A Killer Like Me (12 page)

“The Lamb of God, what kind of a name is that?”

“I have no idea,” Redfield said. “Other than its obvious religious connotations.”

“Are you going to print the letter?” Kirsten asked.

From the far end of the conference table, Darlene Freeman finally spoke up. “We’re not going to run it tomorrow, Miss Sparks, if that is what you are asking.”

Kirsten, like almost everyone in the newsroom, hated the white-haired, sallow-faced Freeman, who, although she carried the title of publisher, had nothing to do with the day-to-day operation of the newspaper.

And it wasn’t just that Freeman was a corporate hack sent from company headquarters to pinch every dime the newspaper spent, or that she had fled on a company jet hours before Hurricane Katrina slammed into the city and didn’t return for three months. For Kirsten, it was more than that. She also hated Freeman because of the nerve-grinding way she insisted on calling everyone by their last name, preceded by the appropriate title, Mr., Mrs., or Miss. Even if she had known you for ten years.

It made Kirsten want to strangle her.

Kirsten stared at Redfield. “Then when are you going to run it?”

He shrugged.

Tuesday, July 31, 2:45
PM

Warren Zevon dragged Sean Murphy out of a deep sleep.

Murphy grabbed his cell phone and tried to focus on the screen. His eyes were gummy, but he could see the caller ID was blocked. It was either the police department or the newspaper. PIB or Kirsten. He didn’t want to talk to either. He hit the ignore button and sent the call to voice mail.

It rang again. Another restricted call. He ignored it.

Sixty seconds later a third call came in.

Murphy punched the green button. “What?”

“You’re not going to believe this,” Kirsten whispered.

He wanted to hang up, but curiosity got the better of him. “What?”

“We got a package in the mail from the killer.”

Murphy sat up in bed and set his feet on the floor. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs left over from his beer and egg breakfast. “From who?”

“The serial killer.”

The several seconds of silence that followed were charged with electricity.

“What kind of package?” Murphy said.

“A padded envelope. Inside was a letter and a small cardboard box.”

“What did the letter say?”

“I . . . I can’t talk about it,” Kirsten said. “They swore me to secrecy and they will kill me if they find out I told anyone, especially you. I shouldn’t even be calling you.”

“If this is a joke, it’s not fucking funny.”

“It’s not a joke,” Kirsten snapped. “We just got a package in the mail from a guy who claims to be the serial killer. The executive editor, the managing editor, the publisher, and their lawyer are meeting right now to decide what to do with it.”

“Have they called the police?”

“That’s what they’re discussing,” Kirsten said.

Murphy heard street noise in the background. She must have gone outside to talk.

“He calls himself the Lamb of God,” Kirsten said.

“The killer?”

“No, Charles Redfield, the executive editor. That’s what he’s started calling himself lately. Of course I mean the killer, Murphy. What are you, stupid?”

He wasn’t listening. Usually, it was the cops or the press who gave serial killers their names. Only a few killers Murphy had ever heard of had named themselves. BTK, Zodiac, Jack the Ripper, and the Axman had done it, but with the Ripper and the Axman it was questionable whether the actual killers had written the letters in which their noms de guerre had first appeared.

“He gave himself a name?” Murphy said.

“The fucking Lamb of God,” Kirsten said. “Excuse my language, but I just can’t believe this. It’s like something out of a movie.” She sounded excited and scared.

“What was in the box?”

“I’m . . . I’m sorry. I can’t talk about that either.”

“Goddamnit, Kirsten, quit playing games.”

“I’m not playing games. I just can’t talk about that, at least not right now. I’m the only one not still in the meeting, and as far as I know, I’m the only other person who knows about the package.”

“Did you call here just to gloat?”

Several seconds dragged by. Murphy thought Kirsten had hung up.

“I called to let you know you were right,” she said quietly.

Murphy took a deep breath. “Thanks.” He meant it.

“I think . . .”

“What?”

“Never mind. I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up.

Murphy flipped his phone closed and stared at the floor.

The Lamb of God. What the hell?

Kirsten sat at her desk fidgeting for more than an hour before her phone rang.

It was Redfield. “We need you back in here.”

When Kirsten opened the conference room door two minutes later, she saw Juan Gaudet and another detective standing on the far side of the room. Kirsten didn’t know the other detective.

Gaudet held a clear plastic evidence bag in his hands. Through the plastic Kirsten could see the padded manila envelope. Gaudet winked at Kirsten as she stepped into the room. They had been friends when she and Murphy had been together. The three of them had spent a lot of nights together at the Star & Crescent. Those had been good times.

It was Gaudet who had commented anonymously in Kirsten’s article this morning that Murphy’s demotion and transfer were not really for talking to the press about a serial killer, but were payback for arresting the mayor’s brother four years ago and beating PIB at a Police Civil Service Board hearing a year later.

Kirsten decided not to sit at the conference table despite there being an empty chair. She pushed the door closed and leaned against it.

Redfield pointed toward the two detectives. “Kirsten, we’ve asked Detective Juan Gaudet and Lieutenant Carl Landry from the Homicide Division to join us.”

Gaudet corrected him. “I’m from Homicide. Lieutenant Landry is from the Public Integrity Bureau.”

As always, Gaudet was dressed for the part of a murder cop. He wore an expensive suit tailored to hide his bulk, a starched white shirt, and a hand-painted silk tie held in place by a gold clasp shaped like a vulture perched on top of the star and crescent NOPD badge.

Standing next to Gaudet, Landry looked sloppy. His suit was off the rack and rumpled, and his necktie was frayed at the bottom. In contrast to Gaudet’s cheerfulness, Landry was dour. His sharp face and long thin nose made him look like a hawk, Kirsten thought, or perhaps a vulture. She wondered why the PIB man was here at all. Serial killer or not, murder cases belonged to Homicide. Landry’s presence, she guessed, must have something to do with Murphy.

“We’ve told the detectives about the package we received,” Redfield said. “And about the story you’re writing for tomorrow.”

Kirsten nodded.

Redfield looked at the detectives. “Can you recap for my reporter what you’ve asked us to do, vis-à-vis our story?”

Both cops looked at Kirsten. Landry opened his mouth, but Gaudet cut him off. “What we would like you to do, Miss Sparks, is withhold some of the information contained in the letter so that we can have more time to investigate it.”

Kirsten’s First Amendment hackles stood up. All cops, Murphy included, were basically fascists, she thought. Any mention of the government trying to stifle the press was guaranteed to get a rise out of her. “What kind of information would you like me to withhold, Detective?”

“The code, for one,” Gaudet said. “We need time to crack it ourselves, in case it really does contain important clues.”

Kirsten nodded. She could live with that. “What else?”

“Also, we’d like to keep the killer’s nickname out of the paper, and his threat to mark any future victims. If you mention the Lamb of God, then every nutjob in the state will start calling us, claiming to be the killer. It would make our job a whole lot easier if we could keep that to ourselves as a way to screen out the crazies.”

For a reporter, a serial killer naming himself the Lamb of God was gold. But more than that, it was news. “The purpose of the press is not to make your job easier, Detective. It’s—”

Darlene Freeman cut her off. “Nor is it to hinder a police investigation.” She stared at Kirsten. “I don’t think these gentlemen have time for a lecture on the role of the press, Miss Sparks.”

Freeman glanced at Redfield, then nodded at the two policemen. “Agreed, Detectives. We will not mention the name Lamb of God in the story tomorrow.” She looked sideways at Kirsten. “Nor in any subsequent articles without consulting you first. Anything else?”

Gaudet cleared his throat. He seemed embarrassed. Both he and Landry were looking at Redfield, not Kirsten.

Landry said, “We would like you to leave out any mention that the letter referenced Detective Murphy by name.”

“Why is that, Lieutenant?” Redfield said. “That’s one of the most intriguing parts of the story. Surely, you can see that.”

“We think it might be harmful to our investigation if your article singled out one detective, particularly one who is no longer working on any of the relevant cases.”

“What cases are those, Lieutenant?” Kirsten said. “The chief told me just a few days ago that the unsolved prostitute murders were not connected, that they were the work of—how did he put it?—‘different perpetrators.’”

Landry stared at her, his eyes black and cold, like those of a fish. “Our position hasn’t changed, Miss Sparks. Detective Gaudet and I are here at the request of your superiors.” He nodded at the evidence bag in Gaudet’s hands. “We will conduct a thorough investigation, but what I suspect we have here is a false confession, a claim of responsibility from someone who had nothing to do with any of the crimes with which he is trying to associate himself. Frankly, as investigators, we receive a lot of these types of communications. Ninety-nine percent of them turn out to be phony, usually initiated by someone suffering from emotional problems.”

“How about severed women’s fingers?” Kirsten said. “Do you get a lot of those?”

“Miss Sparks!” Darlene Freeman said. “That is enough.” The publisher stared at Kirsten for several seconds, then looked at Landry. “I think we can accommodate your requests, Lieutenant.” She glanced at Redfield. “Right, Charles?”

Redfield nodded. Freeman turned her attention back to the two cops and slid her chair away from the conference table. “Are we finished?”

Landry nodded. Everyone else started the general shuffle that precedes an exodus from a long and anxious meeting.

Fuck Freeman, Kirsten thought.

“Just one more question, Lieutenant,” Kirsten said.

Everyone in the room looked at her, including Landry.

She pressed on. “If the finger in that envelope turns out to be from the murdered woman found under the overpass, will the chief retract his earlier pronouncements and admit there is a serial killer?”

Freeman stared daggers at her.

After a moment’s pause, Landry said, “I don’t presume to speak for the chief. However, I’m sure that if new evidence indicates a connection between some recent homicides—”

“You mean a connection like they were all committed by the same person?” Kirsten said.

“—then the chief will reassess the situation.”

“Miss Sparks,” Darlene Freeman said, “I think we’ve taken up enough of these gentlemen’s time.”

Kirsten ignored her. “What about Detective Murphy?”

“What about him?” Landry said.

“He was demoted and transferred, and now he is under internal investigation for trying to warn the public about a serial killer that the chief denied even existed. If it turns out there is such a killer, will he be reinstated?”

Landry looked like his head was about to explode. She had grabbed him by his balls and squeezed them.

Gaudet was smiling.

Landry cleared his throat. Hesitated. Then cleared it again. “As for Detective Murphy—assuming for a moment that your past relationship with him does not create a conflict of interest for you—I can tell you that he is not under investigation for exploring a possible link between a series of homicides. He is under investigation for violating department policy regarding unauthorized contact with the media, specifically with you, Miss Sparks.”

Kirsten felt her face flush.

No one spoke. For at least twenty long seconds everyone in the room found something to do and avoided eye contact with her. The newspaper people flipped pages in their notebooks. Gaudet took a sudden interest in his shoes. Even Darlene Freeman decided to check her BlackBerry for messages. Only Landry kept his eyes fixed on Kirsten, his hawklike face betraying a hint of a smile.

A short series of beeps broke the silence. Gaudet reached in his jacket for his cell phone. He stared at the screen and read a text message. His face tightened. He bumped Landry with his elbow and held the phone out for the PIB lieutenant to read.

While Landry read the message, Gaudet looked across the table at Charles Redfield. “We have to go,” he said, “but just so everybody understands, we do have an agreement about the story, right?”

Redfield looked at Mrs. Freeman. She nodded. Everyone avoided looking at Kirsten.

“Yes,” Redfield said.

Gaudet slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket.

“Did that message have anything to do with what we’ve been talking about?” Redfield asked.

The two detectives shared an almost imperceptible glance. Kirsten only noticed it because she was looking for it. She had been around a lot of cops.

Gaudet shook his head. “No.”

Kirsten was sure he was lying.

Tuesday, July 31, 5:10
PM

Murphy was still fighting to get back to sleep after Kirsten’s call when his phone rang again. He had to be at work at 10:25, semirested and semisober.

He snatched the phone from the nightstand and jabbed the volume button on the side with his thumb to silence his new ringtone. With little sleep and a hangover, even the macabre genius of Warren Zevon could be irritating.