not the sort of thing people need to know about.”

It struck me then just how inhuman he looked. I tried to connect this passive, slouched-over man in the chair with the animal in this photo. There was nothing behind this man’s eyes. It was like his skin was just a rubber suit hiding some sort of slippery, alien presence. And he was right in front of me. He could do to me what he was doing to that kid without batting an eye. And Houston was on board with it, and so was his wife. They’d seen those pictures, and they were still helping him out.

“Hey, look at it this way,” Houston said half-heartedly. “People are gonna be impressed with how realistic these photos look. Begrudgingly or not, they’re going to respect the talent.”

I’d never felt so sick in my life, and for the first time since I was a kid, I burst into tears. Soon I was sobbing into my hands, unable to stop myself. I’m going to prison. I was going to prison, and he was going to get away with it, and he’d likely keep doing it again and again, except he’d be more careful this time, and catching him would be so much harder. I looked at that second photo again, and almost vomited. You couldn’t get away with something like that without multiple people willing to cover for you, willing to turn a blind eye…

“I’m sorry,” Arthur Pimento said, letting out an embarrassed chuckle. “But are you almost done? Because we don’t have a lot of time.”

I don’t know how long it took me to regain some composure, but when I did the three of them were still sitting there. Arthur was still slouched over. Houston looked down at his hands. Sarah’s gaze stayed on me the whole time.

“This is how it needs to happen,” she said. “When you’re ready, my husband and I are going to leave through the back, and you are going to go into the formal questioning room with Houston and you’re going to confess. You’re going to tell him about how this so-called journalist named Eric Schultz lived with you for years, knew all about this hobby of yours, and how he asked you to create some damning images to tank our campaign. You’re going to mention how Eric has been obsessed with Arthur since the beginning of his campaign, and how Eric was willing to go to any length to take my husband down. You’re going to talk about his long history of stretching the truth, like when he exaggerated a police shooting to boost his profile. You’re going to paint the most convincing picture of him as an immoral, click-bait opportunist with an irrational hatred for Arthur. Okay?”

“Okay.” My voice cracked as I said it. Arthur still sat in his seat with childlike discomfort, as if this were all some minor inconvenience he didn’t want to deal with. “Eric’s gonna fight back on this,” I said. “He’s gonna deny everything I say.”

“He can deny it all he wants,” said Sarah. “But once we get your testimony out there, no one’s gonna believe a word he says. Any credibility he ever had is going straight out the window after this. You know this, Dennis, just as much as I do.”

She was right. You couldn’t just accuse someone of something like this and still get to call yourself a journalist. Eric would lose his job, his entire future. He’d probably be in prison for longer than me.

And with all things considered, this scandal would probably help Arthur more than it hurt him. Because at the end of the day, people believed what they wanted to believe, and the idea that a reporter would try to take down a politician with fake pictures like this would always be more believable and more comforting than the contents of the pictures themselves. No one in the world would look at these pictures and want to believe they were real.

It was easier just to call it a hoax.