Deadly Messengers (12 page)

Twenty years ago, Lyall Wright drove through a fast food drive-thru and, apparently, was kept waiting longer than he thought reasonable. He entered the restaurant and when the manager asked him to leave, something snapped in him. He pulled out a gun and killed, indiscriminately, a server behind the counter and the manager. Turning on the customers, he seriously injured three and killed another employee, before killing himself. Two teenage workers died, along with the twenty-eight-year-old manager, then months later the customer who’d been in a coma.

The same two photos of grieving families accompanied the articles Kendall read. Particularly poignant was the portrait of one victim’s family. The boy was the sixteen years old only child of a widower. Imagine losing your only child and being left with nothing.

Kendall’s thoughts turned to that night, when she also lost so much. She shook the thought away and continued to read through the heartbreaking interviews with survivors and family members of the victims.

This could definitely be a unique angle
, if
she could bring herself to explore it. A prickle crawled up her spine, not only because again she would face her demons, but this raised a seriously frightening question: How could three mass murders occur in one city?

She imagined she could pitch several articles, all with slightly varied slants for different media outlets. This one story could end up providing her with a good buffer against the current lack of work.

Could she do it?

If you want to eat, Kendall, you’ll do it.

She simply had no choice in the matter. The nightmares would come, that she knew. She would just have to find a way to deal with them.

THE INTERVIEWS WITH THE RELATIVES of those killed in the 1995 murders turned out to be nothing like Kendall’s interview with Beverley Sanderson.

With twenty years having passed, the people involved, especially the parents of the three murdered employees, had adjusted somewhat to a life without their loved ones. Although, Kendall noted a pale, washed-out feel to them, as though some of their life energy had leaked away over the years. They talked of the day they’d lost so much as though it were yesterday, as if they’d just kissed their loved one goodbye, unknowingly, for the last time.

The odd thing was they all told Kendall how relieved they felt talking about it again. It had been years since anybody had wanted to listen again. The world had moved on. They had not.

The thought her own grief might remain with her for decades was a sobering thought. She’d really believed one day she would wake up and it would have slipped into her past, that she could face the future without darkness in her heart.

The
Falling Down
Murders—named for the scene in the eighties Michael Douglas film of that name, where Douglas’s character pulls out a semi-automatic in a fast food restaurant—had caused one divorce, one heart attack, and turned innocent people’s lives into nightmares. The widow, who had lost her daughter Jennifer, told Kendall how the light in her life was extinguished that day. Jennifer had the misfortune to be cleaning the table nearest the counter.

“An engineer, that’s what she intended to be.” A solitary tear rolled down Jennifer’s mother’s cheek. “It was only a part-time job to help us with her tuition fees. Such a good girl.”

John, who was there alone, simply eating his lunch—had just started a new job. He didn’t die instantly, but two days later, his wife turned off his life-support.

Charlie McKinley was the employee who served Lyall Wright at the drive-thru window. He was the employee who’d forgotten he’d directed Wright to wait in the parking lot while his order was filled. An easy mistake that cost four lives. Five, if you counted the killer.

Kendall had managed to locate a witness quoted in the old news article. She was no Beverley, possessing no joy at being the center of attention. Now in her sixties, the woman talked of taking her family to the restaurant as a treat. Her kids, now grown, loved the burgers. Two decades later, neither of them would eat in a Burger Boys’ restaurant. Kendall could identify with that
.
Avoiding reminders was normal.

The woman openly wept as she talked of the sheer fear when Wright brandished a gun and began firing; her first thoughts, to put herself between him and her children. She talked of the vividness of the red of the blood, the feelings of knowing she would die, that her children would die, and that she had no way to prevent it.

This time Kendall did remember to ask each person she interviewed the question she’d forgotten to ask Beverley:
“How did you live with what happened that day? How did you come to terms with it?”

The most impressive answer came from Charlie McKinley’s father, Doug. He shared that after the years it took for the shock and depression to wear away—he called it “the erosion of heartbreak”—he’d gone on to do his own research on the event. Doug told her he wanted to try to understand how it could happen. As part of the healing process, he felt a need to discover what had lived inside Wright’s brain to cause him to snap and inflict such violence. His hypothesis was fascinating.

According to McKinley, Wright had been on medication, an early version of Prozac. This drug fell into a group labeled as SSRIs—selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor—an umbrella term for drugs most commonly used as anti-depressants.

He spoke animatedly about his research. “I saw a link between SSRIs and mass murderers. So I spent more than a decade after Charlie died trying to motivate the government to look more closely into the idea these drugs could be the cause of some of these random killings.”

A statistical analyst before his retirement, his research sounded thorough and somewhat convincing to Kendall. Still, he’d taken quite a leap. She wasn’t surprised to learn he’d gotten little acceptance of his theory.

“Take it.” The gray-haired, bear-of-a-man pushed the file across the table toward her. “Please, look through it. It’s important. Maybe there’s a story in there for you. I couldn’t get anyone to listen, but maybe now with these latest…”

Doug McKinley’s voice trailed off; his mind had wandered away. A pained look came into his eyes, replacing the enthusiasm glowing there only a moment before. Kendall could imagine the tender memories these latest events had dredged up for the poor man, whose drawn, weathered face spoke to years of anguish. She didn’t need to ask how he survived such a great loss, his enthusiasm for his research, his obvious salvation.

“I lost my wife Gloria to cancer three years before. She was only forty-two. Charlie came along the year after we married. Gloria couldn’t have any more children. So Charlie was our world, my world after Gloria.” He smiled at clearly pleasant memories.

Then his brows knitted as dark lines formed across his forehead.

“That man took my son. And I’d already lost Gloria. Statistically, that’s a lot of bad luck. Too much death. It took years to fight my way back, to not feel bitter that this
thing
had happened to me. I wished every day that I’d died instead. You can’t imagine. The doctors actually put me on similar drugs to Wright. Anti-depressants. The answer to everything.”

A wad of sadness stuck in Kendall’s throat. This was the reason she avoided these types of interviews. She
could
imagine. She knew exactly how it felt to lose someone, the incredible pain, the days that felt longer than a year. The nights, the very dark nights, where you felt as though you could crawl up the walls, pains in your chest so deep it felt like a stabbing knife.

She wanted to say that to him; she even thought to apologize for reminding him of something he probably wanted to forget. Kendall didn’t, though; she had a job to do. As she listened to his voice cracking with emotion, she knew this was going to make for a great story. She hated herself for thinking it, and calmed herself by repeating:
a girl’s gotta eat
. Thinking about the story and not thinking about emotions his words created helped.

The introduction for the article formed in her mind:

Twenty years later, still visibly shaken, Doug McKinley faces each day with trepidation. He had lived in a world of numbers, but when your number is up…

No, no she’d have to reword that, but something like that. A play on numbers fitted. Doug McKinley continued, drawing her attention back. She’d work on the words later.

“I lost myself in my work and, yes, you can do that with figures. For a time, they filled my mind and blocked out the pain. The numbers and the drugs worked. As the years wore on, I came to see that, statistically speaking, I should count my blessings for having had those two in my life. Gloria and Charlie. I decided to live the rest of my life in their honor. So every day I wake up and say to them, ‘I live for you today.’ No matter how hard some days and nights are, I work hard to keep my promise.”

For the second time since she’d met Doug McKinley, Kendall felt tears at the corners of her eyes. She reached up and dabbed at the side of her face with the back of a knuckle.

“That’s beautiful and very brave, Mr. McKinley.”

He smiled at Kendall, a trembling smile that told every moment of those twenty years of heartache. Then he gathered himself, his pale blue eyes igniting with fire, as he tapped the manila folder sitting on the table between them. His SSRI research notes.

“These. You think you can use them? I sent them to the newspapers, many newspapers, but they did nothing. They just wanted the gory details of Charlie’s death and how I felt about that. As if that isn’t the stupidest question to ask. How did they think I felt?”

He leaned forward and lowered his voice as though the walls were bugged.

“That’s what sells newspapers, you know. Answers to stupid questions and death and violence. Those pharmaceutical companies, well, they advertise in those papers, don’t they? They’re not going to run negative stories about their customers, are they? Even if people are dying because of these drugs.”

Kendall nodded to assure him she was on his side, even though she’d been about to ask one of those stupid questions:
How do you feel all these years later?

“Of course, I’ll read them. I’m a freelance journalist. I don’t technically work for a newspaper. In this case, I do have a specific brief. I’m sorry, but I have to pretty much stick to it.”

McKinley frowned, and Kendall quickly added, “But if there’s something I can fashion into a story
and
I can find someone wanting to publish, then,
absolutely,
I’ll write an article.”

Even as she spoke the words, Kendall knew it wasn’t going to happen. She couldn’t afford to write stories on spec—unless she was desperate. If she put time into an article, even research, she needed to know a paycheck waited at the end.
This
story he was asking her to write would take a lot of research and probably pay no better than a health article on the latest diet she
could
sell.

Kendall felt compelled to share her secret with Doug as a consolation.

“Don’t tell anyone, I take anti-depressants myself. I had no idea of the dangers of my little pick-me-ups.”

“They’re very dangerous. You definitely need to read this.”

Doug McKinley picked up the folder and handed it to her. It seemed to be his way of saying the interview was over. She had enough details anyway. Charlie’s death and this interview would probably only feature in a paragraph or two. If that.

Kendall gathered her bag and notebook and took the folder from his outstretched hand. She stood there a moment, holding the bulky dossier to her chest as though it was extremely valuable. She didn’t want Doug McKinley to have the slightest inkling she probably wouldn’t read it. It wasn’t just time but her emotions she needed to protect.

“I know you’ll do the right thing.” He patted her arm. His touch felt firm as though he were attempting to press his fervor through her skin.

“I’ll try Mr. McKinley.”

“Call me, Doug.
Please.
You get in touch if you need anything else, won’t you? I’m always here. These latest murders, they’re terrible.” He looked down and shook his head.

“Maybe if they look into this old case and view it with these new ones, something good might come of it. Yes, maybe something positive.”

“Yes, yes, of course. It’s an ill wind, isn’t it?” Kendall offered, immediately wishing she hadn’t. It seemed too flippant a thing to say. Doug, seeming so thrilled she held his folder, didn’t seem to notice.

Doug McKinley walked her to the door and thanked her again almost too profusely. She barely noticed. Kendall was already thinking she would change the article’s opening sentence:

Twenty years later, still visibly shaken, Doug McKinley faces each day with trepidation. He also lives in a world alone, looking for answers that will probably never add up.

Yes,
that would be a good opening. She could include a sentence on his research. If she tailored it so there was some ambiguity in his facts—make it sound less fanatical—then it might get past the outlet’s lawyers and keep the newspaper’s advertisers happy. Nobody offended meant more chance of it running in full and, for Kendall, return contracts.