by John Luciew
“Yeah? Good for him,” the detective said. “You’re losing me, Telly. What does the O.J. case have to do with a snowstorm up in Buffalo?”
“At its heart the Bronco case was a traffic story. It started out that way, at least. You had cops clearing highways and chasing that white Bronco. TV traffic reporters were the first ones on the story.”
“Shit,” Langhorne grunted, seeing it now.
“The snowstorm up in Buffalo brought Brandon O’Connell back to the highway,” I continued. “A storm like that, the local TV stations always put a reporter or two at busy intersections and along the most-traveled highways. Better to show the folks at home how all that snow is playing hell with travel. It’s a TV staple. If the news crew can get a couple of snowplows in the shot, so much the better. It’s a wonder some reporter hasn’t been killed before. But this was no accident. The killer waited for this. He wanted O’Connell on that highway. That’s where he wanted to kill him.”
There was a long silence.
“If you’re right, and I’m not saying you are. But if you are, then there’s a bigger question,” Langhorne said. “Like, where’d this guy get a fucking plow truck?”
“My guess is, when you find the snowplow, you’ll find the next message. If I’m right, there should be another calling card from 1980. That’s where I’d start, and I’d start fast. The Buffalo cops won’t know what they’re dealing with.”
“I’m on it,” Langhorne said. “I’ll feed your info to the FBI, then I’m gonna try to get up to Buffalo, myself. It’s the freshest scene and it relates to my case. I’ll make the pitch, at least. Problem is, even if the chief okays it, I don’t know how I’ll get up there, not in this weather. But I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let this case slip through my fingers. Anyway, thanks, Telly. I’ll try to keep you informed.”
“There’s one more problem.” My words stopped the detective before he could hang up.
“You’re not much for good news, are ya? What is it?”
“Cassandra Jordan has the story.”
“This TV reporter thing? Hell, everyone’s gonna be on it.” Langhorne sounded anxious to get off the line. Once again, I stopped him.
“She has the link, Dave. She knows the connection is Harrisburg. She’s able to link three of the murders. I thought you should know.”
There was a silence, then came the storm that was Langhorne’s voice. “And just how the hell did she come across this information, exactly?” the detective demanded. “I know you have a thing for her. You didn’t try to impress her, did you?”
“No.” My denial was firm but my face felt hot. I didn’t know if it was anger over Langhorne’s accusation or embarrassment that my attraction to Cassie was so apparent. “I told you, she put it together herself when I mentioned O’Connell once worked in Harrisburg.”
“You mentioned it?” He sounded incredulous.
“I was in shock, all right? We were in a bar. I had just seen the video. I blurted it out.”
“Christ,” Langhorne exhaled. “How stupid could you be? She worked you, man. She knew you knew something, and she kept pumping you till you spilled it. Bet she had you all liquored up, too? You’re so easy, man. I shouldn’t have to remind you that you have a vested interest in us catching this guy. Your health may depend on it.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“So that’s it? She doesn’t know anything else? You didn’t say anything else, did you?”
“No.”
“Nothing about the killer re-creating stories from the past?” Langhorne pressed. “In all your shock, you didn’t blurt out something about this O’Connell guy having covered the O.J. chase?”
“No. I didn’t know it myself until I looked it up on the Internet. I don’t think Cassie knows anything else.”
“Better hope not,” Langhorne said. “The more the press knows, the harder it’ll be to nab this creep. And the more attention the bastard gets, the more he’ll want to put on another performance. The quicker he may come calling on you.”
“I get it, all right.”
“And Telly?”
“Yeah?”
“If anything else shows up in the paper, we won’t be able to continue our little relationship.” Langhorne’s voice was drained of its usual sarcasm. There wasn’t a hint of humor in his tone.
“No more trading information, understand? I can’t risk a leak.”
Chapter 45
He made the call from the Buffalo airport. He punched the numbers with still-numb fingers, then cradled a hot cup of coffee in both hands to warm them.
It had been cold work but well worth it. Earlier, as he walked past the airport lounges, all the cable news channels were replaying his story. Yet, the world still didn’t know the full extent of his masterwork. A single phone call would change that. A call to the reporter, Cassandra Jordan.
He had her cell phone number and could reach her anywhere, anytime. He even talked with her on a previous occasion. Reporters were willing to talk to anyone as long as they believed the caller had information that could help them. And he always possessed information. Useful information on many topics.
When they had spoken before, he had used another name and they had discussed a different matter. But he had given her enough for her to share her cell phone number. Just like that, he had become a source. Now he had even bigger news. He’d play the confidential informant, and she would write down every word.
Cassandra Jordan would tell his story.
Cassie was at the desk of her downtown hotel suite. Her laptop was open and the beginnings of her story about the media murders glowed on its screen. When her cell phone chirped, she answered it.
“Jordan.”
“Cassandra Jordan of the New York Times?” the caller inquired.
“Yes. Can I help you?” The cellular connection sounded tenuous, probably on account of the weather.
“I think it’s I who can help you,” the man corrected. “You are working on a story about the murders, are you not? The murders of the journalists?”
“Who is this?” Cassie asked.
“I’m afraid I cannot say. I am involved in the investigation, and I am willing to share information with you in exchange for anonymity.”
“You’re FBI?” Cassie asked.
“Let’s just call me a source close to the investigation. Anything more specific would jeopardize my position.”
“I have no problem with that,” Cassie said. “But I’d still like to know who I’m talking to. I’ll keep your name in strict confidence, I promise. Not even my editors will know.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t take the risk. Why don’t you just listen to my information, then you can decide what to do with it.” He knew the reporter couldn’t resist such an offer.
“Okay. Let’s hear it.”
“As you might have guessed, the four murders are the work of a serial killer. But there’s more, much more.”
“Four?” Cassie interrupted. I count three -- Dykstra, Bressenhan and O’Connell.”
“You forget Debbie Moore, the pretty, young reporter who burned in Baltimore.”
The caller relished the delicious silence as Jordan digested this information.
“How--” Cassie broke off her words. “How can that be? Forty-seven other people died in that fire. You’re telling me it was all to kill one person, Debbie Moore?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“And that’s confirmed?”
“Correct.”
“She doesn’t fit the profile,” Cassie pointed out. “The others were veterans who had worked in Harrisburg early in their careers. Debbie Moore wasn’t.”
“No. But her father was.”
There was another silence, interrupted only by the hiss and static of the bad cell phone connection.
“Do you see it now?” the caller asked. “He not only kills them, he replicates a story they once covered. A most famous story. Frankly, we’ve never seen anything lik
e it. We believe the killer is highly motivated, exceptionally organized and extremely intelligent. Probably with a genius-level IQ. And we know he won’t stop. Not until he’s finished telling his story. You see, he’s creating his own story.”
“Holy shit,” Cassie whispered as she scribbled furiously in her notebook. “I’m sorry,” she added hastily, catching herself and dialing back her enthusiasm. “That was unprofessional of me. Please. Tell me more.”
The informant filled in Cassie on all aspects of the investigation. Her heart was racing and her throat was dry at the enormity of the story. The biggest of her career, by far. Yet one thing kept nagging at her, an uneasy thought that something just didn’t fit.
Why was the source telling her all this? He was obviously FBI. At the very least, a ranking officer in one of the police departments involved in the case. Cassie knew these men. She knew how difficult it was to extract information from them, even when you were a beautiful reporter and you had them cornered. They didn’t just call out of the blue and volunteer information. Especially when it had to do with an open case involving a serial killer. And they certainly wouldn’t reveal key details of the case file. Things having to do with the killer’s signature. Facts that would invite all manner of copycats and cranks.
“Why tell me all this?” Cassie blurted, interrupting what had been a full fifteen minutes of narrative from her new source. Up until then, Cassie hadn’t needed to ask a single question. Her informant had been that eager to share and totally complete in his facts. But she had to ask this.
“What?” The caller sounded taken aback.
“Why release so much information? Won’t it make your job harder? Let’s face it, the media will be all over this. The details you’re providing will be everywhere. Won’t it make it more difficult to determine who’s a suspect and who’s a fake?”
“I didn’t expect a reporter to care about such things,” the caller said. “Or perhaps I called the wrong reporter.”
“No, that’s not what I meant.” Cassie hurried to correct herself. “You called the right person, believe me. You’re information has been excellent. And it will be very useful. I just can’t figure out why you’re sharing it with me.”
“You’re right. The official line is that the murders are separate cases and the M.O. linking them is a guarded secret. I guess I felt the public should know more. They should know what we’re up against. And maybe, just maybe, someone out there will know who’s doing this and why. Then, maybe, we can stop him before he does it again. And he will do it again. That’s the one thing we’re most sure of. He’s telling some kind of story.”
Cassie paused, considering this. “Oh, I get it. What you’re feeding me is a plant. You guys really want something in the paper. You figure it might help. You think this guy reads his own press clippings?”
“Matter of fact, we’re sure of it. He reads everything. But this, our conversation, it’s all very unofficial. You and I, we never talked.”
“I understand,” Cassie said. “Totally. But usually when you guys plant a story, don’t you criticize the killer? You know, put him down. Say stuff like he wets the bed and screws his mother? That kinda stuff. To get him mad, so he makes mistakes?”
At the other end of the line, the man did his best to control his rising temper and maintain a steady, even tone. But he was becoming increasingly annoyed by the reporter’s questions. They were all alike. And oh how he hated their questions.
“We don’t think this one makes mistakes,” he said.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Cassie replied. “You sound so respectful of him. You give him quite a lot of credit. Several times you even referred to him as a genius.”
The caller could hear the ruffling pages as Cassie leafed through her notebook. It would never end, he thought. Always more questions. Always trying to trip him up.
“Yes, it’s right here,” Cassie continued pressing her point. “When you were describing how he staged the murders to re-create other stories. You said you think he has a genius-level IQ. If he does read his press clippings, won’t he get off on that? Won’t it just make him bolder?”
“I know what I said.” The man’s temper was growing extremely short. “I told you exactly what’s in the profile. Fact is, we estimate his I.Q. at above 160. Why hide it? But that’s beside the point. This is all about what he’s doing. He’s telling a story. The murders are secondary to this goal. We want to show him that we’re listening. We want him to know that we’ve heard his story. That it’s okay for him to stop.”
“So, what is he saying?” Cassie asked. “What’s the story?”
The man exhaled audibly. Finally, a question he wanted to answer.
“It’s that the media can’t take its own medicine,” he said. “It sounds harsh, I know. But that’s it in a nutshell. He’s not just doing something as obvious as killing the messenger. He’s turning everything upside-down. He’s turning the tables on the media. He putting them inside their own stories.”
Cassie pondered this. “He is, isn’t he? But why Harrisburg? Why these particular reporters?”
“We don’t know, and he hasn’t told us. Not yet, anyway. We hope to stop him before he has the chance.”
“And you think I can help? That this story will help?”
“Perhaps,” the man said. “But not if you don’t file it. Dear me, look at the time. Don’t you think you should be going so you can make deadline?”
Still seated at her hotel room desk, Cassie checked her watch. “Yes, but there’s just one more thing.”
“If you must.”
“How did you get my number?”
“Ms. Jordan, investigation is what I do. I hope you’re not offended that I took the liberty. I felt that the nature of my information would justify my means of getting it to you.”
“Sure, why not?” Cassie said, but she felt uneasy again.
“It’s been a pleasure,” the caller said. “Good luck with your story.”
The line went dead, and Cassie closed her cell phone.
She paged through her notes. She had a lot, more than enough for a Page One story. In that moment, she decided that there was no time for moral dilemmas and conflicted emotions. Cassie Jordan had a story to file. A hell of a story, in fact. And deadline was fast approaching.
She flipped open her cell phone again and dialed the national desk of the New York Times.
“Jeff,” she said. “You’re not going to believe this.”
Chapter 46
I bummed a ride home from a copy editor with a four-wheel drive. The worst of the storm was over, but the roads remained rutted by packed snow and the sidewalks were still covered by ten inches of powder. I would never have made it in my wingtips and overcoat. I would have frozen to death, or at the very least, lost my feet to frostbite.
My house was cold, dark and empty as I entered, hung up my coat and kicked off my wet leather shoes. The whole place suffered from absence, and I shuddered in its chill. It wasn’t just the loneliness, either. The place was literally freezing. I checked the thermostat. Maggie had turned it down to 53 degrees -- her idea of saving money while she was off spending it up in Florida. I turned the dial up to 70. I needed warmth.
I felt the call of the bottle then. I had sought the sanctuary of alcohol many times in my life. I used it again and again to ease my burden and forget myself. But I knew it offered only a temporary reprieve. And always, it exacted a price. It built barriers within families and ruined careers. It was never a solution. But right then, it was the only answer. I took a bottle of bourbon from the shelf and didn’t bother with a glass. I sat heavily on the couch and took a long slug. It warmed me all the way down. Then the furnace kicked on, blowing warm air from the grates.
But something was still missing.
* * *
The phone rang like a fire alarm the next morning. Its piercing sound bored into my brain as I lay passed-out on the living room couch. I snatched the receive
r from the cradle just to silence the damned thing.
“Hello,” I answered, squinting at the wall clock hung over the television. It was 6:30 a.m.
“How much did you tell her?”
I didn’t recognize the voice. “Tell who?” I sputtered. My breath smelled rank. “Who is this?”
“It’s Sharps. We have a problem, Telly. We got beat on a story today. Your story. The one that was supposed to stay secret until the cops and the FBI were closer to a suspect. Only, now it’s out. It’s on the fucking front page of the New York Times.”
I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, trying to hold my eyeballs inside my aching skull.
“Cassie?” I asked.
“Of course, Cassie,” Sharps snapped. “She has everything. Broke it wide open.”
“I told you, you shouldn’t have taken me off the story.”
“You’re off it for good, now,” Sharps yelled. I held the phone away from my ear.
I blinked a couple of times, trying to clear may head. “Why?” I asked. Headache or not, I was ready to fight him.
“I’ll tell you why. I’m getting sick and damn tired of reading your name in other newspapers. Seems your name’s been in other reporters’ stories more than it’s been in our own goddamn paper. This time, you’re quoted as fearing for your life on account of this serial killer. Something about the possibility of you being next. Sound familiar?”
I blew out air. I couldn’t believe Cassie had done it to me again. I was no longer a friend or a former colleague. I was just another subject to her. Another faceless name to put in one of her stories.