“That’s TV for you,” Norman said. It was hard to talk and write at the same time. He needed practice. “They don’t have as much time as we newspaper reporters do to investigate stories. And as a matter of fact, I have some information I could share with you, and maybe you could help me understand what it means.”
“Yes, all right.”
Norman read the letter to her and she gasped right after the mention of Seth. Then he heard her sniffling. “Are you all right, Mrs. Glass?”
She sniffled some more and then let out a long, loud sigh. “Yes, I’m all right. What did you say your name was again?”
“Norman Klein.”
“Well, Mr. Klein. Do you think it’s true? What do the police say?”
“I’m not sure if it’s true and the police don’t know anything about it yet. I wanted to do some investigating on my own first.”
“Well, I hope that poor girl isn’t in any danger. What I want to know is if Seth Kennedy killed my daughter, why isn’t he in jail?”
“He is in jail, but only on drug charges. . . . I think I’m all set here. Thank you very much for your time. I hope things get better for you and your family.”
“Thank you. I hope they do, too.”
Norman was having such luck, he decided to shoot for the moon. “Oh, and Mrs. Glass, I need your first name. And would you happen to have Clover’s phone number?”
“It’s Patricia. And yes, I think I have her parents’ number. Let me go see.”
Norman scribbled the number down and hung up. “Yes!” he yelled so loudly the other reporters turned around and glared at him. He smiled and waved.
By noon, Norman was feeling mucho grande. He had a second donut with coffee so his brain would keep clicking along at top speed. Al walked over to Norman’s desk after the eleven o’clock news meeting.
“So, what have you got?” Al said.
“I think I know who wrote the letter,” Norman replied.
Al looked skeptical. “And who would that be?”
“Her name is Clover Ziegler.”
“Have you talked to her?”
“Not yet, I was waiting for you to get out of the meeting. What’s the decision on running the letter?”
“We’ll run it if you can back it up with responses from the families and reactions on how the police investigation is going. We want our readers to know that this newspaper is taking a strong interest in seeing these murders solved. After you talk to this Ziegler girl, I want you to get back over to the cop-shop and hold the chief’s feet to fire on this letter. Ask him why he hasn’t made any significant progress on the investigation. If he says he has, then ask him why he hasn’t told the public about it. They’ll probably seize the letter as evidence, so be sure to make a few copies before you go. Got all that?”
“Yes. Thanks,” Norman said, scribbling down Al’s instructions.
Norman was excited Al had changed his tune. But he was feeling the pressure. Big time. That load of crap about the newspaper “taking a strong interest” sounded like it came straight from the mouth of the executive editor, the one he saw feeling up the woman in the parking lot. These people talked just like the politicians they ripped every day on the editorial pages.
Norman called the number he’d just gotten for Clover Ziegler. A woman answered. She said she was Clover’s mother, and her daughter wasn’t home.
“Yes, she dated Seth Kennedy for a while, but she hasn’t seen him lately. What does that have to do with anything?”
Norman tried to explain about the letter, and when that didn’t work, he decided to read it to her. She wasn’t impressed.
“Well, who knows if she really wrote that letter? Have they arrested that Kennedy boy for murder?” she asked. “I never liked him.”
“Not that I know of,” Norman said. “We’re still trying to get some straight answers out of the police. What would be a good time to call back to reach your daughter?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “I don’t know where she is. Sharona Glass was her best friend, you know, and she’s been very depressed since she died. They closed the beauty school for the week because of all this, so she’s been spending a lot of time at the mall.”
Norman left his number with her and hung up. Starting to drag from the sugar high and subsequent drop, he stopped just outside the Coffee Hovel, as reporters fondly called the newsroom break room. Theoretically, a fresh pot of coffee was supposed to be brewing there around the clock, but the pot always seemed to be empty. He overheard Al talking to another editor.
“That kid, I don’t know how he manages to keep pulling himself out of the messes he gets into. That letter was a gift from heaven. But I’m telling you, if he blows it on this one, I’m going to talk to the powers-that-be around here.”
That was all Norman needed to hear. “Gift from heaven, my ass,” he muttered. “I’ll show them.”
At the cop-shop, Norman looked for Ken Goode’s van but didn’t see it anywhere.
Too bad. I’m in the mood for a good confrontation. On the other hand, it might be better to ambush one of the sergeants I just met. Or better yet, the chief himself.
He approached the front counter, where a hard-edged brunette in her late forties was working a large phone console. She had so little hair where her eyebrows were supposed to be that she’d drawn them in. When she looked up at him for a split second, she pursed her thin lips, as if he were moldy cheese.
“I’m Norman Klein from the Sun-Dispatch,” he said glancing quickly at her nametag, which read, DIANA SCOTTSDALE.
“I’ve been to Scottsdale,” he said, smiling. “Is the chief in? I need to interview him about the PB killer case.”
She was unfazed by his attempt at charm. “You have an appointment?”
“No,” he said.
“Then why don’t you sit over there and I’ll page the Homicide sergeant,” she said, nodding over at the ratty plaid armchairs that stood against the wall like suspects in a lineup at a thrift store. The seats were ripped and torn, with the yellow foam padding hanging out.
After twenty-five minutes went by, Norman was feeling ignored and none too pleased about it. He got up, marched back over to Ms. Scottsdale, and leaned into her face. “Have you reached him yet?” he asked.
“Oh, yeah. I’ll page him now,” she said, giving him a nasty smirk.
“Thank you,” Norman said curtly and returned to his seat.
Her voice came out over the speakers in the ceiling: “Sergeant Stone, Sergeant Stone, there’s a reporter in the lobby to see you.”
It was another ten minutes before Sergeant Stone came through one of the doors, holding it open with his body. Norman stayed where he was, assuming the sergeant would come over and talk to him.
“Mr. Klein, I don’t have all day to hold this door open for you,” Stone said.
“Oh,” Norman said, jumping to his feet.
As they entered the detective bureau, Stone sat behind a wide metal desk in his office and motioned for Norman to sit in a chair across from him. “So what can we do for you today?” he said.
“Well—”
Stone pulled out a drawer and put his feet up on it. “I’ve been reading your stories. A little on the light side, but hey, that’s the way we like them around here.”
Norman decided to let that one pass, and pulled out the letter, placing it on the desk between them. “This was sent to my attention this morning. . . .What do you think?”
“I think it’s very interesting,” Stone said, raising his eyebrows. “We’ll have to keep this as evidence, of course.”
The sergeant reached for the phone and pressed a buzzer. A man in a jacket and tie came in, took the letter from Stone’s outstretched hand and read it silently, expressionless. When he was finished, Stone jerked his head toward the door and the two of them went into the hall. “Back in a minute,” the sergeant said over his shoulder.
Norman figured the letter was a big break in the case for them. He wondered
if maybe he should apply for a job as a police officer and forget the reporting thing altogether.
It was fifteen minutes before the sergeant came back. “So, listen. Thanks for bringing that in,” Stone said. “I’ve got a meeting I’ve got to get to.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Norman said. “I’ve been here for almost an hour, waiting to talk to the chief about the letter.”
Stone sat back down at his desk. He scowled as he leaned back in his chair, the springs squeaking, and intertwined his fingers behind his head. He paused. “Listen, Mr. Klein. This is a very sensitive case. I don’t want to screw up our investigation by releasing too much information, so we’re not going to be able to comment on the letter. Off the record—”
“Sergeant,” Norman interrupted, “I came to talk to the chief. And I’ve really got to ask you to stay on the record on this one.” He suddenly felt brave. He’d given them the letter. He was the guy in the know, the guy who worked for the company that bought ink by the barrel. He would not be rebuffed. “Is he available?”
Stone’s expression said Norman was an annoying and potentially dangerous predator. “No, he’s not,” the sergeant said. “He’s over at City Hall in a budget meeting. He’s asked me to handle all press inquiries on this matter.”
If Norman couldn’t get to the chief, at least he had to get a comment from the sergeant about how the investigation was going. “Look. I’m writing a story about the case, sort of an update,” Norman said, “and I’ve got some general questions about the investigation.”
“Such as,” Stone said.
“Such as, do you have any good leads you’re working?”
Stone answered in a very measured tone. “We’ve got many good leads. The community has been calling in anything and everything they think is suspicious in the Pacific Beach area, and we are very encouraged by that. We’re hoping to catch this murderer as soon as humanly possible.”
Norman pressed on. “Some of the victims’ families say the investigation is going at a snail’s pace and they’re criticizing police for being too slow in releasing information. What’s your response to that?”
“I haven’t heard that from anyone but you, Mr. Klein. The calls we’ve been getting are all very much in the way of thanking us for working around the clock trying to catch this killer, whoever he—or she—may be.”
“Have you recovered any murder weapons?”
“I’m not going to comment on that.”
“Do you have any suspects in custody?”
“Suspects?”
“Yes, you know, the people you think committed these crimes?” Norman was feeling a little cocky. Maybe a little too cocky.
Stone lunged forward in his seat and spoke soft and low. “Don’t get smart with me, young man, or I’ll throw you out of my office.”
Despite the sergeant’s tone, Norman could see he was squirming. Still, Norman figured he ought to back off a bit. “Sorry, I was just kidding.”
Stone paused. “Well, this is no laughing matter. All I can say is that we are questioning several people at the moment.”
“So you have arrested more than one person in the murders?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“So what do you mean?”
“Off the record—”
“Sergeant.”
“Listen, I can’t really explain anything further on the record right now. Don’t you people understand how much damage you can cause with one story? It screws up our investigations—tips off suspects, lets them know what we have so they can be ready with good lies.”
Norman wasn’t going to let him off the hook this time. “But the public has a right to know what’s going on with this investigation, sergeant,” he said, following his editor’s advice. “Now, who do you have in custody?”
“Look, kid, I’m not trying to be evasive here. You are welcome to look at our arrest log. That’s all I have to say. Now, is that all? I’ve got to get back to work solving this case.”
“What about the letter? Can I get a statement on that?”
The sergeant took another long, deep breath before he spoke. “You don’t give up do you? Okay. Here’s what I can say. You ready?”
Norman nodded.
“A letter has come to our attention that may help point us in a certain direction in the investigation, but it’s too early to comment on exactly what direction that will be,” he said.
Norman rolled his eyes and kept his pen in mid air. He didn’t write a word of it down. “Sergeant.”
“What?” Stone said.
“That’s a totally nonresponsive statement. I can’t use any of it.”
The sergeant kept on as if Norman hadn’t said a thing. “The letter has been passed on to our handwriting expert and will be checked for fingerprints. Other than that, we’ll just have to wait and see.”
Norman knew that wasn’t going to be good enough to satisfy his editors. “What about the contents of the letter? Do you have any idea who may have written it?”
“No, we do not.”
Ha! Norman let out a silent whoop of victory, reveling in the fact that he had more than the cops did on this one. Unless, of course, the sergeant was lying.
“Have you questioned Seth Kennedy about the murder?” Norman asked.
“I can’t speak to that right now,” Stone replied.
Norman groaned. “So what’s the deal?”
“What deal is that?”
“C’mon sergeant. This is ridiculous.”
Stone looked exasperated. “Kennedy is in custody on drug charges. You know that. It’s in the news release. We arrested him for possession, distribution, and trafficking of narcotics last night. We found cocaine and heroin at his house, plus you know about the bust at Pumphouse. So, that’s it and that’s all. I’m afraid your time is up, Mr. Klein,” he said, rising to his feet.
“What about the chief?” Norman asked.
“As I said, he’ll be tied up in meetings all day.” Stone stood with his hand on the doorknob, waiting for Norman to get out of his chair.
“So the chief is refusing to comment?” Norman said, refusing to move.
“I’ll see you out,” Stone snapped. “And I’m asking you not to put any of the contents of that letter in the paper. It could really interfere with our investigation.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” Norman said sarcastically.
One thing was clear: if it were his ass or the sergeant’s, Norman would have no problem choosing between them.
Chapter 39
Goode
Goode was walking up to Alison’s apartment door when he heard her cry out, but he couldn’t make out the words. The detective banged his fist against the door four times. “Alison? Are you all right in there?”
Silence.
“Alison?”
There was still no answer, but Goode could’ve sworn he heard a man’s low voice through the door. He pictured Tony holding her down, with his hand over her mouth. Maybe he was even choking her. Alison’s call was all the probable cause Goode needed to enter the premises by force. Especially after being invited.
He kicked open the door, his gun drawn, and he was right. Tony was straddling Alison on the floor, his hand placed squarely over her heart-shaped mouth. Goode saw fear in Tony’s eyes as he quickly rolled off Alison.
“It’s not what you think,” Tony said. “I was just trying to talk to her but she wouldn’t stop screaming. All I wanted to do was talk.”
A tear rolled down Tony’s cheek. But Goode found it difficult to feel any empathy after what he’d witnessed. Alison seemed physically unharmed as she lay there, but her blank eyes told him she’d gone deep inside herself.
“You must be Tony Marcus,” Goode said. “We talked on the phone the night your daughter was murdered. I’m Detective Ken Goode.”
Tony nodded.
“Listen,” Goode said. “We’ve been working hard to solve your daughter’s murder, but you have no right to take out y
our frustrations on Alison. She’s been going through a rough time as well and I don’t think she needs you harassing her. You want to press charges, Alison?”
She shook her head.
“Well, that’s lucky for you, Mr. Marcus, but I still have a few questions.”
Tony looked at Goode with a mix of fear, confusion, and sadness.
“Where were you the night your daughter was murdered?”
Tony’s expression turned to disbelief. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about your temper, and maybe you took it out on your daughter just like I saw you doing a minute ago with Alison.”
Tony shook his head and dug his fingers deep into his eye sockets. Goode could hear the squeak of Tony’s eyelids as he rubbed them.
“Well, Mr. Marcus?” Goode asked.
Tony didn’t answer. He just kept rubbing his eyes. When he finally looked up, it was with such hopelessness that Goode almost felt sorry for him.
“I don’t even know how to answer you except to say that I would never hurt my daughter,” Tony said. “But if you must know, I was at home watching TV with my wife.”
He sounded sincere to Goode, who stood at the ready, his legs apart, one hand free at his side, the other on the gun under his jacket. Tony was not going to mess any more with Alison if Goode had anything to say about it.
“I certainly hope that proves to be true,” Goode said.
Tony heaved himself to his feet and lumbered toward the open door, turning so his face was in shadow.
“Can I call you, Alison?” he asked weakly. “I promise I won’t upset you again.”
But Alison was unreachable. She lay on her back, staring blankly at the ceiling. Even after Tony left the apartment, she didn’t move. Goode kneeled down beside her and touched her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
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