Death Notice

by Todd Ritter

  Why the killer was leaving them on Henry’s doorstep was a mystery. And while Henry still didn’t seem concerned about it, Kat definitely was. The killer was embroiling Henry in the crimes as much as possible, and she wanted to know why.

  Standing at the podium, she caught Henry’s eye. He gave her a nod of encouragement.

  “Is it true you received advance warning about both murders?”

  The question came from the opposite end of the throng, near the front. Kat didn’t need to see who asked it. Hearing the familiar voice was enough.

  “Where did you hear that, Martin?”

  Martin Swan grinned like the cat that ate the proverbial canary. “Is it true?”

  Kat had no idea how he had found that out. Not that it mattered. She was cornered and Martin knew it. There was nothing left to do but answer truthfully.

  “Yes,” she said. “A fake death notice faxed to your newsroom. Both times, it was received by Henry Goll, the obituary writer, whose cooperation in this matter has been invaluable.”

  The revelation turned out to be a double-edged sword. Hearing that it had happened in his own newsroom shut Martin up, which was a plus. But it motivated the other reporters, who riddled the podium with questions.

  “Do you believe Troy Gunzelman was dead by the time the fax was found?”

  Kat shook her head. “No, I do not.”

  A wave of shock coursed through the crowd.

  “Are you saying there was a window of opportunity in which he could have been saved?”

  “That’s correct.”

  The tone of the reporters’ questions shifted quickly. They had suddenly moved from mere information-gathering to trying to pin the blame on someone. Trapped in the glare of their cameras, Kat knew that particular someone was her.

  “Was an attempt made to save Troy’s life?” one reporter shouted.

  “Of course,” Kat said, straining to keep her composure. “As soon as the death notice was discovered, we did everything in our power to locate him. Unfortunately, when we did find him, it was too late.”

  The reporters now tasted blood. They edged closer to her, a hungry glint in their eyes. Their proximity made Kat even more nervous. Her mouth suddenly grew dry, and a thin sheen of perspiration formed on her face. She was about to lose it up there, ready to fall apart in the glare of a hundred cameras. She couldn’t let that happen. She had to fight back.

  “Do you think the Grim Reaper will strike again?” another reporter yelled.

  “First,” Kat said, gaining control of her voice, “I don’t appreciate or condone that nickname. Giving a killer a name like that only manages to provide him with validation while showing extreme disrespect to the victims’ families.”

  Kat glared at Martin, who suddenly found the ground at his feet far more interesting.

  “Now to answer your question—I don’t know.”

  The reporter persisted. “What will you do if he does?”

  “We’ll do what we did last night. We’ll try to stop him.”

  “What if you can’t?”

  It was Martin. He had raised his eyes to her again, staring defiantly. “What are you doing to keep the rest of the town safe?”

  In the back, Kat saw Henry walk away. He had had enough. Kat had, too. But everyone was waiting for her answer. All of them no doubt assumed the Grim Reaper would keep on killing and that she would be powerless to stop it.

  “We have scores of people helping with the investigation, from the county sheriff’s office to the state police. And I have made it known to all of them that the safety of Perry Hollow’s residents and its visitors are my top priority.”

  The only good part about holding a press conference was that Kat got to have the last word. She made sure she took advantage of it, saying, “To that end, I call upon everyone in Perry Hollow to stay calm while we investigate these crimes fully. I also ask that if you see something suspicious, report it. If you have any information about these murders, tell us. This is a good town. Folks here look after one another, and I encourage you to remain concerned about your fellow neighbors.”

  With that, the press conference was over, although its end didn’t deter the reporters. Trying to squeeze out a few last drops of information, they crushed behind Kat as she turned away from them. She ignored them and hurried toward the station, where Lou and Carl waited by the door, holding it open so she could make a quick escape.

  Once inside, she started designating tasks. “Lou, you should start manning the phones. I have a feeling those tips I asked for will be coming in any second now.”

  As if on cue, the phone on Lou’s desk rang. She answered it, raised an index finger and whispered to Kat, “Tip number one.”

  Kat next turned to Carl. “Track down Lucas Hatcher for me. Find out where he was last night. But don’t ask him. Ask his mother. She turned him in once accidentally. Maybe she’ll do it a second time.”

  “Sure thing, Chief.”

  Kat reached her office and found Nick Donnelly and Cassie Lieberfarb waiting inside. In each of Nick’s hands was a steaming cup of Big Joe’s coffee.

  “Good to see you again, Chief,” he said. “You want leaded or unleaded?”

  “Leaded.” Kat grabbed the cup Nick held out for her. “Better yet, high-octane.”

  A pang of guilt hung in Nick’s chest as he watched Kat try to fend off her exhaustion with caffeine. This was his fault. He had seen the stitches on George Winnick. He knew they weren’t the work of the Betsy Ross Killer. Yet he and everyone else had been so eager to close the case. So Nick bought Ken Miller’s confession, despite what his gut had told him. Knowing he had done so now made his gut queasy.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was wrong.”

  “We all were wrong,” Cassie added. “The profile was right. We just didn’t trust it enough.”

  Kat emptied the coffee cup, swishing the last drops around in her mouth. Upon swallowing, she said, “First, don’t apologize anymore. Second, since the profile is still right, tell me what kind of person we’re looking for. Because there’s a lot that I don’t understand.”

  “Such as?”

  “Why now? George was killed in March. Why wait until the Fourth of July to kill Troy?”

  “There are two types of serial killers,” Nick said, “each with their own distinct traits. Disorganized, asocial offenders and organized, nonsocial offenders.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  Nick let Cassie take over. Understanding killers was her specialty. Catching them was his.

  “Disorganized, asocial offenders generally have IQs below ninety and avoid most human contact,” she said. “They have trouble fighting their urges, sometimes killing impetuously with no attempt to cover their tracks. When finished with their crimes, they are capable of blocking out the experience entirely.”

  “I’m guessing that’s not the kind of killer we’re looking for,” Kat said.

  Cassie shook her head. “He’s an organized one. They’re the exact opposite. Highly intelligent, they’re equally as cunning. And they love to plan. Sometimes, plotting the hunt is more thrilling than the hunt itself.”

  “It excites him,” Nick said. “Thinking about killing someone, planning out exactly how to do it. It’s foreplay to him. So that explains the time gap between kills.”

  Her first question answered, Kat asked another. “What about the abductions? We know George was taken from his barn. And we know Troy was taken from the locker room. But they weren’t killed there and they weren’t found there.”

  It was another trait of the organized killer. They favored abduction over killing on the spot. With them, it was a given that where a victim was found wasn’t the same place as where he was killed.

  When Cassie explained this, Kat said, “And that begs the question, where were they killed? And how did they get there?”

  “Last night, Rudy found some transfer on the coffin from the lake,” Nick replied. “It was a flower petal. Off a carna
tion, to be precise. Once pink, now wilted.”

  “Where does he think it came from?”

  “He has two guesses. One is that it was floating in the lake and stuck to the coffin. The other is—”

  Kat could guess the rest. “The murder site.”

  “Exactly,” Nick said. “So I’m thinking a basement of some kind. Perhaps a greenhouse or an arboretum.”

  “As for transporting the body, we still stand by the pickup truck theory,” Cassie said. “It’s the most logical way for him to transport the bodies and coffins.”

  “You keep referring to the killer as he. Do you think it could be a woman? Remember, the first fax number was registered to someone named Meg Parrier.”

  While Nick had no idea how Miss Parrier was involved, he knew she wasn’t the one doing the killing.

  “The killer is a man,” he said. “I’m sure of that.”

  Cassie agreed. “Female serial killers are usually caregivers or prostitutes or, in the case of some of the Manson clan, brainwashed. They mostly use guns or poison, leaving the knives, rope, and mutilation to the big boys.”

  “Fair enough. But how do you explain this?” Kat moved to her desk, where another portable fax machine sat. “Henry Goll found it this morning.”

  Nick eyed the machine. It was just like the first one Henry had brought in, gleaming and new.

  “Perhaps the killer is gloating,” Cassie suggested. “He’s showing that he’s smarter than us. It’s the same reason he’s faxing the death notices in the first place. Organized killers love their mind games. It’s why they send letters to newspapers. It’s why they leave cryptic clues behind. The theory being that they subconsciously want to get caught.”

  “And,” Nick added, “our job is make sure that happens. So this fax machine needs to go to Rudy.”

  Cassie volunteered. “I’ll take it to him.”

  That settled, Nick turned to Kat. “Looks like you’re stuck with me. What’s next on the agenda?”

  “We need to pay a visit to someone named Caleb Fisher.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “The man who reported seeing the coffin in Lake Squall,” Kat said, elbowing Nick in the ribs as they left the office. “You can drive.”

  NINETEEN

  Nick drove fast, with the windows down and the music playing loud. It was Creedence Clearwater Revival. A little “Bad Moon Rising.” A little “Fortunate Son.” Even a little “Proud Mary,” although he preferred the Ike and Tina version.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about the victims,” Kat said, trying to be heard over the wind and the music. “Why Troy? And why George? There’s no connection other than the fact that Troy worked on the farm for one lousy summer.”

  “There’s a connection,” Nick said. “Even if we can’t see it. Organized serial killers don’t do things without a reason. There’s a meaning behind the pennies over the eyes. A meaning behind the stitches and the embalming and the coffin. Just as there’s a reason why George Winnick was his first victim and Troy Gunzelman was his second.”

  “So that means the killer knew both of them.”

  “Not necessarily. He could have just spotted them on the street.”

  Kat turned down the music. “Are you serious? He might have seen them walking around town and decided they were the ones who were going to die?”

  Nick nodded. “It really could have been that simple.”

  And that scary. A killer could pass a hundred people on the street and not look twice. Then he could see one person that stands out, for reasons sometimes unknown even to him. And that’s the person he’s compelled to kill.

  “But why?” she asked.

  “It depends on the killer and the psychosis. Some only target girls who wear pink. Or little boys in Mickey Mouse T-shirts. Or redheads. Or blondes.”

  Or brunettes. He couldn’t forget about that.

  “But he always has to see them, right? He wouldn’t pick out someone sight unseen?”

  “Never,” Nick said. “There always has to be that visual connection first. Have you ever heard of Floyd Beem?”

  Kat told him she hadn’t.

  “They called him the Drugstore Killer. He was a traveling salesman on a route through the Midwest. At each town he stopped in, he’d go to the local drugstore. If the salesclerk was a man or an older woman, he’d leave them alone. If it was a young woman with brown hair, he’d sit in his car and wait until they got off work.”

  He didn’t know why he was telling her this. It didn’t have anything to do with the Perry Hollow murders. But, he knew, it had everything to do with him and what made him tick. So he kept talking, trying not to let a bitter edge seep into his voice.

  “He’d then jump them and strangle them. After that, he threw them in his trunk and later left them on the side of the road. He killed six women that way during the course of two years.”

  “And that’s all it took?” Kat asked. “Brown hair?”

  “That’s all. He killed them because they had brown hair and maybe because they were nice to the bastard.”

  He stopped talking, but it was too late. His anger was unmistakable. He saw Kat glance his way, noticing his clenched jaw, his fiery eyes. She knew this was personal.

  “I’m hoping he was caught,” she said quietly.

  “He was.”

  “How?”

  “The easy way. One of the drugstore managers saw the last clerk Floyd killed get into his car. He told the police, who caught him red-handed. He then confessed to the other crimes. Except one. That was never solved.”

  He was relieved to see the lake slide into view. It meant a change of subject, which he welcomed.

  “Turn right,” Kat said. “Onto Squall Lane.”

  Nick turned onto a dirt road. Rising to their left was a hillside studded with old-growth trees. To their right was a smattering of lodgelike homes on sprawling parcels of land. All of them boasted winding driveways and private docks that jutted out into the lake.

  Caleb Fisher’s house sat large and heavy amid a cluster of pines and oaks. Three white-tailed deer nibbled the foliage next to the driveway. They bolted at the sound of the car, sprinting away so fast Nick had to slam on the brakes to avoid clipping them. He watched them spring across the road and vanish into the woods.

  “That’s something I don’t see very often.”

  “Welcome to rural Pennsylvania,” Kat said. “There are so many deer here I’m surprised they don’t have voting rights.”

  Not wanting to hit a potential straggler, Nick pulled slowly into the driveway and parked next to a large red pickup truck. As he shut off the engine, someone emerged from the house to greet them. A grizzly bear of a man, he wore jeans and a gray T-shirt that strained to contain his barrel chest. A wild beard the same sandy color as his curly hair obscured his chin.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  His large hands were closed into fists as he approached the car. Nick wasn’t sure, but it looked like the man was carrying a large marble in each of them. Strange, but not completely unheard of.

  “Are you Caleb Fisher?” Kat asked as she got out of the car.

  The man took a quick look at her uniform. “Is this about the coffin in the water?”

  “It is,” she said. “Mind if we ask you a few questions?”

  “Sure. Come on in.”

  Caleb Fisher gestured to the house, opening his hands in the process. When Nick saw what was in them, he did a double take. Mr. Fisher wasn’t carrying marbles.

  Instead, nestled in each palm, was an eye.

  Kat saw the eyes as soon as Nick did. And since he also had two eyes in his head, Caleb Fisher noticed their reactions.

  “It’s not what you think,” he said, smiling cryptically. “They’re made of glass.”

  One of them had to ask, so Kat did the honors. “What are you doing with them?”

  “Come on in, and you’ll see.”

  He led them across the lawn to the front door. When he op
ened it, a trio of beagles burst outside. They first made a beeline to Kat, running circles around her legs. When they lost interest in her, they moved on to Nick, who knelt to pet them.

  “Don’t mind them,” Caleb said. “They love visitors, which makes them lousy watchdogs. An intruder would more likely be licked to death than attacked.”

  He whistled and all three beagles trotted back inside. Kat and Nick followed.

  Stepping inside, Kat saw that Caleb Fisher’s house could only be described as a hunting lodge designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. The décor left a lot to be desired. The furniture—plump chairs and sofas covered by quilts—was rustically threadbare. Hanging from the walls were the heads of practically every wild animal native to the continental United States. Several deer. An elk. A bear. All of them stuffed and thrown onto the wall like diplomas in a doctor’s office.

  The home was still gorgeous, in spite of the dead animals. Angular and vast, it was the kind of house seen in architectural magazines. Designed to highlight the land on which it sat, it boasted a wall of windows providing a panoramic view of the lake.

  Caleb led them to a wide deck just beyond the windows. There, Kat caught glimpses of neighboring houses, all equally as opulent. Like the pricey shops on Main Street, these rustic retreats for the wealthy were recent additions to Perry Hollow. Ten years earlier, the land along Squall Lane had been home to dense forest. Kat had played there as a little girl, catching frogs and turtles as the whir of the mill’s saws echoed across the lake.

  “I was right here when I saw it,” Caleb said, crossing the deck to stand at the railing, the lake sparkling before him. “It’s my nightly ritual—stepping outside for a cigar and a drink. It’s the thing I miss most when I leave.”

  “Where do you live the rest of the year?” Nick asked.

  “Philadelphia. I’m an investment banker, semiretired.”

  “How much time do you spend here?”