Kill The Story

by John Luciew

Langhorne’s brown eyes flashed up at me. There was regret in his eyes. He didn’t want to tell me. But not because it was against regulations. Because it was bad.

  “Dave?”

  “Seems this guy left a calling card,” he said.

  Chills prickled my scalp. “What?”

  “A message.” Langhorne paused for a moment. “The guy wrote a note. We found it in the box, along with the head. Thing is.” He stopped again.

  I recovered my breath. “Tell me, Dave. Tell me everything.” Langhorne’s expression seemed to ask if I was prepared, so I nodded.

  “The message said, ‘never lose your head over a story.’” The detective gauged my reaction before continuing. “Thing is, the words were written in blood on some old newspaper.”

  “How old?”

  “From 1980. All the newspapers stuffed into that box were from 1980. All of the pages were from the Herald.”

  I swallowed even though my mouth was completely dry. My throat felt like sandpaper. My voice sounded small. “Were any of my stories in there?”

  He shook his head. “Not that we’ve found. Lab’s still going over everything. Some of it was pretty bloody, soaked pretty good.”

  “What about Bressenhan?” I asked. “Any stories from him?”

  “Uh-uh.” Langhorne shook his head again. “That’s the strange thing. All the pages were things most people don’t read. Tire ads, stock tables. Hardly any pages with actual articles. And the few that did have stories, it was wire copy. Nothing local.”

  “What about the dates?” I pressed. “The days and the months. Is there any pattern there? Maybe the dates correspond to some event.”

  “Year’s the same. All 1980, like I said. But the days and months are different,” Langhorne said. “Random.”

  “But we know it’s not just packing material,” I said, thinking out loud. “The message was written on the newspaper, and all the pages were from 1980. If was just packaging, you’d expect the papers to be more recent. No one keeps newspapers that long, unless there’s a reason.”

  Langhorne nodded. “That’s what the Feebs said.”

  “It ties in,” I continued. “All the deaths are linked to journalists who worked in Harrisburg some twenty-nine years ago. Seems we can narrow it to a specific year --1980.”

  “Maybe,” Langhorne said. “We’re checking.”

  “Checking what?”

  Buzz looked up, watching for my reaction. I knew before the detective could answer. “The other scenes,” I said, pointing an accusing finger. “You’re checking the other scenes for similar messages, aren’t you?”

  Langhorne gestured to himself innocently. “I’m not, but the FBI sure the hell is. They picked over the plaza pretty good after the Dykstra shooting. Lots of protest signs were left behind. An old newspaper could have been among the debris. Wouldn’t have seemed important at the time. Don’t know if anyone would have thought to log it. ‘Sides, it was so windy that day, it could’ve blown away. I know less about the situation in Baltimore. But from what I’ve heard, there wasn’t much left inside the bar. A newspaper would have been the first thing to burn.”

  My mind combed over both scenes. I had been on the plaza when the fatal shots were fired. And I had stood outside the burned bar a day after the fire. Something had been bothering Cassie Jordan about the fire scene all along.

  “The newspaper box,” I blurted.

  “What?” Langhorne said. Buzz removed his half glasses to study me.

  “Outside the bar,” I continued. “Someone moved a newspaper box in front of the doors of the club. The killer blocked a fire exit with it. Made sure it would be a death trap.”

  Langhorne waved a finger. “And where better to look for a newspaper?” The detective reached for his cell phone. “My guess, if it was part of the crime scene, they would have brought it in. The entire box and everything in it.” Langhorne’s long fingers moved over the number keys of his phone. “Let’s hope they’re as good as they think they are down there.”

  Langhorne reached the special agent in charge of the case and filled her in on the development. The conversation was terse, and Langhorne wasn’t happy when he clicked the button to end the call. “Bitch,” he whispered under his breath, then raised his pitch to a falsetto, mocking the female agent. “We would have gotten there eventually, detective. But thanks.”

  “So they found something?” I asked.

  Langhorne smirked. “Hell, no, they didn’t find nuthin’. They act like they would have found somethin’. But they couldn’t find shit with a road map. They act like they’re so damn smart. Just once I’d like to see them acknowledge the efforts of local law enforcement. Just once.”

  Buzz let loose a wicked chuckle. “What are you waitin’ for? A gold star on your forehead? Poor, unappreciated Detective Langhorne. Pity, pity. I’da thought you’d have gotten used to such treatment during your years in the mayor’s dog house. Well, you better get over yourself, because we got bigger fish to fry than whether you get a pat on the head from the pretty special agent. She’s probably a dyke, anyway.”

  For the first time I could remember, Langhorne looked embarrassed. Buzz rose and moved around his desk toward the detective. I would have advised him to keep his distance. “Are you done?” Buzz asked. “Can we get on with it?”

  Langhorne still wouldn’t look at the coroner but he did answer him. “Yeah, we done. We more than done.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s figure out who’s trying to kill this son of a bitch, here.” Buzz leaned over and clapped me on the back. I was close enough to smell the booze on his breath. “I don’t want to see Telly’s sorry ass on my table anytime soon. That would be a damn pitiful sight, now wouldn’t it?”

  I was in no position to disagree.

  Chapter 31

  The three of us spent the next hour huddled around Buzz’s metal battleship of a desk, trying to puzzle out who’d want to kill a group of aging journalists with ties to Harrisburg.

  Langhorne loved pointing out that reporters weren’t exactly high on the popularity charts. He was fond of reminding me that we reporters were as likable as maggots and even porcupines were cuddlier. But all of us knew that the motive had to be more than just a vague grudge against the press or some general beef with media. It had to be something more, much more. Something very specific and much, much deeper.

  First, there was the bizarre, meticulously-orchestrated manner of the killings.

  “This guy, who ever it is, knew a hell of a lot about each one of the victims,” I put in, alternating my stare between Buzz and Langhorne. “Think about it, not only does he follow their careers. He knows their habits, their assignments. And he doesn’t just kill them. He waits until he can do it just like their stories. Can you imagine the patience, the planning, the preparation?”

  “He’s good,” Langhorne agreed. “He’s a planner, all right. But what amazes me is, he can kill so efficiently using a variety of methods. In Harrisburg, he kills with the skill of a military-trained sniper. In Baltimore, he stages a sophisticated arson. In D.C., he decapitates a man with medical efficiency.”

  Buzz nodded. “Took it clean off,” the coroner agreed. “Guy was smart, too. He slit the neck first. Let the victim bleed out. Then he did the heavy work postmortem. When the heart’s no longer pumping and the victim isn’t fidgeting, you can take your time. Do it neat. Our guy’s a perfectionist, all right.”

  “He’s more than that,” I said. “He’s a reader. He reads everything. He read what each of those journalists had written over their careers. He knew their most famous story. Needed to, because that’s how he wanted to kill them. We already know he likes history. He stuffed that FedEx box full of newspapers from 1980. Papers from decades ago. Yet there was nothing on those pages but ads and stock tables. He kept the good parts for himself. He couldn’t part with the stories. He wanted the articles.”

  Langhorne gave a considered nod. “We find out what the Unsub’s reading, maybe we learn why h
e’s doing this. Then maybe we can figure out who’s next.”

  “Unsub?” I asked.

  “Unknown subject,” Langhorne elaborated. “The guy. Our guy.”

  Buzz jerked his head toward the detective. “He’s been hanging out with the FBI too long,” the coroner offered by way of explanation. “I think he secretly wants to be a Fed. That it, Langhorne? You a frustrated Fed?”

  “No,” he scowled. “I’m a frustrated detective trying to get to the bottom of this shit. So if you don’t mind.”

  “I already know one thing our guy’s been reading,” I said. Buzz and Langhorne broke off their stare-down and turned to me. “A book called Hell Fires. It’s a bad novel from the ‘80s based on a series of actual arsons out in L.A. Book was a piece of shit, except for one thing. It described, down to the last detail, the method the firebug used to torch the buildings. It was the same method used in Baltimore. Same signature.”

  “Hell with the book,” Langhorne said. “Do we have a line on the original arsonist? Maybe he’s a repeater.”

  “He’s still in the can,” I said. “Life, no parole. It’s pretty certain the method came from the book. Only, like I said, the book was for shit. It didn’t sell. Never even made it into paperback. Out of print for years. Even the New York Times can’t lay hands on a copy.”

  “Yet our guy has one,” Langhorne pointed out.

  I nodded. “He’s a reader.”

  The detective shook his head. “I still don’t buy it. This guy, the Unsub, he’s too good at too many different things. And, yes,” the detective turned to Buzz. “This is one of the things that’s bothering the FBI, too. Maybe we need to rethink the entire premise of the case.”

  “Rethink?” I asked, pondering the implications. “How so?”

  “Maybe there’s more than one killer,” Langhorne said.

  “There’s too many coincidences for this to be random,” I protested. “For three journalists to die almost exactly like the stories they wrote, that’s a highly unusual pattern.”

  “Not random,” Langhorne corrected. “Multiple killers united by the same cause. Kindred spirits.”

  “You know that’s rare,” Buzz put in. “It’s very unusual for serials to work with partners, especially on something of this scale, with this level of precision.”

  “Rare, yes,” Langhorne agreed. “But not unheard of. The key, whether it’s one killer or multiples, is the reason, the motive. And that has something to do with 1980.”

  I glanced up to find both Buzz and Langhorne looking at me, as if I held the answer.

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” I said. “Matter of fact, I been wracking my brain for someone, anyone, who might hold a grudge from back then -- and who’s still around. Believe it or not, it’s not a long list, despite what you may say about the press.” I shot an icy look Langhorne’s way. “It’s such a long time, too. Why now? Why go off like this now?”

  “Don’t bring rationality into this,” Langhorne said. “Monsters like this don’t think rationally. Don’t edit your thoughts based on what you think is reasonable. We’ve all seen what’s been done here. I think it’s fair to say that we’re beyond all reason, all humanity and all mercy.”

  I shut my eyes tight, as if I could force my brain to reach deeper. Buzz’s office was deadly silent. All those human organs soaking in formaldehyde in medical cabinets were mute witnesses to my struggle. After an intense moment of mental exertion that seemed to last hours, I exhaled in frustration and raked a hand through my hair.

  “An idea keeps popping into my head, but it doesn’t make any sense. Yet I can’t seem to get beyond it. My mind keeps circling back to it, but it just can’t be.”

  Langhorne reached out and pulled my hand away from my face. “What is it? Whatever it is, it stays in the room.”

  My eyes rose to find his. “Winters. I keep thinking of Governor Winters.”

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I heard how improbable they sounded. “See, I told you. It’s stupid. I mean, the guy’s in jail.”

  “Federal prison camp north of Lewisburg, to be exact,” Langhorne said. But it didn’t sound like the detective was dismissing my idea out of hand. He was considering it. Considering it hard.

  “So Winters hates the press because of the scandal,” Langhorne continued, sorting things out in his mind. “I get that part. But that was what? Just a couple of years ago?”

  I nodded.

  “Yeah, so?” Langhorne raised an empty palm. “Make your case. Convince me. Thrill me with your deductive mind.”

  “Well, if you remember, Winters was running for president at the time. Or at least he was planning to. The obstruction of justice and conspiracy charges sort of short-circuited the campaign before it got started. But everything that happened, all the deaths, it was all about manipulating the press. Winters had a secret pact with a member of the media and his plan was to ride the favorable press all the way to the Republican nomination.”

  “Until you tripped up his victory parade,” Langhorne pointed out.

  “I got lucky. I was able to help,” I said. “Another reporter, Cassandra Jordan, closed the deal. The governor ended up copping a plea and drew a seven-year stretch.”

  “I still don’t see it,” Langhorne repeated.

  “That’s what I mean,” I agreed. “Winters is still in jail. No chance he did it, right?”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about,” the detective corrected. “What’s the connection to 1980?”

  “Oh that?” I answered as if it were a minor detail. “That’s easy. Winters first came to Harrisburg in 1980. He was a first-term state rep from Johnstown with stars in his eyes. Even back then, he had one eye on the governor’s mansion and beyond. Winters wanted more. Always did.”

  The detective leaned forward in his chair, as Buzz watched from behind his desk.

  “Now you got me interested,” Langhorne said. “Go on. Tell us everything.”

  Chapter 32

  I told the story of Gov. Lowell Winters’ rise to power in Pennsylvania. It was a story I had heard Winters recite many times in self-serving political speeches. I had committed most of it to memory despite myself, right down to the inflection in the former governor’s voice.

  The way Winters told it, his story began among the steel-spined, iron-willed working class of Western Pennsylvania. He was the proud son of a Johnstown steelworker. But his future lay not in the hot furnaces of the mills. His calling was as a “working man laboring for the people.” That carefully-crafted tag line showed up in all his stump speeches and in every campaign slogan. It was meant to separate Winters from the oily politicians who were merely parasites of the process. It was a signal that any power Winters gained would serve others. Later, when he went on to the U.S. Congress, it was another happy accident in his Johnstown-boy-makes-good political career. All the better for the folks back home.

  But looking back on it, as I retold the story for Buzz and Langhorne, I recognized Winters’ single-minded calculations and saw the strings of his puppet show. I knew that Winters’ rise to the governor’s mansion had been his plan from the very moment he stepped foot in Harrisburg, a freshmen representative. Even back then, he was courting the press. Eddie Moore, for sure. Bressenhan, too. Especially Bressenhan. Everyone knew Bressenhan was going places, that his words would someday carry great weight. Dykstra was stringing for a group of small papers that dotted the vast upper middle of the state, but I was sure Winters found time for him, as well.

  My own contact with Winters had been more limited. In those days, I was a rising star on the Capitol beat. I spent my days dealing with governors and party leaders, not talking to freshman lawmakers. I was busy doing what good reporters always did -- finding out dirty little secrets politicians didn’t want us to know. I had little time for the likes of Winters. But as the years passed, it would be Winters who’d have little time for me. I’d have my battle with the bottle, while Winters realigned his political affil
iation. He pulled a Ronald Reagan, switching parties to run for governor as a Republican in 1994. He lost the nomination that year to an inferior candidate who just happened to have more old-money backing. But it turned out to be the Democrats’ year, anyway, as a well-heeled incumbent walked away with the general election.

  Winters would be back in 1998, winning the first of his back-to-back terms in Pennsylvania’s highest office by some of the widest margins in state history. Behind the podium at his first inaugural, Winters marveled at how far a steelworker’s son had risen. Over the years, his hair had turned a mature gray and the lines around his eyes had deepened into wisdom wrinkles. Yet he still referred to himself as the Johnstown boy -- an honest, hard-working, hometown kid who had made good. But Winters’ ascension to the highest reaches of state government had been anything but an accident. He’d been planning it all along. Everything he said and did had been about one thing -- accumulating power.

  Perhaps now, Winters was orchestrating something else. Maybe the former governor was arranging murders from behind prison bars as his form of vengeance upon a town that had given him both his start in politics and his comeuppance.

  * * *

  “Don’t you see?” I said, sounding winded and desperate, and alternating my gaze between Buzz and Langhorne to gauge their reactions. “Harrisburg, 1980. That’s when it all began for him. It’s when Winters got his start. Eventually, he’d rule the state from Harrisburg as governor. He absolutely owned the town. But Harrisburg was also the scene of his downfall. He left in disgrace.”

  Buzz narrowed his eyes and pointed an accusing finger. “More precisely, you, the Herald, and that pretty female reporter, Cassie Jordan, brought him down.”

  “Yeah,” Langhorne agreed. “So why these other journalists? Reporters from out of town who’ve been away from the Harrisburg political scene for years? Why go after them? What’s the connection?”

  “Well, Dykstra wasn’t that far away. He was in Philly, and I know for a fact he wrote several columns on the Winters scandal. I went over his stuff as soon as I learned he was the real target in the shooting. Turns out, Dykstra devoted an entire column to a trip he took here during the height of the scandal. The whole thing was about Dykstra trying to get an interview with Winters. All along, the governor was ducking him. The column was a scream, really wicked.”