That Sunday shift is seared in my memory because of an early morning phone call from weekend editor Vince McKelvey.
I’m sure I attempted small talk, perhaps questioning what prompted the call. Assignments generally waited until arrival in the office. What festival would I again have to cover, I wondered.
The words have since faded, but Vince informed me our colleague, my friend and “podmate” reporter Derek Ali, had been shot and killed hours earlier, and I, along with police reporter Lou Grieco, would be writing the article for the next morning’s paper.
Before somehow making my way to work I had to tell my daughter Molly that her “Uncle Derek,” who had attended her Stivers School for the Arts graduation three months before, was dead.
Arriving in the newsroom at the DDN building at Fourth and Ludlow streets downtown I sat at my desk, Derek’s empty, next to mine; the grief was palpable. Quickly the newsroom filled as news of his death spread. Editor Jeff Bruce paced the newsroom, and each time he circled, asked if I was OK. I remember telling him I was not. That I could not write the story. He assured me I could. Tears. Sobbing. Disbelief.
Many of us, on Friday, warned Derek not to take the Saturday night job DJ’ing an adult birthday party at Lakeridge Court. It was a time of heightened teen violence and rivalry among young people living in various public housing areas in Dayton (police would not use the word “gangs”), but Derek in his usual lighthearted manner, dismissed our concerns.
Derek knew no strangers.
Many times he and I would leave the newsroom to head over to Courthouse Square or the Arcade for lunch, and as soon as we hit the sidewalks it would begin.
The “Mayor of Ludlow” was holding court.
If he knew you, it was a hug and that glorious smile. Maybe you were lucky and got the Eddie Murphy laugh. Everyone was important to Derek and, as an observant reporter, knew each person contained an unwritten story.
He was genuinely loved, a local celebrity. I’d sigh and tell Derek to catch up with me after he bought his lottery tickets and we’d grab a quick bite.
Derek was a journalist who took his job seriously. Sometimes the subjects could get pretty heavy and the mood in the newsroom a bit stifling. We’d swivel our chairs, stand and burst into “Papa was a rolling stone” or “My Girl” – he had a beautiful bass voice – or we might escape behind the building and enter Sacred Heart Catholic Church on Wilkinson Street. One time, inside the church, with the domed ceiling and empty sanctuary acoustics at his disposal, Derek performed a most haunting and moving rendition of “Ave Maria.”
I think of him when I drive past the now-defunct Grenadier Club on West Riverview Avenue. He’d grab several of us to celebrate a milestone in someone’s life and we were all the richer for coming along for the ride. Sometimes he’d arrive at work late and begin telling me about his weekend; I’d roll my eyes and get him a cup of coffee from the ever-present newsroom urn. Sometimes we climbed to the DDN rooftop to enjoy the view and Derek, a cigarette.
He proudly handed out cigars with pink bands when his girls, Leah and Zuri, the loves of his life, were born. I can only imagine the grandfather he’d be today.
Mentoring young people was one of his passions, and he spent hours every week at Stivers School for the Arts as an adjunct teaching print journalism. Many of us made guest appearances in his class, discussing interviewing and writing.
Youths, successful or troubled, found unconditional support and understanding from Derek.
Which brings me back to the newsroom on September 5, 2004, where I tearfully made phone calls to members of the community for what would become the most difficult assignment of my 31-year newspaper career.
In the ensuing hours we were fed information as it was gathered by investigators. We learned teens tried to crash the party where Derek was working. Derek told them it was private and to leave.
They did, but returned with weapons. One of the young men shot toward the building as Derek was packing up his gear; Derek pushed a woman to safety and took the bullet.
It was such a terribly sad, very Derek Ali thing to do.
Friend, you are grieved. You are missed.
Cathy Mong is a retired Dayton Daily News reporter.
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