>Of Cremains and Cocktail Parties, Part Two

>You can catch up on part one of this story here.

My photographer and I met Kenny bright and early the next morning at 7:30. When we arrived, Kenny’s wife greeted us anxiously at the door.

“Channel 7 called and left a message this morning saying they’re on their way over here,” she told us. My photographer and I looked at each other worriedly. Channel 7 vied with our station each night for first place in the ratings.

“Uh,” I cleared my throat. “What time did they call?”

“Well, they called about 30 minutes ago,” she said. I sighed with relief. We had an hour jump on them.

Kenny walked into the room.

“Are you ready, Kenny?” I said quickly. “Let’s get on the road!”

“I’ll be ready soon,” he promised. I just have to do a few things first.”

He puttered around his office for the next thirty or so minutes while I stared at my watch and tried not to pace in the funeral home lobby. Of course, I couldn’t tell Kenny why I was so eager to leave. “I can’t let Channel 7 get to you! Bwaaahhhhh!” didn’t sound very classy.

Finally, Kenny got into his car, ready for the trip to the information center that had been set up near the infamous crematory. My photographer, Mark, and I followed him in our car. Once we got on the road, we burst into triumphant laughter.

“Too bad, Channel 7!” I said. “I wish I could see their faces when they find out their story’s in another state.”

About halfway to Georgia, I got another call from Kenny’s wife. “Channel 7 called again and I told them Kenny had already left for Georgia,” she reported. “They turned around and they’re headed down there now.”

“Ooookay,” I said. We hung up and I looked again at my watch. We’d have about an hour and a half on them before they arrived at the information center.

“We’ve got to keep Kenny out of sight somehow when we get there,” I told my photographer. “Channel 7’s on our tail.”

Once we got to Georgia, we realized keeping Kenny out of sight wouldn’t be so impossible. The place was a circus. Hundreds of satellite trucks were idling in the parking lot. Everywhere I looked, reporters were milling about, along with funeral home representatives and family members holding urns. Everyone wanted answers.

When we arrived, Kenny went inside for a private meeting between police, funeral home directors and family.

While we waited outside with the rest of the media, Channel 7’s reporter and photographer arrived. We noticed they were keeping a close eye on us, and knew it was because they were relying on us to help them find Kenny when he came out of the meeting.

So my photographer and I hatched a plan.

He went and got our news car from the parking lot and drove it up close to the entrance of the information center, where he waited. I stood right by the door. The moment Kenny came out, I pounced.

“It’s waaaaay too crazy here to try and do an interview,” I told Kenny, taking his arm. “So Mark and I figured we’d drive you somewhere where things are a little more quiet.” My new and oh-so-trusting friend nodded as I practically dragged him running to the news car and stuffed him into the backseat. Amazingly, he didn’t ask questions, even when my photographer peeled out of the parking lot. We drove down the main road in the small Georgia town for about five minutes before I saw what I was looking for: a dirt road.

“Turn left there, Mark,” I said. Nodding, he turned onto the road. We drove down it for a few more minutes, until we were in what looked like the middle of nowhere.

“Hmmm,” I said. “I think it’ll be quiet enough here.” From the driver’s seat, Mark stifled a snort. I looked back at Kenny in the seat behind us. “Background noise is such a pain,” I said. Kenny nodded sympathetically. We did the interview, then slowly drove Kenny back to the parking lot of the information center. Unbelievably, the reporter from Channel 7 and his photographer were standing beside Kenny’s car.

“What?!” I yelped. This Channel 7 guy was good.

Reluctantly, we dropped Kenny off. I still wasn’t going to stoop low enough to ask Kenny directly not to talk to them. That was a line I never crossed, under any circumstances. It felt dirty.

I did, however, call Kenny about 15 minutes after we dropped him off.

“I hope that Channel 7 reporter was nice to you,” I said. “Did you talk to him?”

“Well, I told him I needed to leave right away,” Kenny said, “but he looked like he was about to cry. He said he’d been trying to find me all day. He begged. So I agreed to answer two questions, right there in the parking lot.”

I didn’t have an exclusive that night, but I did have a lot more than Channel 7. And tomorrow was another day.

Mark and I headed back to Kenny’s town early the next morning for yet another follow-up. It was still the biggest story going, and we’d heard Channel 7 was sending another reporter out to try and get a longer interview with what was now Middle Tennessee’s most famous funeral home director. When we came through the front door of the funeral home, we were greeted like family.

“I swear, I don’t know what I’m going to do about all these phone calls,” Kenny’s wife said, sighing. She showed me the list of reporters who had contacted her. Mary Huff from Channel 7 was on the list.

“When did Mary Huff call?” I asked innocently.

“This morning,” Kenny’s wife said. “She said she’d be up here by 11:30. I told her I couldn’t make any promises about Kenny’s schedule. He’s just so busy.” Kenny came into the room. He had dark circles under his eyes. Clearly, all the media attention was taking its toll.

“Kenny, why don’t you let us take you to lunch?” I said. “You’ve been so nice to us. Pick your favorite place in town and we’ll bill it to the station.”

Kenny brightened. “Well, there is a great meat and three a few miles from here,” he admitted.

“We’ll hang out here for a bit and get a quick interview on what you’ve been going through, and then why don’t we leave for lunch at around eleven, so we can beat the crowd?” I asked, smiling. Kenny thought that was a fine idea.

Before we left, I said goodbye to Kenny’s wife. “Now don’t tell anyone where Kenny is if they call,” I said. “I just want him to enjoy his lunch. The last thing he needs is to have a microphone shoved in his face while he’s trying to enjoy his fried chicken.”

“Oh don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t.”

I don’t know how we did it, but we managed to spend the next three hours at the restaurant. I told every cocktail party story I had in my repertoire, and so did Mark. We both asked Kenny every question we could think of. At some point, I have a memory of drawing a diagram on a paper napkin. Clearly, I was desperate. We talked and we talked and we talked and after that, we all just sat in companionable silence. Kenny seemed as reluctant to leave as we were. Finally, we took him back to his office, leaving just enough time to put together the story for that night’s news.

Mary Huff got nothing.

I actually ran into her on another story a few weeks later and we laughed together as I told her about the three-hour lunch.

“I was so pissed,” she said. “First of all, I didn’t even want to be on that story, because I didn’t know anyone involved and I was three days late. And my news director was yelling at me on the phone, saying I’d better get the interview with the funeral home director. And then I get there, and his wife won’t tell me where he is, so I ended up driving all over town and I couldn’t find him anywhere. And then my news director calls and wants to know why you have a long interview with him and I have nothing. Uggggggggh!“

Of course, there were times when the same thing happened to me. It was all part of the news business.

But this particular time?

I won.