A Killer Like Me (16 page)

Freeman smiled.

Redfield stood, signaling the meeting was over. As he picked up his glasses, he looked at Kirsten. “I want you to write a story about the letter. Don’t get into the contents but mention the deadline the killer gave us and his threat. Also include any new developments with the investigation. I’ll write an editorial for tomorrow explaining our reasons for not running the letter.”

Kirsten rose and headed for the door. She was sure Redfield’s decision was a mistake, but he was the boss. He had a tough choice to make and he had made it. Something Darlene Freeman was incapable of doing.

Thursday, August 2, 7:40
AM

The killer is furious as he skims again through the “A” section of this morning’s
Times-Picayune
.

His letter isn’t there.

He returns to the front page and sees a story about his letter, but not the letter itself. The story is nothing more than a recitation of bland facts: The newspaper received a package from someone claiming to be the serial killer. The package contained a letter and a purported piece of evidence from one of the crime scenes. The letter also included a coded message the sender said contained more information about his identity and motives. The writer asked the newspaper to publish the letter on the front page within two days . . . blah, blah, blah.

A lot of words, but no letter.

The story is wrong. The killer did not
ask
the newspaper’s editors to publish the letter. He
demanded
they publish it. And he gave them fair warning of the consequences if they failed to heed his demand.

. . . a killing rampage the likes of which this city has never seen.

Also on the front page is a column labeled
EDITORIAL
. The column carries no byline. In it, someone writing on behalf of the editorial staff explains in the pompous, self-righteous tones newspaper editors always use when they want everyone to know how erudite they are, that after careful deliberation and consultation with police officials, the
Times-Picayune
’s senior staff decided not to run the letter today, which, of course, left open the possibility that it might be published later.

The editorial writer blathers on in self-serving tones about the sanctity of the newspaper’s responsibility to the public and how such a venerable institution as the
Times-Picayune
, one of the nation’s most respected newspapers, has never bowed, and will never bow, to outside influence or pressure, whether from high government officials or murderers . . .

The killer crumples the newspaper and flings it into the corner. The newspaper will pay. The police will pay. Everyone will pay.

For several minutes he sits at his small desk, fuming and thinking. Fuming over what he has read, or hasn’t read, in the paper, and thinking of exactly how to exact his revenge. He stares at a cardboard box, a parcel, on the floor beside his desk. When UPS delivered it more than a week ago, he had not been ready to use the item inside the box. Now things have changed.

He began with the sodomites, but no one noticed. Then the harlots on the streets, but again, no one noticed, at least no one of any consequence, other than an idiot detective. It was only after he climbed up the socioeconomic ladder and crawled into their homes that the public took notice of him.

But they do not yet fear him, for the wicked do not relinquish their evil ways without struggle. But that will change. Through his work, through his righteousness, through his increasing power, he will bring them to their knees to beg the Lord God for forgiveness and mercy.

But first they must be cleansed with blood and fire.

A smile comes to the killer’s face as he recalls chapter five of Deuteronomy:
I am the Lord thy God. I am a jealous God, punishing the iniquities of the fathers upon the children to the third and fourth generations.

The killer is the hand of God, the instrument of his intent and his vengeance. He will not disobey God’s will, nor shirk his duty.

Blood and fire.

Murphy pressed the buzzer outside the door to his mother’s apartment. She didn’t answer. He leaned on it again and gave her a long burst. Still no answer.

After a frustrating day trying to organize his so-called task force, the last thing he wanted to do was talk to his mother, but he had something to tell her.

Murphy turned the doorknob. It was unlocked. He stepped inside. As usual, the stench of stale cigarette smoke threatened to strangle him.

A fake-judge show was on the television, but his mother wasn’t parked in her chair watching it. For an instant, he fantasized about what a relief it would be to find her keeled over on the toilet or lying lifeless in bed.

But she wasn’t dead on the toilet or in bed. She was sitting on the balcony, smoking and drinking. The glass door was wide open and Murphy could tell from the temperature inside the apartment and the sound of the straining air conditioner that the thermostat was set somewhere in the sixties.

He wedged himself into a small space beside her and pulled the door closed. The late-afternoon air was scorching, and he began to sweat. “I’m paying the utility bill, Mother. We don’t need to air-condition the whole neighborhood.”

“I like the cool breeze on my back.”

“Get a fan.”

His mother scooped up a pack of Pall Malls from beside her half-empty highball glass on the garden table and jammed a cigarette between her lips. She lit it and took a couple of deep drags. “Is that why you came here, to complain about the light bill? We’re in the middle of a heatwave in case you haven’t noticed.”

Murphy rested his hands on the iron railing and leaned over the edge. The hot metal burned his palms. He stared down at the empty green tennis courts, at their white stripes and black nets trimmed with white vinyl. Did he still own a tennis racket? If not, he could buy one. Recently, he had to have his suit pants let out a couple of inches, up to a thirty-six now. He was no longer the broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted Notre Dame freshman linebacker he once was.

As long as I’m paying for the courts, why not use them?

He and Kirsten used to occasionally bat a tennis ball around. That seemed like a long time ago, and he didn’t know any cops who played tennis. They thought it was gay.

His mother’s shrill voice startled him. “So if it wasn’t to complain about the light bill, why did you come here?”

He turned to face her. “To make sure you knew about the storm.”

“I heard about it from the man down the hall, Mr. Meyer the Jew. He was on the regular team, you know, at Notre Dame, not the practice squad. He told me about the hurricane yesterday.” She took a long sip of vodka, draining the glass and leaving only the ice. “I was wondering if you were even going to call.”

“That’s why I’m here, Mother. I wanted to make sure—”

“So you came just to tell me about the hurricane, not to visit. Is that it?”

He looked down at her, and for a second he saw himself tossing her over the railing.

“Right now it’s a tropical storm, not a hurricane, and it’s still a long way off. But just in case, I’ve made arrangements for you if there’s an evacuation.”

“Arrangements? What kind of arrangements?”

“The office has chartered a bus, with a bathroom, to take everyone who doesn’t have a ride to Baton Rouge. They’ve got a contract with a home . . . with a residential facility there to house and feed everyone for up to a week.”

“You said a
home
. What kind of home is it, an old-folks home?”

“It’s a retirement community. Just like this one.”

“Will I have my own room?”

“I doubt it, Mother. If you have to evacuate, it’s because a hurricane is coming and more than a million people are leaving. You get three meals and a bed.”

“You said it was for people who don’t have rides. Why don’t I have a ride? I have a son, don’t I?”

“I’m a policeman, Mother. I can’t leave.”

“Last time I nearly died in the heat, stuck in traffic for twelve hours on the interstate, and I hated Baton Rouge. I don’t want to go there again.”

“A bus and the retirement home were the best I could do. Last time, you nearly drove the family you were staying with crazy.”

She plucked the cigarette from her mouth. “I did no such thing. They were rude, and those kids were obnoxious brats, all of them.”

Murphy had heard differently.

As Katrina took aim at New Orleans, and it looked more and more likely that the storm was going to be the big one forecasters had been warning about for years, Murphy had arranged for his mother to hitch a ride out of town with the family of a fellow cop. The guy owned a Suburban and was sending his wife, their three kids, and his own mother eighty miles north to Baton Rouge to stay with his wife’s brother, the brother’s wife, and their two children.

Five kids under one roof. Big mistake.

Murphy’s mother had stayed with them for eight weeks. According to what Murphy learned later, his mother had complained nonstop about the food, about the house being hot at night, about the kids hogging the television and playing loud music, about how she couldn’t get to the pharmacy to get her medicine. One thing after another for two months.

“I won’t ride on a bus,” his mother said.

Murphy stared at the pack of Pall Malls lying on the table. He thought about pouring himself a drink and having a cigarette. He didn’t think he could stand his mother’s company for that long, though.

“If you loved me, you’d drive me to Baton Rouge yourself,” she said. “There’s no way I’m leaving here just so I can take a bus to Baton Rouge and stay in a halfway house.”

“It’s not a halfway house,” Murphy said. “It’s a Christian retirement home that’s been kind enough to make room in case of an emergency.”

“Protestant, I’m sure.”

He ignored her.

“You could drive me up there and be back in a few hours,” she said.

“You know I can’t leave the city during a hurricane. Two hundred policemen got fired for doing that when Katrina hit.”

“Theresa would drive me to Baton Rouge.”

There it was, Theresa the saint. If only she lived here everything would be just fucking peachy.

“If Theresa lived here she could drive you because she would be evacuating with you,” Murphy said. “She wouldn’t have to stay.”

“Listen here, Mr. Big Shot, don’t try to act like you’re the only one with an important job. Your sister is a nurse and she takes care of sick infants. Of course she would stay here with her patients if a storm came, but she would at least drive her mother to Baton Rouge and make sure she was safe before worrying about her job. Some things are more important than work.”

This from a woman who hadn’t worked since her part-time job at a snowball stand in high school.

Murphy felt the tiny balcony closing in on him. “Well, you know what, Mother, it doesn’t really matter what Theresa would do, because she doesn’t live here. She lives in northern California, about as far away from New Orleans as she can be and still be in the United States.”

His mother stared at the ice in her empty glass.

“And you know what else, she lives there by choice. She moved away and I stayed. She’s not here to take care of you. I am. So if I were you . . .” Murphy’s guilt was already kicking in. Lay off your sister, he told himself. She’s got enough of her own problems.

His mother stared up at him with her venom- and vodka-filled eyes. “If you were me, you’d do what? Say it!”

Murphy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He looked down at the blue-haired nag who was his mother. “If I were you I’d shut the fuck up and appreciate the fact that at least one of your kids is still around to take care of you.”

Her eyes bulged and her mouth dropped open. For a moment she was speechless. Finally, she found her voice. “How dare you talk to your mother like that, especially about your sister. If your father were here, God rest his—”

“Give it a break, Mother. Your bitching is what put Dad in his grave.” Murphy yanked open the sliding glass door. “If you don’t like the arrangements I’ve made for you, make your own. You’re not helpless.”

He stepped into the icy blast from the apartment, then turned around, his hands braced across the open doorway. “Better yet, call Theresa. Ask her to send you a plane ticket to San Francisco. You can stay with her and Michael until the end of hurricane season.”

He threw the door closed, turned around, and stormed out of her apartment.

Thursday, August 2, 11:15
PM

The club is crowded.

The sound system shakes the air with high-energy techno music while a 1970s-era disco ball twirls beneath the ceiling, sending a rainbow of refracted light racing across the walls and dance floor.

The killer pushes through the throng of jumping, sweating bodies as he walks along the edge of the dance floor. Most of the hundred or so patrons are men. The few women in the bar look more masculine than the men, short-haired dykes flashing body piercings and tattoos.

The Red Door Lounge is a sodomite club that takes up the top floor of an old three-story brick building on the periphery of the French Quarter, at the corner of Chartres and Iberville.

A stream of sweat runs down the killer’s back as he walks toward the bar. He believes the club is kept warm on purpose, to add to the sexual tension that pulses through the crowd. He carries a canvas messenger bag slung over his shoulder. Inside are the simple tools he will need to complete his work.

The killer elbows his way to the bar and orders a Corona with lime. The bartender, a handsome young man with dark eyes and thick coal black hair, says something as he sets the beer down, but the killer can’t hear him over the din. He asks the bartender to repeat himself.

The dark-haired man holds up five fingers and blows him a kiss. The killer tosses a five-dollar bill onto the black lacquered bar. The bartender glances down at the bill, then shakes his head as he picks up the money.