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It started as a drowning call.
We heard the code over the police scanner on Monday night. A backyard swimming pool. Three children. An unforgivable accident. Startling, obviously, but nothing out of the ordinary. We cover shootings and collisions and burglaries all day, every day. It takes a lot to get a newsroom’s undivided attention.
Looking back, the most unsettling part was that I almost didn’t go to the scene the next morning. One of the outlets was live-streaming the press conference in front of the house where it happened, so we decided it wasn’t worth the drive out there. But, at the last minute, my editor changed his mind.
I had never been to a crime scene, but I had seen hundreds of them in movies and marathons of Law & Order. Sadly, this was nothing like that. The neighborhood seemed normal. Neighbors were peering out of windows, but no one wanted to disclose what they knew. The only thing out of place was the neon caution tape separating cameras and recorders from the stories they were chasing.
As the police came out one by one, I remember it started to rain. Besides the droplets hitting the pavement, it was so quiet. Even though nobody said it, we were all awaiting the same ending — a heartfelt speech about a broken mother who took her eyes off of her children for just one second when tragedy struck in her own backyard. I’m sure half of the people there already had their stories written.
I regret to inform you that’s not the story we got. The quiet didn’t last long.
As it turns out, the mother admitted to killing all three of her kids. It wasn’t a drowning at all. It wasn’t even the mother who called it in. Suddenly, the questions came flooding in. I was surrounded by a dozen journalists wanting the same answers: Why did she do it? How did she do it? Who else was there? Who could let this happen?
I texted my editor that things had taken a turn and we had a bigger story on our hands than we anticipated. He started a write-up based on the few details I knew because we couldn’t spare a moment, we couldn’t risk falling behind. When I arrived back in the newsroom, they had already released her name: Rachel Henry. Three of my coworkers were sitting there, shoulder to shoulder, using every database we had access to search her name, find her relatives, and anything else that could hopefully help us piece together what we knew and uncover what we didn’t.
The whole time I analyzed her Facebook page, I couldn’t get over how little sense it made, how much it didn’t add up. Her profile picture was her with a Snapchat filter and a smile. Her friends commented, telling her how happy she looked. She looked like any other person. I couldn’t help but wonder what happened to that girl in the picture to make her unlike anyone we had ever encountered.
I can’t tell you how many hours I spent looking at her name that day. We searched and searched and searched, but found nothing. Not a single red flag. But, what we did know was echoed throughout the nation. Suddenly, the story was being covered by CNN, Reuters, NBC News and many others who weren’t there to see it, but knew how important it was regardless. I think that’s when I realized what we were on the frontlines of. What started as a local drowning call was suddenly a cross-country campaign for justice. Three young kids lost their lives at the hands of the person whose sole responsibility was to protect them. Now, a city was looking to its people to make it right.
I was one of those people being looked to. The story I wrote, with the help of my breaking news team, was A1 in the paper the next morning. It took up half of the front page. Given the circumstances, I almost felt guilty for being excited, but now I think the severity of it makes it even more special. That story was only my second at The Arizona Republic and I know now they’re hard to come by.
We followed that story for the months that came after. Every new detail was harder to digest than the last. Family members reached out, wanting to make their peace and share their pain with anyone who would listen. I saw the toll it took on the reporters I worked with and I recognized the toll it took on me, too. Sometimes, it’s hard to report just the facts when you’re constantly searching for an explanation that just isn’t there. We now know how Rachel killed those three children. We know who was there when she did it. We know they didn’t “let” it happen. But to this day, we don’t know why she did it. That “why” split the city in two. Some people believed she was a bad person, a ticking time bomb. Others thought she could be a victim in this story, too. Maybe it was postpartum depression. Maybe it was a reaction to the drugs she was using. Maybe she wasn’t in control of the narrative after all.
If you were to ask me, I would say she probably doesn’t know either. Not yet. Some people do bad things and that’s it. It’s just a bad thing. A bad thing that can’t be reversed or undone or understood. Maybe, the hardest part of reporting is letting go. In narrative writing, you get to choose the ending. In journalism, it’s chosen for you. You hand the control to your readers in hopes they’ll do something with the information you’re sharing with them — the right thing.
I think the most important thing about what you write is what comes next.
Meet the Author, Jamie Landers
Jamie Landers is pursuing a degree in journalism from The Walter Cronkite School of Journalism and Mass Communications. Her passion for the news industry and the art of storytelling continues to grow with each new opportunity. She shares her experience as a budding journalist in the real world to inspire other students and help teachers better prepare their pupils for the field.