“Is he any good?” she asked casually as they piled into the car.
Dutton switched on the heater, but it blasted only cold air. “Who, Dr. Ackerman? Best damn pathologist in Georgia—maybe even the whole southeastern United States. Doesn’t have some goofy nickname, like the Grim Reaper or Dr. Blood and Guts, and he doesn’t eat ketchup sandwiches while doin’ his autopsies, neither. Just because he’s originally from south Georgia don’t mean he’s some backwoods flunky you see in a made-for-TV movie.”
“I wasn’t implying he should be dressing deer. Don’t take this too personally, Sheriff, but you seem to get awfully defensive every time I ask you a question.”
He paused, seeming to measure his response as the squad car came to a halt at the corner of Oglethorpe and Second Avenue. “Me—defensive? Maybe. But I think it’s more along the lines of those women who say they have to work twice as hard to get half as much. When it comes to law enforcement, a small-town cop’s probably a lot like being a woman in the FBI. Nobody thinks you can play with the big boys.”
Victoria smiled with her eyes. She wasn’t sure she liked him, but she suddenly understood him.
He lit up a cigarette. “I mean, people must ask you all the time why a woman like you would want to chase serial killers for a living.”
“Yeah,” she said, smiling thinly. “Sometimes after knocking off a bottle of Mylanta for dinner, I even ask myself that question.”
He took a long drag on his cigarette. “Why do you do it?”
She stared out the window, said nothing for a long moment, then turned back to him. “For the victims.”
The sheriff cracked the window to release the cigarette smoke. “You do seem to care more than most. I could tell from your questions that you were hoping poor old Gerty had died before that monster started ripping out her tongue.”
“That wasn’t just compassion. I read the transcript you faxed me of that phone call—the so-called confession. Toward the end he said he wasn’t through with her until a couple of days after he killed her. That’s one of the things that was so intriguing to the FBI profilers. That he would actually have the bravado to call the sheriff’s office in the first place was a sign that he was beginning to thrive on the attention. But beyond that, we thought this might be the first case where he did something to the victim after the killing. Postmortem mutilation would change the profile considerably. But that’s not the way it happened, according to your Dr. Ackerman. The killer attempted to extract the tongue at or near the time of death, just like the other cases.”
“But why did he stop in this case, before the tongue was all the way out? You think somebody scared him off?”
“No. I think he stopped because she died of a heart attack. It tells me this psycho has no use for a dead victim. His signature isn’t ripping out people’s tongues, dead or alive. His signature is torture.”
Dutton felt his mouth go dry. “Okay, you say the perp has no use for dead victims, but I’ve got the guy on tape saying he waited two days to call and tell us about the murder because he wasn’t through with the body yet. Where does that leave us?”
“I’d say it leaves two possibilities. One, the caller is the killer, but he’s throwing red herrings into his story about postcrime behavior, intentionally trying to mislead us. Or two, he’s not the killer at all—but for some crazy reason, he wants us to think he is.”
“Why would anyone want that?”
She sighed and shook her head. “Your guess is as good as mine. One thing’s for sure, though. That phone call and the tape recording have to remain absolutely confidential. The last thing this investigation needs is nationwide media coverage of a phone call that may have been designed to get everyone looking for the wrong guy.”
“Don’t worry. That’s one good thing about a small department. No leaks.”
“I certainly hope so,” she muttered under her breath, knowing there was no such thing as a police department without leaks.
Chapter 5
mike sped along the coastline on Bayshore Drive, toward the cluster of bare sailboat masts that projected like a wintry forest from Coconut Grove Marina. He reached the Yacht Harbor condominium just after three o’clock and took the elevator straight up to Zack’s twentieth-floor suite.
Although a knee injury had ended Zack’s NBA career as a rookie, a huge signing bonus made a second career unnecessary. After Mike helped get him a brief stint as a Tribune sportswriter, he quit to pursue his passion—flying. He bought a fleet of seaplanes that took legitimate businessmen from Miami to Palm Beach or Key West and back. Sometimes he’d just take tourists up for the view. The best feeling, though, was when he went up alone, zipping along the coast over turquoise reefs or due west over the wavy brown saw grass that blanketed the Everglades—a near seven-footer imagining what it would be like to be seven hundred feet tall.
The view from Zack’s penthouse was just as spectacular, with a wall of windows and wraparound balcony overlooking Biscayne Bay and the Miami skyline. Inside were mirrored walls, polished floors of Brazilian marble, and modern Italian furniture that looked so uncomfortable it had to be expensive.
“It’s in your room,” said Zack, directing Mike as he breezed through the dining room.
Mike had been living in the guest bedroom for the past two months, ever since Karen suggested he take an apartment. At the foot of his unmade bed lay an open pizza delivery box and television remote. On his pillow was the open FedEx package from Georgia, right where Zack had left it. He stepped around the pile of unfolded laundry on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed for a closer inspection. Zack was in the open doorway, leaning against the frame and licking the bright orange residue of a party-size bag of Cheetos from the tips of his fingers.
“I guess you shouldn’t touch it,” said Zack.
“Good point, Sherlock. I’d hate to smear one of your paw prints.”
“Come on, man. I wasn’t being nosy. You told me to open it.” He wiped his hands on his sweatshirt, watching as Mike scrutinized the FedEx invoice—without touching it. “So, you gonna call the cops?”
Mike sighed. “I’ll speak to the brass at the paper first, but I gotta believe that’s what we’ll do. I mean, if this guy sent the package on Thursday and this Kincaid woman wasn’t attacked until Friday…well, if he isn’t the killer, who else could he be?”
“Why would he send it to you, though, as opposed to any other reporter?”
“For all I know he did send it to others. We don’t know that I’ve been singled out—not yet. Actually, what bothers me more right now is how he knew to send it here, to your condo.”
Zack stroked his chin, thinking. “That kind of makes me think maybe you have been singled out, dude. Could be his own little power play. It’s his way of saying that he knows you’re separated, that you’re living somewhere other than your usual home address. If you were just another reporter on a long mailing list, I don’t think he’d go to all that trouble to check out your marital status.”
Mike paused, weighing what his friend had just said. “Good point. Actually, when you think about it, it makes some sense that he’d pick me, since I work for the Tribune.”
“What’s so special about the Tribune?”
“You figure, if he’s going to contact a newspaper, it would probably be in one of the five cities where victims have turned up. Miami’s one of them. And the Tribune has a huge readership.”
“Yeah, but didn’t one of the killings take place in New York?” Zack said, smirking. “They got something there called the New York Times, don’t they?”
Mike was about to make a suitable gesture when the phone rang. He and Zack exchanged expectant glances. Now what? Finally, on the fourth ring, Mike snatched it up. “Hello.”
“Did you get my package, Posten?”
Mike’s mouth opened, but it took a moment for his words to flow. “Who is this?”
“Rule number one, asshole: no questions.”
Mike glanced at
Zack, who moved closer to the phone. “Yeah, I got your package,” Mike said. “It’s right here. Saw your little note, too.”
“Impressed?”
“Yeah, sure. Takes a big set of balls to torture a seventy-eight-year-old woman. Who’s next on your list, day-old puppies with their eyes still closed?”
“You’re missing the point, smartass. I didn’t kill her. I just predicted it.”
Mike’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said. I shipped the package to you on Thursday, and the killer whacked poor old Gerty on Friday. I predicted she’d be next, and I was right. I know who the next one’s going to be, too. And the one after that, and the one after that. I’ve cracked the killer’s pattern, and I’m the only one who ever will. Because nobody thinks the way he does—except for me.”
Mike’s head swirled, but he struggled to stay focused. “This is a very sick game you’re playing.”
“It’s no game. It’s business. There’s something in it for you, something for me. I know you’d love to hear my predictions—get the scoop on the competition. What reporter wouldn’t? I’ll give it to you, and only to you. A nice big exclusive story. All you gotta do is give me something in return.”
“Like what?”
“Money, for starters. Lots of it. Fifty thousand dollars for my next prediction.”
“You dirtbag, I’m not about to pay a penny to you or any other source. You’ve got the wrong reporter.”
“Oh, I’ve got the right one all right. Stay in the game, and maybe I’ll tell you why. Citibank. The account number’s on the back of the package. It’s in the name of Ernest Gill. Make a cash deposit by Friday.”
“You deaf? I said I’m not paying.”
“Oh, you’ll pay,” the caller said smugly. “You have no choice but to pay. Because if you don’t, I’ll keep making my predictions, the day before the murder. And you’ll keep on getting them. The day after they find the body.”
“What the hell kind of a prediction is that?”
“A worthless one. Which only goes to show: You get what you pay for.”
“Listen—”
“No, you listen. Don’t even think about the cops, or my next prediction might hit very close to home. Understand?”
Mike started to object, but the line suddenly went dead.
Chapter 6
the Tribune headquarters sat right off sparkling Biscayne Bay, with a fifth-floor newsroom offering picture-window views of the Port of Miami and Miami Beach. Curiously, the editorial board was quartered on the fifth floor, south end, in probably the only waterfront office space in Miami with no windows. Neither that, however, nor the beige wallpaper was the real reason the rank and file called it “the ivory tower.”
The largest office belonged to Aaron Fields. At age sixty-two he’d been publisher for the past five years, a member of the board for seventeen. He had the people skills of a consummate politician, which meant that people still liked him even after they discovered he was a mile wide and an inch deep. Thick silver hair and a thin smile of confidence gave him the look of success. He dressed the part, too, sporting custom suits that cost more than some reporters earned in a month—certainly more than Mike had earned thirteen years ago, when Fields had first hired him.
His impressive desk, credenza and wall unit were matching teak and rosewood, all custom designed to the contours of his office. Remington bronzes were perched on marble pedestals along the wall, the way rich, unathletic men who had never ridden horseback often expressed their love for the Wild West. Behind him was his collection of rare books, none of which he’d ever had time to read.
“Are you suggesting we pay this lunatic?” said Fields. His Cole-Haan wing tips were propped up on his desk, and he was leaning back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head.
Mike shifted uncomfortably in a wing chair, then glanced at Charlie Gelber, executive editor, seated on the couch. Mike had been talking for twenty minutes, laying it all out. “At this point I’m just looking for guidance.”
“We simply don’t pay informants,” Gelber said indignantly. “We’re not the National Enquirer.”
Mike struggled not to roll his eyes. Gelber was a forty-eight-year-old creative type with an effeminate voice that became even more affected when he tried to be stern or sarcastic. A habit of crossing his legs like a woman and bringing a hand to his cheek like Jack Benny fed rumors that he was gay. Long ago, however, Mike had come to the very firm conclusion that Gelber didn’t smile nearly enough to be gay, straight or otherwise sexually active.
“Paying him isn’t the real issue,” said Mike. “The question is, do we have an opportunity here to help stop a serial killer who’s already struck once in our own city and is now up to victim number six nationwide.”
“Well, excuse me, Michael.” Gelber cocked his head—and there went the hand to the cheek. “But catching the bad guys is Eliot Ness’s job.”
Fields dragged his feet off the desk and onto the floor. “Tell me this, Mike: Do you think he’s the killer or don’t you?”
“Could be. Or he could be working in tandem with the killer. Or maybe he really is simply the evil—maybe even clairvoyant—genius he claims to be. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure which of those would be worse. All I know right now is that he wants his money, and if he doesn’t get it, I’m sure I’m going to get another call about another dead body.”
Fields ran a hand through his hair, troubled. “You don’t really believe that paying him is going to stop a murder, do you? Either way—whether he’s the killer or just an informant—his financial incentive is to keep these serial murders running longer than A Chorus Line. And let’s face it: The only way he can validate his predictions is to let the murders happen. We may be the first to get the scoop after victim number seven goes down, but I don’t think we’re ever going to get these predictions, as he calls them, in time to stop number seven, number eight or number twenty-nine.”
“You may be right,” said Mike. “But I’ve been following this story from the beginning, and my law enforcement sources tell me they’re not even close to naming a suspect. Creating a dialogue with this guy could be the only way to yield a clue that might finally stop the killing. It’s like when the Times and Post published the Unabomber’s manifesto to help stop the bombings. It worked in that case. There’s no guarantee that we’ll save lives, but we have a responsibility to try, at least. We can’t just throw up our hands and say we don’t pay informants, then pretend like nobody ever called me.”
“Fine.” Gelber was up and pacing on a Persian rug, waving his arm with emotion. “Let’s say we do pay him. What if it turns out he really is the killer? How do you think our readers will react when they find out we’ve been giving a serial killer a financial incentive to keep on killing?”
“I thought of that. And that’s why we shouldn’t go out on this limb alone. I think we should work with the FBI on this.”
Gelber stopped short. “What? We’re independent journalists, not assistant deputies for federal agents. Are you nuts?”
“That’s enough, Charlie,” said Fields. His eyes narrowed and he spoke in a calm, even voice. “Mike, are you nuts?”
“I know there’s an ethical dilemma here, and maybe Charlie has a point. Maybe a journalist should never tell the FBI about an informant—even one who might help solve serial killings, or who might himself be the serial killer. But this particular informant isn’t just offering information about crimes that someone else has already committed. He’s demanding money for his predictions about future victims—and he may very well be the killer. That’s almost extortion. It’s a unique situation where there simply aren’t any rules.”
“There’s one hard-and-fast rule,” said Gelber. “Journalists are independent.”
“Look,” said Mike, “all the sanctimonious bullshit in the world doesn’t mean we never cooperate with law enforcement. Remember back in July ’83? I was just two months on the job when
terrorists kidnapped the wife of that former Salvadoran ambassador here in Miami. I uncovered it right after it happened, but the FBI asked us—asked you, Aaron—to keep the story from the public because the kidnappers threatened to kill the ambassador’s wife if he called in the cops. So we didn’t run the story, and neither did anyone else in the Miami media. When they caught the guys a week later the FBI even issued a public statement crediting the Miami media for our cooperation.”
“What’s your point?” snapped Gelber.
“Simple. Sometimes public safety has to take precedence over journalistic independence and the public’s right to know.”
“So what are you proposing in this case?” asked Fields. “I want specifics.”
“A compromise—one that lets us retain a level of independence and that still gives the police the information they need to catch the killer. We pay the informant for his predictions, but the FBI secretly supplies the money. They pay informants all the time, so they should go for it, and this way the Tribune technically wouldn’t be violating its own policy against checkbook journalism. But there’ll be no telephone taps or other intrusion by law enforcement into my conversations with the informant. The FBI will get only those clues that I decide to pass along to them.”
“It’s pretty risky,” said Fields. “What’s in it for us?”
“We help catch a serial killer,” said Mike. “But if you’re looking for some kind of quid pro quo, I suppose we could ask for some kind of exclusive if the FBI makes an arrest.”
Gelber grimaced. “This would be a huge mistake. I wouldn’t be worried if we knew Mike’s source was the killer. No one would fault us for going to the FBI in that situation. But here we don’t know; in fact, he’s telling us he’s not the killer. If we start running to the FBI every time we think that maybe one of our informants has committed a crime, our phones will stop ringing.”
The Informant Page 4