by R. G. Belsky
“But then one of us—I’m not sure who, maybe it was me—said that they thought the ultimate thrill would be to really take another person’s life. For real. That it would make us stronger. Make us godlike. Turn us into true immortals.
“Well, no one said anything for a long time. But then, slowly at first and after awhile with a growing excitement, we all began talking about the idea.
“It was a fascinating concept. To kill another person. To simply snuff out their existence. To just remove them from this earth. To make them vanish—in a single instant of violence—as if they had never existed. Poof—and they were gone. What an amazing thing that must be to feel that kind of power. What a high. What a thrill. It really would almost be like being God himself.
“We talked that night about people who had killed for thrills—like Charles Manson and Theodore Bundy. These were intelligent men. There must have been a reason for what they did. But what was it? Did they know something that the rest of the world didn’t know? A delicious secret that only a few select people would ever be able to share? That murder—the ultimate crime, and ultimate sin, the ultimate taboo of society—could also be the ultimate pleasure?
“Anyway, somewhere along the line, it stopped being a fantasy. The game became a reality. We were actually going to do this. We were going to kill people. Not for anything they did or for personal profit or for any real motive at all. Just because we wanted to see what it felt like.
“And you want to know something, Joe? It felt great. It truly did. I know it sounds terrible—and I hate to admit this now because God has made me realize the enormity of the sins I have committed—but I enjoyed it.
“It’s an incredible experience at the end. The fear in their eyes, the violence, the sexual thrill of it all—everything coming together in one glorious burst. At that moment, I used to feel such passion. An all consuming passion. A passion like I never felt for anything else in life. And I knew this was something I had to do—because God, in his infinite wisdom, made me like that. I could fight it, I could resist it, but I could never stop it. Have you ever felt passion like that, Joe?
“Anyway, we decided to give our secret society a name. The Great Pretenders. It came from the old song by the Platters. Do you remember it? Well, we heard it one night on a jukebox, and it seemed perfect for us. Totally appropriate.
“Then, within the Great Pretenders, each of us had individual names and characters. Me, of course, I was Felix the Cat. We all had different ways of carrying out the murders too. As you know I liked to linger over mine—to watch them for a long time and even spend some quality time with them at the end. The others did their work a lot quicker.
“We also had different ways of picking our victims. I know you think the victims were all women, because that’s what I did. But there were other people murdered in our dark little game. Men. Children. Families. The Great Pretenders were an equal-opportunity killing machine.
“It really did become a game for us. An incredible game, while it lasted. We competed against each other. Not only to see who could kill the most people, but also which one of us could come up with the most creative ways of doing it.
“I always led in the numbers. I was very busy. But the others—well, let’s just say they were much more imaginative about murder than I could ever dream of being.
“I was the only one who went public though. Sometime, early on in my spree, I realized something was missing. I was killing people—making them disappear off the face of the earth through the sheer power of my will—but no one realized I was doing it. No one had put the different murders together. They were just isolated crimes.
“So I decided to write the letters to the papers so that the whole world would see what I was doing. I thought that it would make the thrill of the kill even more delicious than it already was. I was right too. I truly felt like a god.
“In the end, I suppose that was what did me in. The publicity. It enraged the public, the police—even the other members of our little group were upset with me over it.
“And then I was caught. A lucky break for the police actually. Otherwise, I might have gone on for years. But all good things must come to an end. And my life really ended eleven years ago. Until I was reborn again last year when I discovered Jesus.
“As for the others, well—they just went on with their lives. No one knew about them, only about Felix the Cat. The police, the public, the press—they thought Felix the Cat was the monster. They didn’t know that the monster had more than one head. That the evil was worse than they ever knew.
“I never told their secret to anyone until today. I mean I’d taken an oath with the others. We were the Great Pretenders. And that’s what those people are doing now. The three of them are still out there—still pretending. Pretending they’re just normal people that are living normal lives.
“You’d never recognize them now. They have careers, families, money—they’ve become what our parents used to be. They became respectable, successful members of society—nobody ever knew about the deadly secrets in their past. Ironic, huh? The rest of the Great Pretenders all disappeared just like the people we all murdered. Poof—and they were gone.
“I’ve followed the news about them from here in prison. I don’t think they think about me too much.
“In fact, I figured they’d all forgotten about the Great Pretenders and what we did back at NYU. Tried to put it out of their minds forever.
“Or at least I used to think that.
“Until . . .”
David Galvin’s voice had been fading as he talked. A couple of times his eyes closed, then opened again. I assumed the drugs he was taking for the cancer were the reason. Or maybe it was the cancer itself. He didn’t seem like he had much time left.
“I need to tell the truth,” he said now. “I need to do the right thing before I die. God told me to confess everything. God told me he would forgive me.” He seemed delirious. “I must stop it!” he said.
Then his eyes closed again.
“Stop what?” I asked.
There was no answer.
I moved over closer to the bed, until I was only a few inches away from his ear. “Stop what, David?” I shouted. “What is it you’re trying to tell me?”
Still nothing.
“Wake up, you son of a bitch!” I was screaming at him now. I had so many other questions I needed him to answer. Who were the other three people in the Great Pretenders? Where were they now? How many other victims were there that we didn’t know about?
A nurse came running into the room. The guard was behind her. The nurse looked down at Galvin lying on the bed next to me.
“I’m sorry, you’ll have to leave now, Mr. Dougherty,” she said.
“Just a few more questions.”
“He can’t hear you.”
I looked down at the sleeping figure on the bed. I knew she was right.
David Galvin was a monster who a long time ago destroyed a lot of people’s lives, and now dreamed of doing something that would somehow still allow him to get into heaven. He’d revealed a lot of secrets to me. There were many more secrets still locked inside the dark recesses of his soul.
But David Galvin was going to tell me no more secrets today.
Chapter 7
There’s nothing better than being in the city room of a New York City newspaper when you have a big story. It’s the ultimate high. A real jolt of adrenaline. An incredible sense of exhilaration that you feel when it seems like everything is breaking your way.
I used to love it so much.
Later, after things started to go bad, I tried to find that same excitement from other things in life besides newspapers.
But I never could.
The only thing that ever came close was gambling. When I was riding a lucky streak at the tables—and the cards were coming up aces, the dice throws were all winners, the wheel was rolling for me—it was almost like being back in the New York Banner newsroom again with a front-pag
e story.
Almost.
There was a downside, of course. At a newspaper, they pay you for what you do. At the gambling table, you pay them. Oh, sometimes you win for a while, but in the end you generally come out on the short end. That’s the way it works. It’s a game you can’t ever win. So why do people play it? Well, it’s a helluva trip until you get to the last stop.
But now I was back in a big-time New York City newsroom—home again after a long, long time. At least temporarily. Kramer had given me a desk in the middle of the office that belonged to the paper’s chief diplomatic reporter, who was on assignment in London. A few people I used to know stopped by to offer an awkward greeting. But I was surprised how many new faces were there. Newspapers are not long-term organizations, I guess. People burn out very quickly.
“So you’re Joe Dougherty, huh?” someone said.
I looked up. There was a woman, maybe about thirty or so, standing next to the desk. She was smiling. She was small and thin—with red hair that was cut very short. She wasn’t pretty and she wasn’t homely, but the smile made her seem more attractive than she really was. She also looked really wired. The kind of person who’s always filled with energy.
“I’m Bonnie Kerns,” she said. “Maybe you’ve seen my byline. Page One today.”
She pointed to the story that I’d heard Andy talking about in his office—the murder of the investment banker and the hooker. The dead man’s name was William Franze. Her story said the chief suspect was a woman named Lisa Montero, whose father, John Montero, was a legendary Wall Street wheeler-dealer.
“That’s the sixth Page One byline I’ve had this month, but then who’s counting? So anyway I wake up this morning, and the first thing I do is check out my horoscope. It tells me my Aries is rising and my Virgo is in some fuckin’ house somewhere—and it’s going to be a really cool day. I figure that just means I’ll get another big story or win a Pulitzer or something. But then I walk into the newsroom and see you sitting here. The famous Joe Dougherty himself. Whoa . . .”
She stuck out her hand.
I shook it. “Do I know you?” I asked.
“No, you were before my time. Hell, I probably was still in high school when you were a big star around here.”
She didn’t look that young. I told her that.
“Okay, maybe college,” she laughed. “I know all about you though. You’re a legend. Andy told us all the whole story the other night in the bar. Boy, talk about an up and down career. You’ve been up, and you’ve been down big time, haven’t you? So where the hell are you now?”
“Somewhere in the middle, I guess,” I told her. “What exactly did Andy say about me?”
“That you were one of the greatest reporters who ever worked here. Of course, I already knew that. I sometimes go through old Banner clips in my spare time, trying to learn about the paper and get ideas and make myself a better reporter. I’m a little obsessive about this job—I don’t know if you’ve noticed. So I’d seen your name a lot. Anyway, Andy says you would do anything for a story. That you once posed as a waiter to cover a secret dinner meeting by the mayor. That you went into a bear cage at the zoo to show how lax the safety regulations were there. That you parachuted into an exclusive celebrity wedding in the Hamptons. That you even used to go through people’s garbage looking for news tips. He said you treated every story you did like it was Watergate.”
“Andy said that, huh?”
“Yeah. Is he a friend of yours or what?”
“He used to be. A long time ago. I guess he’s changed quite a bit since then though.”
I looked across the city room into Andy Kramer’s office, which was enclosed in glass and took up much of one wall. Andy was holding an editorial meeting. He looked very impressive. He looked like an executive.
“Do you like working with him?” I asked Bonnie.
“You mean Zig Zag?”
“Zig Zag?”
“That’s what we call him. Behind his back, of course.”
“Why Zig Zag?”
“Because he always changes his mind on everything, depending on which way the wind is blowing. He doesn’t really have any opinions of his own. He just does whatever he has to do to get ahead. If you’re riding high, he’s your friend. But if you screw up, he doesn’t want to know you. He goes with the flow. Zig Zag. Understand?”
I nodded. “Maybe Andy hasn’t changed so much, after all.”
“What about you?” she asked. “How come a hotshot reporter like you wound up getting fired?”
“Didn’t Andy tell you?”
“No.”
“Well, I guess I just zigged when I should have zagged,” I smiled.
I always thought of the newspaper business as a noble calling.
A mission.
A public service the way John and Robert Kennedy used to make politics sound back in the days when people were idealistic and trusting and still believed they could make the world better.
I devoured newspaper movies when I was growing up. I’ve probably seen every one that was ever made. The Front Page. His Girl Friday. Deadline USA. Ace in the Hole. And, of course, All the President’s Men. Especially All the President’s Men.
Watergate was the one thing that inspired me more than any other to become a newspaper reporter. I wanted to be like Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein. I wanted to change the world the way they did. I must have seen that movie a hundred times. I’d sit in a darkened theater, mouthing Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman’s lines even before they said them. I knew them all by heart.
I never broke anything as big as Watergate in my days as a reporter, but I did some pretty good things. I got politicians indicted for graft and fraud. I did an investigation that uncovered widespread patient abuse in nursing homes. I wrote a series that led to a reform of laws that protect battered women from their husbands.
I cared a lot about things like that back then. I guess I still do. People at the paper always used to tell me that I needed to be more impartial about the things that I covered.
“I’ve accomplished a lot here by not always being impartial,” I remember pointing out to one cynical editor.
“Like what?”
I ran through some of my big stories.
He shook his head.
“No matter how many politicians you put away or nursing homes you get cleaned up or beaten-up women you save from their husbands, it’s all just a drop in the bucket,” he said. “This city’s a cesspool. Hell, the world’s a cesspool. There’s a million more cases out there even worse than that.”
“I do what I can do,” I said stubbornly.
“What’s the point?”
“Maybe someday I’ll expose them all.”
“You’re a dreamer, Dougherty,” he laughed. “But you’re young. You’ll outgrow it.”
“I hope that never happens,” I said.
“Why?”
“The world needs dreamers.”
I wrote my story about Felix the Cat’s new confession quickly. It had been a long time since I’d been a reporter, but this story practically wrote itself. It just poured out of me.
Of course, I didn’t have any proof for any of it. Galvin might have just made it up for a joke, I suppose. Or been delirious from the pain or the drugs. But I didn’t think that was true. He was a dying man, and dying men generally don’t tell lies. Besides, I believed him. And so did Andy.
Andy told me the story was going to be all over Page One.
After I was finished writing it and turned it into the city desk, I could have gone straight home. But I didn’t. I did what I used to do whenever I had a big story. First, I waited around until it was cleared by the copy desk and sent upstairs to the composing room. Then I went upstairs to watch it being laid out on the front page. After that, I went to Lanigan’s—a bar next door to the Banner where the reporters hang out—until the presses started rolling at about 9 p.m. I was in the press room when the first copies of the Banner rolled off. I pic
ked one up and looked at it.
FELIX THE CAT: I DIDN’T KILL ALONE!
SERIAL KILLER REVEALS IN DEATHBED CONFESSION HE HAD ACCOMPLICES DURING TERROR SPREE
Exclusive Special Report
By Joe Dougherty
I read the article from beginning to end. Then I read it a second time. And a third. It felt good. After that, I went back to Lanigan’s to have some more beers with the reporters there—basking in the glory of my big moment and happy to be a player again—even for a little while.
It was a great night. Until Jack Rollins showed up.
Rollins was the executive editor of the Banner. Eight years ago, when I’d left, he’d been the city editor. My boss. He was one of the people who pushed the hardest to have me fired.
“Well, well, well,” Rollins said, walking over to the table where I was sitting. He was dressed in a tuxedo, and he looked like he’d already had a few drinks somewhere else. “Look who’s back—the Gambler. Kramer told me he put you on this Galvin story. I told him he must be out of his mind.”
I didn’t say anything.
“I have an idea how we can pay you though,” Rollins said. “Instead of giving you the money, we’ll just give it directly to your bookie. Cut out the middle man entirely. What do you think, Gambler?”
“I don’t bet anymore,” I told him.
“Yeah, right,” he said sarcastically. “Sorry, but I don’t believe that for a second. Of course, I don’t believe anything you say. You always did have a bit of a problem telling the truth, didn’t you? Or have you forgotten about that already?”
Rollins was a real asshole—a bean counter who loved to slash reporters’ expense accounts, while at the same time using his position to wrangle invitations to the best parties, social events, and freebie travel junkets in town. I didn’t really have to take any shit from him now, since I wasn’t actually working at the Banner anymore. On the other hand, I didn’t want to do anything that would get me taken off the David Galvin confession story. It was a great story. It was my story.
I looked at the tuxedo he was wearing. “So what was on the social schedule tonight, Jack? Dinner at the mayor’s mansion? Drinks with the Trumps?”