THE SUN glinted off the tall glass doors as Katie Cannon strode through the doorway into the lobby of the Daily Express Building.
“Good morning, Miss Cannon,” said a man in uniform seated behind a dark walnut desk with a bank of video screens behind.
Ian McDonald was a security guard who monitored the comings and goings of people in the building.
He knew almost every staffer by name and all visitors had to be cleared through lobby security before admission to the building. The media attracted their fair share of kooks and weirdoes. McDonald’s job was to screen them out before they could gain access to reporters.
“Morning, Ian. How goes it?” Cannon asked, stopping at the desk to chat.
“It’s been pretty quiet since I came on duty at 7:30 a.m. The day shift is starting to arrive.”
“Yes, well my day already started bloody early. We had another Wolfman victim found this morning. I’ve just returned from the crime scene.”
“My, this guy is one busy character,” said McDonald. “He sure gets around the city. Where was this latest victim found?”
“In High Park. An early morning dog walker found her. It’s the usual MO – strangulation and a missing tongue,” said Cannon.
“Maybe his wife’s a nagger and this is his way of getting revenge,” quipped McDonald with a grin.
He was a fairly handsome looking man, in his 30s, dark hair and a muscular build. He obviously works out and keeps in good shape, thought Katie.
“That’s in very bad taste, Ian,” she replied. “He’s one sick psycho.”
“There’s often a fine line between genius and madness, they say.”
“Yes, well this creep is well over that line. I have to go, Ian and get busy on the story. See you around!” Cannon waved and headed for the elevator.
“The sooner the better, Katie,” smiled the security guard.
Chapter 18
Toronto Daily Express 9:05 AM
AS KATIE Cannon stepped off the elevator on the third floor, she almost bowled over a small, mousey looking man carrying an armful of stacked folders.
Staring at her through an oversized pair of large, geeky-looking black glasses was Thomas Philpott, the paper’s librarian and researcher.
“Oh, there you are Miss Cannon,” he lisped in a squeaky voice reminiscent of Truman Capote. “I have that background material on the Wolfman killings you asked me for.” He thrust forward a red folder jammed with news clippings and other material.
“Thank you, Thomas. That was quick work.” Katie answered politely, shaking off a bit of a chill. She always found Thomas Philpott to be a bit creepy. He was something of a loner surrounded by his dusty books and files in the newspaper library.
Philpott was certainly not the most sociable person, but he was a treasure in digging up the most obscure facts for reporters. Most of them treated him respectfully to his face, but behind his back there were many who teased his effeminate mannerisms. Most were convinced he was gay. Cannon rather thought of him as asexual and probably still a virgin.
Cannon moved toward her desk in the busy newsroom. Many reporters were already at their workstations. Some were phoning contacts for news tips, others were typing on their computers. A few people were sitting with their feet up on their desks sipping coffee and reading the morning newspapers, including the competition to see what stories they had.
Katie booted up her computer and immediately went to her overnight e-mails. There were 46 new e-mails listed.
About half of them were spam that evaded the newspaper’s filtering system. She deleted the junk mail and scanned through the rest.
Many were comments from readers about some of her stories, others news tips from sources, but then there was one marked urgent that immediately caught her attention.
It was flagged Wolfman and time dated at 7:03 a.m. today.
As Katie read the message, her entire body shuddered.
News Bitch:
The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers – Shakespeare, Henry VI Part 2.
I’ve made a start with the female law bitches in victim #8. Her tongue will join the others in my collection of silenced whores who do not know their proper place.
I’m giving you a gift of another story to write about. But you continue to twist the truth and lie about me.
You continue to paint me as a sick, psychotic individual when all these bitches deserve what they got. They think they are better than men and try to dominate us by taking positions of power. No more. They will all live in fear. I am the sword of vengeance!
It falls to me to start a fight to cut out the cancer of bent and twisted journalism in our country. Women like you who write about us as if we are sick animals. You need to be put in your place.
Be seeing you!
The Wolfman
Cannon sat for a moment to catch her breath.
The Wolfman had started sending her e-mails after victim number two. They taunted the police and offered her grisly details of the killings, but this was the first one to actually threaten her.
Death threats were nothing new to journalists, but most were usually dismissed as the ravings of people who would never carry them out. The Wolfman was different. Cannon took this threat seriously.
She had forwarded the other e-mails to the police who had been trying to track down the source through their IT people, but they doubted he would be foolish enough to send them from his home computer. He would more likely be using public terminals.
Cannon picked up the phone and called Homicide. She asked for Detective Sergeant Peter Moon.
“Moon here. What’s your problem?” he answered.
“Peter, this is Katie Cannon at the Daily Express. I’ve just received another e-mail from the Wolfman about his latest victim.”
“Well, just forward it on to me and we’ll get the IT boys to run a trace. He keeps sending these things to you. He must like what you write about him. You’re becoming his press agent.”
“Not quite, Peter. I think in this one he’s telling me I’m going to be his next victim!”
Chapter 19
Braden Young’s Office 9:20 AM
“RIGHT, LET’S get this show on the road,” said Braden Young, looking up from the sheet of paper in front of him.
He was seated at a conference table in his glass-walled office staring at six other people around the oval shaped walnut table in high backed swivel chairs.
Like Knights of the Round Table, these were his sub-editors ready to begin jousting at the daily news story meeting. Each would pitch their section stories to Young for consideration on the front page or one of the first six pages of tomorrow’s paper.
Discussion could get hot and heavy some days when there was a feast of good news stories. Editors would pitch their stories with passion and enthusiasm on behalf of their reporters.
On slow new days, the discussion would be less heated when it was fairly obvious which stories should get the prime pages. On those days achieving consensus was easy. When consensus wasn’t easily achieved, the final decision would rest with Braden Young, the managing editor.
True to the Harry S. Truman adage, “the buck stops here!”
In the news business, it was usually feast or famine. Today was shaping up as a feast.
“Braden, it looks like a plethora of great news stories today,” said Paul O’ Connor. “There are lots of good choices if they all pan out.”
“What’s shaping up as our top line story?” Young inquired. He stared down at the list of story titles in front of him.
“Clearly it’s the Wolfman. He struck again last night. Another victim’s body was found this morning – a young female lawyer,” said Michael Owen, the paper’s city editor.
He leaned forward on the table as if to give further emphasis to his urgency on behalf of the story. “Katie Cannon is on it and will have a story today on the latest developments. It’s obviously a front page top line banner story.”
“What’s the headline: Wolfman Kills Shark,” joked Ted Morrow, the national editor. “Come on, we’re giving this creep way too much front page play. Not to mention terrifying most of the women in this city. Let’s get back to getting real news on the front page.”
“And what do you consider real news, Ted?” Owen shot back.
“We have a good advance story on tomorrow’s visit of the Prime Minister to the White House,” replied Morrow. This is a historic visit. Some key issues between our two countries will be discussed. These include the ongoing border hassles and the free trade agreement.”
“Booo-ring!” cried out Owen. “Who the hell cares about this meeting? This crazy killer is running amok in the city and women are not safe until he’s caught and put out of action. I think that trumps anything else on the story agenda.”
“All of us should care!” shouted Morrow. “This is huge international news with our biggest trading partner. Some of the issues on the agenda are refining the North American Free Trade Agreement, future strategy in Afghanistan and Iraq and North American security and border crossing issues. These issues could have a significant impact on the lives of both Canadians and Americans.”
“Agreed, its important Ted and deserves a place somewhere near the front of the paper,” said Young. “But we’ll have to wait and see if it’s top line. This Wolfman stuff is of greater interest to our readers, I believe. Is there anything on the international scene, Amanda?”
Braden Young turned to Amanda Scott, the international affairs editor, who was busy doodling on a notepad.
“Nothing that likely would merit front page at this time.” She put down her pen and looked directly at Young.
Scott was a middle-aged blonde who had started her career on the society pages as many women reporters did, but climbed her way through the ranks building a reputation as a tough, hardnosed reporter not afraid to tackle edgy stories.
She had changed papers several times seeking more challenging roles and served a two-year stint overseas as a correspondent for Reuters news agency. Her credentials as an international reporter are what led Braden Young to offer her a position as the Daily Express international affairs editor.
“Trevor Trevanian…,” Scott began.
“Trevanian?” asked Owen. “What’s that prima donna up to now?”
“Our man in Afghanistan,” snorted another of the editors at the table. “Busting the lid off the camel trade.”
“As I was saying,” Scott continued with some annoyance at the interruptions. “Trevanian will likely have a story on our rebuilding efforts there, but it’s likely to be inside stuff,” said Scott. I haven’t seen any copy yet and he hasn’t been in touch for several hours. There is of course that eight-and-a-half hour time difference. Perhaps he’s working on something else.”
“Okay thanks, Amanda. What about the entertainment beat, Alexandra? Anything lively there?”
Alexandra Stewart, the entertainment editor, smiled flirtatiously at Young, flicking back her long auburn locks. Stewart had a patrician face that exuded a sense of class. She was always dressed to the nines, with perfect makeup and immaculate nail polish. She looked very much like a movie star herself.
“Things are always lively in Hollywood, Braden. That young bimbo singer, Alicia Long, has been in another car accident and busted for her third DUI incident. It’s likely she’ll finally face some jail time. Maybe it’ll straighten her out. That kid needs something to help her before she kills herself or someone else.”
Stewart looked down briefly at her notes then turned her face back to Braden Young. “We also have a profile on that hot young hunk actor Brad Bond who is promoting his new action romance thriller, Sins of the Fathers.”
Young rested his head on his right hand and thought for a moment.
“Front page of the Entertainment section would be good play for the profile piece,’” said Young. “It’s a good draw for our female readers. Play the singer DUI story further inside. I think readers are getting tired of some of these celebrity excesses.”
Young took a swig from his cup of black coffee. “What’s new in the world of sports, Steve?”
He turned to Steve Simons, the paper’s sports editor. Simons looked nothing like a jock. He was short, squat and balding at the back of his head with a wisp of hair in the forefront. He had a pince-nez bridging his nose and large bushy grey eyebrows.
Simons looked as if he’d eaten at too many sports press box buffets, with an expanding waistline bulging over the top of the desk.
“Well, the Blue Jays are starting a three-game home stand with the Red Sox tonight, trying to end their six game winless streak,” said Simons. “There are strong insider rumors that if they lose this series, the manager will be fired. The Argos will play in Hamilton this weekend and could get a stranglehold on first place in the Eastern conference of the CFL if they beat the Tiger-Cats. They’re currently four points ahead of Montreal.”
Simons took a bite out of a donut in front of him, paused a moment and let out a loud belch. The others just ignored him as if nothing had happened. That was just Steve being Steve.
Simons continued: “We’ve also got a lot of wire copy on the PGA Tour, tennis, soccer and a story about a possible big off-season hockey trade between the Toronto Maple Leafs and the Anaheim Mighty Ducks.”
“Okay, sounds like a solid line-up and a busy day ahead,” said Young. “Any other stories I should know about?”
Paul O’Connor cleared his throat, hesitated a moment, then spoke out.
“Well we might have bit of a controversy with an investigative piece that’s coming together. It’s on a construction kickback scandal involving the mayor and a couple of city councilors with that new harbor front condo development.”
“Great, love a good scandal piece,” said Young. “There is nothing better than nailing these crooked pieces of shit who violate the public trust and line their own pockets. Who is on the story?”
“Our new reporter Donna-Marie Pierce has been working several days on this and we’ve just nailed the final proof,” said O’Connor. “She has copies of documents with names attached and evidence of some large deposits to certain bank accounts offshore.”
“Okay, this could really make her name. But she’s still kind of green so, Paul, I’m counting on you to make sure everything is ironclad. Make certain all the I’s are dotted and the T’s crossed on this one. We don’t need a lawsuit. Fly the copy by Legal before running it.”
“Of course, Braden. That’s a given.”
Young smiled and gathered up his papers.
“Well, boys and girls that’s all for now. We’ll finalize things at the late afternoon meeting when we see how things come together. Now go out there in true journalistic fashion and raise some shit!”
Chapter 20
Afghanistan –Pakistan Border 5:55 PM
THE LADA suddenly started to slow down.
It emerged from the treacherous mountain passes into a low-lying valley. Trevanian could see some signs of civilization ahead. They were approaching a small border crossing.
There were warning signs, a small hut by the side of the road and a transverse metal bar across the road. This must be Pakistan, thought Trevanian.
“Please stay quiet, Mr. Trevanian. Let me handle this,” said Dharwal.
The vehicle pulled up to the hut and stopped. A lanky border guard emerged holding a Kalashnikov AK-74. He cautiously approached the car.
Dharwal opened the door and got out. He greeted the guard with a friendly hug, speaking in a language Trevanian didn’t understand. It appeared as if they knew each other.
Dharwal chatted briefly with the guard. Then Trevanian saw him draw his hand out of his pocket with a fistful of cash. Money was exchanged. The guard laughed and waved them through.
The journey continued. Soon they came to a small village. The road sign read Zhob.
Trevanian knew the road they were on was an approach to the tribal areas in northern Pakist
an.
It was an area the Taliban and al-Qaida controlled. They were protected and sheltered by the tribal chieftains and their people. It was an autonomous region. The Government of Pakistan did not rule in this area. Any government forces venturing there did so at grave risk to their lives.
Trevanian was puzzled.
Why take him to this desolate area? What did Dharwal mean when he said Trevanian had been specially picked for this assignment? What could this high honor for an infidel be?
Trevanian was nudged from his thoughts and saw that Dharwal now held the black hood again.
“You must wear this again for this stage of the journey, Mr. Trevanian,” explained Dharwal. “It will not be for long -- only another hour or so. It is a security measure. You will not be harmed, I assure you.”
Reluctantly, Trevanian allowed Dharwal to replace the hood over his head. Darkness descended once again. Hopefully soon the light of this mission would become apparent. Trevanian could only hope it was all worth it.
He also hoped he would survive it!
Chapter 21
Andrew Chase’s Office 10:15 AM
THE PHONE rang as Chase checked his e-mails on the computer at his large desk.
“Mr. Chase, I have Mr. Rob Nelson from RBC Financial on the line,” said the clipped, stylish English voice of his administrative secretary.
“Thanks, Mrs. Johnston. Put him through right away,” replied Chase with a sense of high anxiety.
This was a call he had been expecting from the country’s largest bank and the paper’s major creditor and financial backer. Chase had put through a request for a major loan and extension of credit to keep the paper running.
“Certainly, Mr. Chase. I’ll connect you immediately.”
Mrs. Joan Johnston was the epitome of efficiency. Chase had been impressed with her credentials from their initial interview.
She had been born in the small seaside town of Cleethorpes, England, on the North Sea coast. Johnston started her secretarial career in the nearby fishing centre of Grimsby after leaving school as a 16-year-old teenager. She started as a junior secretary for a fishing company and survived the German blitz of the town in 1940.
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