Kill The Story

by John Luciew

  “Okay, that’s one,” Langhorne said.

  “Bressenhan was in D.C., but it’s possible he wrote something on Winters, too,” I continued. “He was a roving political reporter and scandal always makes good copy, even if it is a state or two away. Be easy enough to check.”

  “But Debbie Moore was in New England, then Baltimore, doing local TV,” Langhorne pointed out. “We assumed her connection was through her old man. He was around in 1980. But he left the business soon after. Neither one seems to have any real ties, present day.”

  The detective had me there. I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

  “And we all seem to be overlooking the biggest impediment to this theory,” Buzz put in. “The crooked fuck’s in jail.”

  The old coroner was obviously right. But maybe that was the problem. Winters’ alibi was too obvious, too perfect.

  “Not jail,” I said. “Prison camp. Low security.” I turned to Langhorne. “What’s the chance the governor gets a sympathetic guard to look the other way. What’s the chance of him getting sprung now and then?”

  The detective shrugged. “Possible, not likely.”

  “Anyway, gettin’ sprung for a few hours is one thing,” Buzz added. “Sneakin’ off to Harrisburg, Baltimore and D.C., and pulling off these sophisticated murders is something else entirely. Langhorne’s right. It’s hard enough believing that only one killer could do it, let alone some jailbird governor.”

  “Oh, we’ll check to make sure the governor’s been where he should be,” Langhorne nodded, a hand to his chin. “But I’m more interested in who’s been getting’ out of that facility. I’d like to know who’s been released since the governor’s been a resident. Doors of a prison swing both ways. Sooner or later, they all get out. Well, most of them.”

  I caught onto Langhorne’s thinking. “You’ve believed there’s more than one killer all along.”

  Langhorne nodded. “Kindred spirits, like I said.”

  “Kindred, as in fellow inmates of the same facility,” I elaborated.

  “Prisons are like any fraternal organization,” the detective said. “They bring together all types of men from many different backgrounds. Each one possesses a skill. An area of expertise.”

  “Like shooting a target. Or starting a fire. Or even dismembering a corpse,” I pointed out.

  “Yes,” Langhorne said. “Prison’s rather big on the criminal trades. But from time to time, it attracts other skills, too. Leadership is a highly prized quality in any institution. You say Winters was a good talker, real charismatic. Those qualities don’t just vanish when a person goes inside. In some cases, they become magnified. Sometimes, they become even more useful. Winters was a governor in society. He could be a demigod in prison. And he just might be running this whole fuckin’ thing from the inside. Organizing it. Orchestrating it. Delegating it. Just like some CEO running a business.”

  “Or a governor giving orders,” Buzz added.

  “If he’s as smart and good as you say, Winters could be using the talents of the men around him,” Langhorne added. “Men he inspired with his considerable gifts of personality. Men who are willing to use their own skills to settle Winters’ scores. All they have to do is wait until they get out. Not only does Winters get his revenge, he has the perfect alibi.”

  My mouth was hanging open. All I could muster was a hoarse whisper. “Jesus.”

  “First things first,” the detective said. “We need to check who’s been released in the last six months to a year. We’ll look to see what, ah, skills they may possess. Then we go from there. But we don’t tell anyone about this. The FBI would just send an agent to go take Winters’ temperature. The governor would have fun lawyering up and playing games. He has all the time in the world to fuck with us. And he’d just love the attention.”

  “He’d see me,” I announced. “I could request an interview through the paper. I’m the political reporter, after all. Let’s say I’m doing a piece on the ex-governor. How he’s adjusting. Does he have any regrets? So I go out and take a look. I talk to him. Feel him out. He’d see me, I know he would. And if he’s really behind all this, I think he’d want me to know it. I don’t think he could resist taunting me. He’d want me to know what was coming. He’d want me to be scared.”

  I turned to Langhorne. “Dave, I think he’d slip.”

  The detective was silent for a long moment before finally speaking. “Request the interview. Go and ask your questions about adjusting to prison life. But you stay away from current events. You let him bring it up. You let him talk. You just listen. You look and you listen. Notice what he’s reading. Who he talks to. How he interacts with the guards. What he’s writing and who’s writing to him. Let him lead you. He can’t suspect that you’re there about the murders.”

  “I understand.”

  Just then, Langhorne’s cell phone sounded.

  “Langhorne,” the detective said, then issued a series of nods.

  He pulled the tiny phone away from his ear and clicked it off. “They found a second message in Baltimore. It was inside the newspaper box, just like you said.”

  I felt the weight of the detective’s eyes on me. “It was written on a classified ad page from a 1980 edition of the Herald. The killer used some kind of charcoal to write the words.”

  “What did it say?” I asked, not sure I wanted to know.

  “Burn the press. Burn them all.”

  Chapter 33

  My mission was set. The next day, I’d go to see the former governor of Pennsylvania, now an inmate in the Allenwood Federal Prison Camp.

  I called the paper from Buzz’s office and had Bill Sharps personally put in the request with the federal prison system. I think the city editor was simply glad to have me out of the office and away from the Bressenhan story for a day. Since becoming part of that story, I was no use to my editor. Sharps also liked that I’d be inaccessible to other media. The Herald would have the exclusive interview with the journalist who’d been FedExed a human head.

  At any rate, my plan worked. The warden got back to Sharps within two hours. The interview was approved and the inmate had consented.

  Before I left the morgue for home that day, Langhorne felt it necessary to give me another pep talk. The detective took me aside in the hot hallway outside of Buzz’s office. This time, it was a sobering reminder about my own safety.

  “You’re gonna need to watch your ass, Telly,” Langhorne said. “This bastard’s targeting Harrisburg journalists. I don’t gotta tell you what that means for you.”

  “Not as long as you have my back.” I tried a hopeful smile, but Langhorne didn’t return it.

  “You’re serious? You’re really scared for me? My safety?”

  “Very,” the detective soberly said. “This guy’s been ten steps ahead of us the whole damn time. The planning, the execution of the planning -- it’s all been flawless. Whatever’s in store, we might not see it coming.”

  I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. “That’s reassuring. And please don’t use the word execution around me.”

  “I just want you to know what we’re dealing with here. The others, they didn’t know they were targets. At least you do. You have that advantage.”

  I looked down at the dirty floor tiles then shook my head. I was sweating. The heat from the nearby boiler room was opening my pores. Or maybe it was the fear.

  “No, Dave. We only know what he wants us to know. If he hadn’t mailed me Bressenhan’s head, the deaths would still be isolated incidents. Mere tragedies tinged with a certain bit of irony.” I looked at Langhorne. “He wanted us to know. He doesn’t think we can stop him.”

  “And that’s our edge.” The detective said. “A guy like this, he thinks he’s smarter than everybody. That’s his mistake.”

  “Then we better solve this thing.”

  “We will,” Langhorne assured. “And I want you around to write about it.”

  He tried to smile, but it wouldn’t com
e. His mouth was unnaturally thin and his lips were tight.

  My head was on a swivel as I walked to my car. I couldn’t help but feel paranoid. I even checked the back seat. Not that the rear of my Fiesta was large enough to hide a killer, but it made me feel better. On the drive home, I found my eyes drifting to the rearview mirror. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I did it anyway. I kept it up all the way home.

  I swung the Fiesta into a too-tight space on the street in front of my row house. I locked the car doors, something I never did because there was nothing inside worth stealing. But I was doing it now. I had never been part of the story before and I didn’t like it.

  I had my keys out for the front door but found it unlocked. I entered my home and dead-bolted the door behind me. The pleasant aroma of Maggie’s Greek cooking greeted me. Smelled like Moussaka, my favorite. Probably served with Xwriatiki salata, plenty of Filo and Tzatziki, then Baklava or Diples for dessert, topped off by coffee, Greek style.

  My mouth was already watering and my stomach was rumbling something fierce. I remembered that I hadn’t eaten anything all day. The special delivery I received suppressed my appetite. But I was ready to eat now. Seconds, for sure.

  I was hanging up my coat in the hallway when Mother called out to me.

  “Francis, someone’s here.”

  I froze, my hands holding my coat over the hook. We hadn’t been expecting company. The girls weren’t due up from Florida until the end of the week.

  “Who?” I shouted from the hall.

  “It’s a surprise,” she said. “A special guest. They don’t want me to tell you.”

  I went cold inside. My mother was too kind and too gullible. A cunning killer could have shown up on our doorstep posing as an old friend or a former colleague, and Maggie would have welcomed them in. Hell, she would have rolled out the red carpet and cooked up one of her signature dishes -- exactly as she was doing now.

  “Maggie,” I called, trying to keep my voice as normal and natural as possible. “Could you come here for a minute.”

  There was a delay, as if my mother was being instructed on how to respond. Finally, she answered, “I’m at the stove. You come here.”

  She sounded like herself. Well, not really. It was the extra-pleasant tone she reserved for company. Still, I didn’t like it.

  “C’mon, Francis,” she called again. “Don’t be shy.” I thought I heard a giggle.

  I stepped through the archway into the living room. Our artificial Christmas tree was blinking in the center of the room. Every year, Maggie erected it the day after Thanksgiving. It would stay up through the January 7th Greek Orthodox Christmas. But each successive year, the tree looked more and more out of place. It seemed so desperate, somehow. Artificial, yes, but also superficial. This year, though, it represented hope. The hope of a reunion with my daughter and granddaughter, the promise of reconciliation for a fractured family. But in that split second, I imagined those festive lights mindlessly blinking away when they found our bodies, the killer having plied his trade yet again.

  Just as suddenly, I banished the thought and forced my eyes toward the kitchen. I had a sight line to Maggie now. She was at the stove, her back to me. I could see her, but I could not see who was seated at our kitchen table.

  Mother turned and caught sight of me. I was still standing in the living room. She smiled at me. I tried to look for a message on her face, in her eyes. Was someone in our kitchen ordering her to lure me there?

  “C’mon, silly,” she beckoned. “We’re waiting.”

  “Who is it?” I pressed. My voice was firm, serious.

  “Come and see,” Maggie said, then turned back to the stove.

  I stepped closer, trying to get a better angle. I noticed a large, black leather bag resting on the floor amongst the legs of the table. I remembered what Buzz had said about the decapitation. How it had been done so expertly, almost medically. The killer would need tools and equipment. He would have weapons. He might keep those things in such a bag.

  I stepped forward and saw the beginnings of a shadow on the floor. The person was sitting right there but was still out of view. I took another step and saw a shoe dangling in the air. The person’s legs were crossed. But the shoe didn’t look all that threatening. In fact, it appeared rather pleasant. I moved forward again, my eyes moving up from the solitary shoe to the dangling leg. A woman’s leg, sheathed in fine hose.

  I was in the archway now and our mysterious guest turned to me.

  “Whatsa matter? Not in the mood for company?”

  Chapter 34

  Cassandra Jordan was smiling up at me from my own kitchen table. I breathed out, feeling relieved and stupid at the same time.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, shaking off the sense of impending doom I’d felt ever since finding a former colleague’s head. “It’s been a long day.”

  “So I hear,” Cassie said.

  “I heard something, too,” Maggie added, turning from the stove. “I tried calling you, Francis, but I couldn’t get you. Kept getting your voicemail instead.”

  “Yeah,” I said, pulling out a chair. “My desk was a little tied up today.”

  “So what’s it all about?” Maggie asked. “All the commotion down at the paper?”

  “It’s not exactly dinner conversation,” I said. “Why don’t we eat first, then we’ll talk.”

  So we did. Dinner was absolutely wonderful. Maggie and Cassie seemed to delight in trading complaints about my cantankerous ways. It was all good-natured, but I sensed an impatience in Cassie. Hers was not a social call. She had come for the Bressenhan story. She was smart and experienced enough to know that the few facts she could glean from the cops or the FBI were piddling compared to what she could unearth from me. But I couldn’t tell her everything, even if I wanted to. It was more than a story now. Lives were at stake. Perhaps my life. Maybe even Cassie’s life. The jolt of fear I felt upon entering my own home told me of the looming danger. It also told me that it wasn’t just my life in danger anymore, either. It could well be the lives of my mother, as well as my ex-wife, daughter and granddaughter, who’d all be arriving soon.

  * * *

  We finished stuffing ourselves and adjourned to the living room. The time came for me to tell my story. My talkative mother and my inquisitive former colleague sat in total silence for a full fifteen minutes as I related the day’s events. It had to have been a record for both of them.

  “Lord above,” Maggie exhaled uneasily when I finished. “Why would someone do that?”

  I shrugged, not saying a word about the ties to Harrisburg and the old newspaper pages from the Herald, circa 1980. “With these sickos, you never know. A lot of them want publicity. They sure got it on this one.”

  “But why you?” Cassie wrinkled her nose after talking another sip of wine. So what if it was the kind that came from a box? She didn’t have to show her distaste with each and every mouthful. So I went cheap on the wine. This wasn’t Tavern on the Green or high tea at The Plaza. Besides, she should have stuck to beer, like me.

  “That’s the part I don’t get.” Cassie continued, this time pushing away her nearly full glass. “Why send the head to the Herald, and why specifically to you? I mean, the guy worked for the Washington Post. The killer would’ve received much more publicity had he mailed it there.”

  “FedEx,” I said.

  “What?” Cassie was confused.

  “The guy used FedEx to send the head. You said mail. That should be great advertising. ‘When your body part absolutely, positively has to be there on time.’”

  “Oh, Francis,” Maggie said, pushing my shoulder but getting a smile out of it, despite herself. Cassie’s inquisitive look never changed. She wanted an answer to her question, one I couldn’t give.

  “Why you?” she repeated.

  I raised my palms. “I don’t know. Bressenhan did work for the Herald way back when.” I couldn’t bring myself to mention the year, though I was sure Cassie ha
d already gotten the background. “He was the political reporter at the Post, and I’m the political reporter at the Herald. That’s the only connection I can make. Like I said, they pulled me off the story. For whatever reason, I’m part of this now.”

  Cassie sharpened her focus. “You’re part of it all right. Exactly how you fit in is the question. But I don’t think it has much to do with your title. Sorry, Telly, but the Post and the Herald aren’t exactly journalistic equivalents.”

  “You got me there,” I shrugged.

  “You say they took you off the story?” Cassie asked.

  “Yeah. Came down right from the publisher. Something like, how am I gonna interview myself. That kinda thing.”

  Cassie nodded. “So why’d you just get home an hour ago? Seems the paper would have given you the rest of the day off after something like this. You must’ve been pretty shaken up.”

  Cassie was almost as good at putting me on the spot as my mother. “I was. And they did. But I stuck around anyway. You know me.”

  “Yeah,” Cassie suspiciously said. “I do.”

  There was more small talk. Maggie enjoyed asking about New York, and Cassie obliged by wowing Mother with tales of designer stores, replete with high fashion and high-dollar price tags.

  “I always wanted to live on Manhattan,” Maggie gushed, stars in her eyes.

  “Yeah?” I put in. “You and what millionaire? I can barely afford Harrisburg, and you have trouble keeping a little condo down in Florida.” I popped the bubble of her daydream. Maggie eyed me harshly.

  “Manhattan’s wonderful,” Cassie said, attempting to rescue the situation. “It really is. It’s separate and apart from any other place on earth. And the people, so many different people. All walking fast, rushing off to their next meeting or important appointment. The energy is…” Cassie’s voice faded, and I realized how badly she missed it. She had fallen in love with the city and, perhaps, with a dirty, old magazine magnate.