Backing out of the driveway, he decided to ask Sheriff Hammett if he could be assigned to watching the writer’s house Halloween night.
—
As soon as Shawn stepped into the Citizen offices on Trade Street, Paulette said in her self-important voice, “The boss wants to see you.”
Paulette liked to call herself the executive assistant to Phillip Guffey, editor in chief, but she was nothing more than a secretary, and one with subpar typing skills at that. She loathed Shawn, and he reciprocated in kind.
“Sure thing, toots,” he said, because he knew how much the moniker annoyed her. “Let me put my stuff in my office.”
“The boss said he wanted to see you immediately upon your arrival.”
Shawn leaned over with his hands planted on her desk. “You know ‘the boss’ has a name, right? I mean, do you address everyone like this? Do you call the guy who works on your car ‘the mechanic’ and the woman who cleans your house ‘the housekeeper,’ or do you use their actual names?”
That smug look never left her face; he was fairly certain her features were frozen in that expression. “I suggest you get in there right away. You’re already half an hour late.”
“I’m not late, toots. I’ve been researching a story.”
“Wasted time,” she said, turning back to the computer and pecking at the keyboard with her two forefingers.
As much as Shawn enjoyed needling Paulette, his enthusiasm for their verbal sparring took a sudden dip. Her “wasted time” comment worried him. He had intended to go by his office first just to keep Mr. Guffey waiting a bit longer, but he decided against that course of action.
He stopped in the doorway when he saw Mr. Guffey was on the phone, but the man motioned him inside and into a seat. Shawn felt at a loss, devoid of his usual confident swagger. He flashed back on his high school years, sitting outside the principal’s office after getting into some sort of mischief, waiting to be dressed down and possibly suspended. That sense of déjà vu only intensified when he realized he was the subject of Mr. Guffy’s phone conversation.
“Yes, he just walked in,” he said into the receiver. “I’m going to take care of it. I said I would, and I’m going to do it. Don’t worry.”
Mr. Guffey hung up the phone with jarring force, then fixed Shawn with a heated glare that reminded him more than ever of Principal Purvis. “Any idea who that was?”
“Pulitzer Prize nominating committee, Chief?” he said, but the joke fell flat.
“That was Sheriff Hammett, raising almighty hell in my ear.”
“What did you do to piss him off?”
“I hired you!”
Shawn frowned. “What?”
“He tells me that you’ve been making a nuisance of yourself, calling and showing up at the station, harassing his officers. In fact, he tells me you just left there.”
“Harassing? He actually said that, used that word? I’m trying to get information about their investigation into the Hashtag Killer.”
“According to him, you were given an official statement and you’re still not satisfied.”
“An official statement tells you nothing,” Shawn said. “It’s the same standard BS they hand out to every news outlet in the state. I want to get something deeper, something no one else has. That’s how I get noticed, how the Citizen gets noticed. Can you imagine if we scooped The Greenville News or The Charlotte Observer? We’re right in the middle of the story, ground zero.”
“Is it true that you asked one of the rookie cops to show you the case file and the crime-scene photographs?”
“Well, yeah. It’s not like I was going to print any of it, but I thought it could give me some insight, an edge. Figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask. I’m a local, after all. The cops know me.”
“They may know you,” Mr. Guffey said with a tight smile, “but they don’t like you. And your harassment over this case certainly hasn’t done anything to endear you to them.”
“I’m an investigative journalist, for Christ’s sake!” Shawn exclaimed, his exasperation building. “I’m supposed to be aggressive in going after stories; it’s part of the job description. Basically, you’re busting my balls for doing my job.”
“It’s not your job anymore.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I’m pulling you off the story and assigning it back to Chad.”
“You can’t do that!” Shawn said, jumping to his feet.
“I most certainly can. If the paper hopes to get any cooperation from the police going forward, this has to be done. Honestly, even if Hammett hadn’t demanded I remove you from the story, I still would have done it. You’re making us look bad.”
“This is my story. I’ve put in a massive amount of hours. Hell, I’m the one that came up with the name ‘the Hashtag Killer.’ ”
“I’m not arguing with you. It’s done, you’re off the story.”
“What about the profile I’m doing on Dustin Davis?”
“That writer fella? Forget it, there’s no interest there.”
“It’s a solid story, a modern-day—”
“Witch hunt, I know. I read your pitch, and I’m telling you there’s no interest there.”
“Then what the hell am I supposed to write about?”
“Glad you asked,” Mr. Guffey said. “I have a new assignment for you. On November tenth, Greer Relief is sponsoring a meditation workshop to help people deal with the stress of the holidays.”
“A meditation workshop, are you shitting me? You’re taking me off a multiple murder to cover a bunch of people sitting around with their eyes closed saying ‘om’?”
“There are no small stories, Shawn, just small journalists.”
Shawn sat back down. A million nasty retorts rose to his lips, but he swallowed them down like bile. He took a few breaths to calm himself and tried to make his voice as humble and placating as possible. “I’m begging you, give me another chance. This is the biggest story to hit Greer since George Clooney filmed one scene from some football movie downtown a dozen years ago. I need this.”
“And what I need is for you to get out of my office. I want the story on the Greer Relief workshop on my desk in three days.”
Shawn felt rage bubbling to the surface, and this time he didn’t even try to push it back down. He let it explode. “You know what, FUCK YOU!”
Mr. Guffey looked not so much surprised as ecstatic, as if this was the outcome he’d been hoping for. “I’m sorry, what did you just say to me?”
“You heard me. You’re a terrible editor, and all you’re going to do is run this paper into the ground.”
“That’s it, Mr. Moore, I want you out of here. You’re fired!”
“Hey, when I said ‘Fuck you,’ that was an implied resignation, you dumb sonofabitch!”
Shawn stormed out of the office. Chad stood in the hall, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open. Shawn held up the middle finger of each hand as he passed. In the small lobby, he saw Paulette smiling gleefully at him as he approached. She raised a hand and waved.
He paused at the door and turned back to her desk. “Toots, I got two things to say to you before I go. One, you’re not an executive assistant; you’re a glorified secretary with an attitude. Two, no matter how much you suck up to the boss, Mr. Guffey is never going to fuck you, because you’re about as erotic as a case of diarrhea.”
That smug look faltered for the first time since he’d known Paulette. That provided a small satisfaction as he threw open the door and left the Citizen for the last time.
—
Dustin usually shopped at BiLo, but the cashiers knew him there and he craved anonymity at the moment. He didn’t want to leave the house at all, but the cupboards were getting bare. Therefore, he ventured out, bypassing his preferred store for the Ingles out on Locust Hill Road. More of a drive, but he figured he would be able to get what he needed without being recognized.
He was wrong.
In th
e produce section, he noticed a middle-aged woman staring at him. He tried to ignore her, but she wheeled her cart over and said, “Hey, are you that guy that writes all those horrible books?”
“I guess it’s up to each reader how horrible they are,” Dustin said with a weak chuckle.
The woman did not seem amused. “I saw that article about you in the paper awhile back, said you write about blood and guts and Satanism and all that junk.”
“I don’t know if that’s a fair representation of my work,” he said, wheeling away, but she followed behind him.
“I guess you must be loving everything that’s going on in town right now. Like one of your books come true, huh? Almost like you’re writing it all.”
“It’s terrible what’s happening,” he said, picking up the pace. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m in a hurry.”
He made his way through the store as quickly as possible, dumping supplies into his cart. In each aisle he seemed to garner stares, and he saw the woman from produce several more times, always whispering to someone else and cutting her eyes his way. He had the feeling of being back on the elementary-school playground, one kid telling another he had cooties and the word spreading like an infectious disease. When he caught a burly man in a leather jacket with a bushy, out-of-control beard staring at him in the coffee/tea aisle like he was a bug that needed to be stomped, Dustin decided to forget the other half of his grocery list and head straight for the checkout. He passed the bearded man on the far side of the aisle and thought he heard him mutter, “Sick bastard.”
At the front of the store, he said a silent prayer of thanks as he saw an open register with no line. He hurriedly deposited his items on the conveyor belt, wishing the pimply-faced teenaged boy scanning his groceries would move with a little more expediency. A few people got in line behind him, but he didn’t look back. He took out his debit card to have it at the ready, shifting impatiently in front of the card reader.
“He should be in jail,” he heard someone mumble behind him.
Another voice chimed in, “Anybody sick enough to dream up the shit he does is sick enough to commit murder.”
He realized the cashier had stopped scanning and was studying him as if he were an algebra equation.
“Is there a problem?” Dustin asked.
The boy shook his head and resumed his leisurely scanning of the groceries.
Dustin considered walking out, abandoning everything, but that would only solidify in the minds of those in the store that he was guilty of something. There was a familiarity to all of this, and he realized it mirrored in a strange way his experience coming out of the closet during his college years. The stares, the whispering behind his back, the name-calling and judgment. Then, like now, he knew he had done nothing wrong, but that didn’t stop an avalanche of shame from crashing in on top of him. He had spent most of his freshman year hiding out in his dorm room; anytime he wandered down to the dining hall he’d endure catcalls of “faggot” being hurled at him like stones.
Those had been rough times, but he’d gotten through them. Just as he’d get through this. Shawn’s story would bring to light the injustice of the way Dustin was being treated.
When his items were finally scanned and paid for, he helped the teenager bag everything up and put it all back in the cart. He hurried out to the parking lot, pulling his keys from his pocket. He’d parked near the end of the lot, his Kia blocked from sight by a large Hummer. As he came around the tank of a vehicle, he gasped at the state of his car.
It was covered in slime. Gooey yoke and bits of broken shell. Someone had egged his car. It looked as if at least two dozen eggs had been used on all sides. Across the windshield, written in what looked like pink lipstick, was the misspelled word murderor.
He scanned the area and spotted the woman from produce standing two aisles over, leaning against a rusted Pinto. She smiled at him. He briefly considered calling the police, but he doubted they’d care about this petty vandalism considering that they, too, seemed to think he was a murderer. Or murderor.
Realizing he would ruin his shirt but not caring, he used his sleeve to wipe away the lipstick as best he could from the windshield, succeeding only in smearing it and the egg into a disgusting paste. He quickly loaded his groceries into the backseat, then used the wipers and wiper fluid to clear his line of sight enough to be able to safely see through the glass.
Leaving his cart in the middle of the lot, he pulled out, driving past the woman from produce. As he turned onto Locust Hill, he heard another egg strike the back of the car.
—
He wasn’t surprised to see the reporter’s vehicle parked in front of his house. As Dustin pulled into the driveway, he saw that the man himself was waiting on the stoop.
“Jesus, what happened to your car?” Shawn said as Dustin popped open the door and stepped out.
“Please tell me you’re here for a follow-up interview for the story, because I’ve got a whopper of a tale to add.”
Shawn grimaced as if he’d tasted something sour. “I hate to tell you, but there’s not going to be a story.”
Dustin had the back driver’s-side door open, and he froze reaching for the bags. “What do you mean ‘not going to be a story’?”
“I am no longer in the employ of the Greer Citizen. Apparently, the Greer City Police thought I was being too inquisitive.”
“That’s fucking great!” Dustin spat, kicking his rear tire. “Now I’m never going to clear my name.”
Shawn crossed the lawn to stand next to him. “Don’t be so sure about that. I’ve got an idea.”
“What kind of idea?”
“Let me help you get your groceries in, and I’ll lay it all out for you.”
—
Shawn took two of the five bags and followed the writer into the house. In the kitchen, he took a seat at the table while Dustin put away the groceries.
“You want some coffee?” Dustin asked. “I actually didn’t get any creamer, but since you take it black, anyway, I can make you a cup.”
Shawn glanced at the package of coffee in the writer’s hand. Chocolate Pumpkin Spice flavor. “No, thanks, I’m good.”
When Dustin was done, he sat across from Shawn. “Let’s hear your idea.”
“Okay. So I noticed you haven’t put your Halloween decorations back out.”
“No, but I might as well. Everyone in this town thinks I’m the Hashtag Killer, anyway.”
Shawn inwardly delighted at hearing the nom de plume he’d come up with for the killer. He thought it was pretty clever, if he did say so himself, and if it caught on could be as well-known as Son of Sam, BTK, the Boston Strangler, even Jack the fucking Ripper!
Bringing himself out of his reverie, he said, “What if you didn’t put the decorations back out?”
“What exactly are you getting at?”
“The killer says he’s going to pick a house with no decorations tomorrow night.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So if he picks this one, what if we’re waiting for the bastard?”
“Mine’s not the only house in town that isn’t decorated. The chances of him picking this one are—“
“Better than average,” Shawn interjected. “This may not be the only house in town not decorated, but it is the only house in town not decorated that belongs to the creator of the hashtag the killer has usurped for his own purposes.”
“You think that would matter?”
“Of course it would. This psychopath took up your call to make Halloween scary again. It probably pisses him off royally that you now are among the few not decorating for the season, not heeding his warning. If it were me, I probably wouldn’t be able to stay away. Think of the message that would send.”
“Well, being murdered by the killer would certainly clear my name.”
“What will clear your name—and put me at the center of one of the biggest stories the Southeast has seen in decades—is when we catch the Hashtag Killer ourselves.
”
Dustin laughed. “What are we, Dirty Harry and James Bond? Even if you’re right and he shows up here, this guy has killed two people already. What makes you think we’d be able to catch him?”
“Veronica here is what makes me know we can catch him,” Shawn said, reaching inside his jacket and pulling out his Glock 17.
Dustin slid back in the chair and jumped to his feet. “Whoa, now, what are you doing with that thing?”
Now it was Shawn who laughed. “Calm down, I got the safety on. I’ve had Veronica for a while now and have a CWP. That’s a concealed weapons permit.”
Only after Shawn put the gun back in the holster hidden by his jacket did Dustin sit down at the table again. “I don’t like guns. Don’t know anything about them. If I mention one in a story, I have to Google the different kinds so I sound like I know what I’m talking about.”
“Luckily for you, I know a lot about guns. I’m well trained, hit the shooting range almost every weekend. If the Hashtag Killer shows up here tomorrow night, he’ll find himself face-to-face with Veronica, and she’s an intimidating bitch! You slap the cuffs on him and call the police, and we’re instant heroes.”
“You have handcuffs, too? Where’d you get those, the Army-supply store?”
“Actually, an adult novelty shop in Spartanburg, but don’t worry, they aren’t fuzzy or anything.”
Dustin shifted in his seat as if sitting on a tack. “I don’t know, shouldn’t we leave this to the cops?”
“The cops who treat you like a criminal and want to withhold information from the press? I don’t think so. Besides, this way we get all the glory. You show this town how wrong they were about you, and I have the story of a lifetime. I wouldn’t be surprised if we got some kind of joint book deal out of this.”
Shawn could tell this hooked Dustin, but still he fought the line. “This could be dangerous. I mean, seriously dangerous.”
“Yeah, but I think Veronica tilts the odds in our favor. We’ll be ready for him when he comes.”
“If he comes.”
“Yes, if he comes. If he doesn’t, then we’ll spend Halloween night drinking beers and feeling like a couple of jackasses. Deal?”
Halloween Carnival Volume 1 Page 13