Distemper

by Beth Saulnier

  The chief looked vaguely horrified. “Lady, if you think your reporters are getting within a hundred yards of my…”

  “Like I was saying,” she cut him off, “first Berkowitz leaves this rambling note next to two of his vies. The cops release it eventually, but not the whole thing, and I guess that pisses him off. He sends his next letter straight to Breslin, and based on the first one the cops verify it’s for real. The News teases it for a couple of days to build things up, then they print the letter and wham, the first edition sells out in an hour. The paper isn’t stupid. They couch the whole thing as a plea for the killer to turn himself in. But three weeks later Berkowitz shoots somebody else.”

  “That’s it?”

  “No. A month later it’s the anniversary of his first kill, and Breslin writes a column practically daring him to make a move. Two days later he shoots a couple of kids. Lots of people thought Breslin had goaded him into it, practically accused the paper of being an accomplice to murder just to up circulation. The shrinks weren’t so sure, but either way it wasn’t what you’d call our finest hour. Sold a lot of papers, though.”

  “How do you know so much about it?” the chief asked. “What’d you do, teach a course on this crap?”

  Marilyn shrugged. “How do you know all the dirt on Rodney King? It’s not likely to happen here, but you gotta keep your eye on the pitfalls.”

  Cody spoke up. “And you’re saying you don’t want the Monitor in that kind of mess.”

  “Right. And there’s another thing. With the Son of Sam, there was enough in the letters to prove the writer was who he said he was. Same goes for the Unabomber.”

  “But not this one?” Cody asked.

  “Don’t insult my intelligence, Detective, and I won’t insult yours. Maybe the nut who wrote these is your guy. But like I said, he could just as well be some copycat crank.”

  “That doesn’t mean he won’t kill people.”

  “That’s true, too.”

  “Then the question is, where does it leave us?” He held up photocopies of both letters. “We’ve gotten his message now, and it’s loud and clear. He says that if you don’t print his letters within a week, there’s going to be another murder. What do you intend to do about it?”

  “Look, Detective, I don’t want another body in the woods any more than you do. But my paper is not going to be held hostage.”

  “So you’d let a girl die in the name of your so-called ethics?”

  “Hold on,” I said. They both looked at me as though they’d forgotten I was there. “Do you think the killer wrote these or don’t you?”

  Cody and the chief glanced at each other, exchanging some sort of cop semaphore. Finally Cody sighed. “This is off the record.”

  Marilyn muttered under her breath. “No shit.”

  “Normally we wouldn’t tell you this sort of thing. But like it or not, you’re in the loop. Whoever wrote this put you there. All right, the truth is, we’re not sure whether this guy is on the up and up. At first glance, I’d kind of doubt it. There’s almost a whiny quality to these letters, like the writer really has something to prove. And let’s face it: the killer already has proven something. He’s proven he can kill people, dump them in the woods, and get away with it, at least for now. Experience tells us that the vast majority of these maniacs don’t even write letters. For the Ted Bundys of this world, the crime is its own reward. They’re in it for the kill itself, not to crow about it afterward.”

  “So what’s your point?” Marilyn said.

  “My point is, conventional wisdom says the letters could very well have come from a crank. But the truth is that there is no such thing as conventional wisdom when it comes to this kind of killer. Some serial killers do write letters. Just because my first instinct is that these letters aren’t the genuine article doesn’t mean I’m right. That, we won’t know until we catch the guy. And if you know about Berkowitz, then you know that the psychologists are split on how much the newspaper coverage had to do with his crimes. Some think it encouraged him. Others say that if he hadn’t had all the publicity to feed his ego, he would have killed even more people to get himself good and noticed.”

  “But where does that leave us?” I asked. “I mean, what would you have us do?”

  “Not that it’s up to you,” Marilyn interjected.

  “Look, lady, I could get a court order…” Chief Hill began.

  “You damn well could not, and you know it,” she shot back. “Ever heard of the first amendment?”

  “Shouldn’t your publisher be in on this?”

  “He’s on vacation. Far, far away. I’m all you’ve got.” Thank God for small favors. Chester, our publisher, got where he is by rising through the ranks of classified advertising. He’s spent about fifteen minutes in a newsroom in his whole miserable life, unless he’s contemplating redecoration. He’s an idiot, and he also happens to be the owner’s son-in-law—not that his marital state keeps him from chasing the occasional miniskirted intern.

  “Let’s try to keep this civil,” Cody said. Where was all this diplomacy coming from all of a sudden? Did they teach that in the SEALs, right after how to kill people with your pinkie? “We know you’re not the bad guy. You’re just trying to do your job like we are. For once, maybe we aren’t on opposing sides. We both want to make sure no one else gets killed.”

  “A minute ago you accused me of being willing to let a girl die.”

  “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to imply that. I was just trying to make a point that we have to work together. Now, we know that you could run those letters or not run them. It’s your newspaper, and the final decision will be up to you. But I hope we can work together to try and establish the most responsible course of action. We want to catch the killer, and do it before anyone else gets hurt. If you help us, and we put him away—well, that seems to me to be the most newsworthy story of all.”

  Was he really trying to finesse Marilyn? And what’s more, was he getting away with it? This was unprecedented. “Lay out the options,” she said finally.

  “Chief?”

  “Go ahead, Cody. You’ve got it on the ball.”

  “Okay, I’ll give it to you straight. This may be life-or- death serious, and there are a hell of a lot of variables. Either this is our guy or it isn’t. Either he’s serious about his threat or he isn’t. To begin with, let’s say it’s him. If you don’t run it, he could go out and kill someone to teach you a lesson. If you do run it, he could get an even bigger kick out of his power trip and pursue his career with a vengeance. Now, if he isn’t our guy and you don’t run it, he may crawl back into his hole and we can write him off. Or else he might try to make his bones so he really can feel like a big man.”

  “But what if we do run the letter, and the writer was a fake?” I asked. “Don’t we look like idiots?”

  “Maybe. But that might not be the worst part of it.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning if the real guy sees some creep taking credit for his labors, he might step up his own efforts.”

  “So you’re saying that pretty much no matter what we do, someone else is going to die? I mean, that seems to me like what you’re saying—that there’s no way out of this.”

  “No, Alex, I… Okay. You’re right. I’m saying there are pitfalls everywhere you look. Make the wrong decision and it could cost someone her life. Killers kill. That’s what they do.”

  “Yeah, and cops catch them,” I said. “That’s what they do, remember?”

  “I remember,” Cody said, sounding so straight-ahead earnest he might have been taking the Cub Scout oath.

  “Look, I don’t mean to sound like a sissy or anything. But might I point out that the second letter was addressed to yours truly? And at the end he mentions in passing that the next victim might just as well be me? Am I crazy, or is this grounds for just a little bit of hysteria?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, Alex,” Cody said. “Don’t be scared. It’s
probably just an empty threat. From what Quantico tells us, these guys almost never warn their victims beforehand. It’s practically unheard of. That’s one of the reasons we tend to think he isn’t for real. In any case, we can protect you.”

  “How?”

  “We’re assigning you a plainclothes detail. They’ll watch you whenever you’re alone, until we catch this guy. Same goes for your roommate Marci, since she has such a strong physical resemblance to the other victims.”

  “Isn’t that kind of excessive?”

  This time the chief answered. “Believe it or not, Bernier, I’ve gotten kind of attached to the idea of you not getting killed. And besides, having you get offed on my watch, after you’d been threatened and all, is the kind of public relations diarrhea I don’t need.”

  “Come on, Chief. I know your budget. Who’s going to pay?”

  “Mayor’s discretionary fund.”

  “So as long as you don’t need to plow the streets next winter, everything will be just fine.”

  “I don’t like it,” Marilyn said. “No, I don’t mean the guards, Alex. At this point, that’s probably the better part of valor. I mean letting you guys tell me what to run and what not to run. Hold on, Cody. I heard what you said. And right now I’m not in a position to know if it’s a song and dance, but if it is, it’s a good one. So although I would like to say for the record that in no way is this a precedent, I’m going to leave it up to you. I know what makes good copy, but I have no idea how to untangle that mess of what-ifs you just spun. And I sure as hell don’t want to think afterward that I got some girl killed. So if you think we should run it, we’ll run it. If you don’t, we won’t.”

  “That’s a very smart decision, Ms. Zapinsky,” Cody said. “And a very responsible one too. We’ll get back to you with our recommendation by the end of the day.”

  “Thanks a lot. Now if you wouldn’t mind, get the hell out of my office so I can hang myself in peace.”

  9

  WHEN YOU’RE FEELING ALL FREAKED OUT, NOTHING REturns you to your right mind like banana bread. I mean the baking of it, not necessarily the eating, though that’s pretty satisfying too. There’s something cathartic about the process, all the mashing and puréeing and sifting and egg-cracking. It allows you to be both destructive and creative at the same time, and your friends thank you afterward. Halfway into the week the letter writer had given as his deadline-with-a-capital-DEAD, I was home in the midst of a baking orgy when the doorbell rang. I wiped the fruity sludge off my hands and opened up to find a very irked Detective Cody on my front steps.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, Alex? Do you have a death wish?”

  “Huh?”

  “You didn’t even ask who I was before you opened the door.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Aren’t you the least bit concerned about your own safety?”

  “The door was locked this time, wasn’t it?”

  “You’ve accomplished a great deal. Are you here alone?”

  “My housemates just went to the store for a sec. They’re coming right back.”

  “Alex, goddamn it, you’re supposed to call for an escort if you’re alone.”

  “But they’re coming back in, like, twenty minutes.”

  “If I had my way you’d have round-the-clock surveillance, but at this point, we can’t justify the money.”

  “Not until my head is actually separated from the rest of my body. I know.”

  “Don’t joke.”

  “What are you doing here anyway?”

  “I was on my way home and I noticed yours was the only car in the driveway, and no cop car either.”

  “Hmm. That’s very interesting. You said that the last time you were here, that you stopped by on your way home. But you know what, Cody? I did a little investigative reporting, and I found out your apartment is on the other side of town from the station house. So what gives?”

  Those freckles of his started a slow burn. “You caught me. Uncle. I was checking up on you.”

  “I didn’t know you cared.”

  “You’re my responsibility.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “You fell over. I was the one who caught you.”

  “So it’s a karma thing.”

  “Yeah. You got another Guinness for me?”

  I went into the kitchen and when I got back to the living room I could see him casting about for a place to sit that didn’t look like it was going to sprout a tail. He finally settled on the arm of the couch next to Shakespeare, who looked up long enough to see if he happened to be carrying a steak. “Am I interrupting you? If you’re in the middle of cooking, I can entertain myself until your roommates get back.”

  “I just threw four loaves of banana bread in the oven. It takes over an hour, so there’s nothing I can do with the rest until then.”

  “How many are you making?”

  “Eight.”

  “You feeding an army?”

  “At the Monitor, it’ll last an hour.”

  “Smells good.” He reached into his jacket pocket. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “You smoke? But you’re such a square.”

  “Not much. Only when I have a beer. I smoke, I drink.”

  “You didn’t last time.”

  “I was trying to be polite. So can I smoke?”

  “Outside. It’s a nonsmoking house. Emma smokes Dunhills sometimes, but only out on the back porch.”

  “Are you serious? Look at this place. I’ve never seen so much dog hair that wasn’t connected to a dog. I’ve got clumps on my tongue. And I can’t smoke in here?”

  “We all have our foibles.”

  “It’s freezing out.”

  “So don’t smoke.”

  “Is my mother paying you?”

  “No, but if she’d like to, I could use the money.”

  “Okay, you win. Sorry if I’m being rude. I’m just jonesing for nicotine.”

  “Is this a cop thing?”

  “No. Maybe. Probably it’s the case.”

  “Can you talk about it?”

  “Course not. You don’t smoke?”

  “Used to. A lot. But now I equate smoking with hysteria.”

  “How so?”

  “When I got upset about a guy, I’d smoke. Then I got so upset over a guy, no amount of nicotine did any good. So I figured, what’s the point? Packed it up. Haven’t smoked since.”

  “And you don’t crave it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Lucky. So who was the guy?”

  “How do you men in blue like to put it? ‘No comment.’ “

  “Not very sporting.”

  “It was somebody who died, okay? Now drop it.”

  “Adam Ellroy?”

  The name hit me like a sockful of nails. All of a sudden I wanted to punch him, and for no good reason. “If you already knew, why did you ask?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to see if you’d tell me.”

  “Power trip?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Is that a cop thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Too bad. Because I’m much more interested in scoping out other people than spilling my own guts.”

  “You already know my life story. Now it’s your turn. Cops like grilling people too, you know. Best part of the job.”

  “Why are you so curious?”

  “Truth? I have no idea. I just am.”

  I got up and went to the coat closet, pulled a beach towel off the top shelf, and spread it out on the couch to cover the dog hair. “Here. You might as well make yourself comfortable while you’re guarding my honor. Besides, I’m not sure the couch arm was made to stand up to a man your size.” He moved over and Shakespeare promptly stood up, turned around, and settled with her head on his lap.

  “Nice pooch.”

  “Love of my life.”

  “Is this the part where you tell me she doesn’t usually take to people this quickly, so I must be
special?”

  “Shakespeare? Hardly. She’ll shake paws with cops or criminals. Not what you’d call discriminating.”

  He scratched her behind the ears. “Zeke would like you.”

  “Zeke?”

  “He’s my dog.”

  “What kind?”

  “Lab and something. Maybe husky. He’s a mutt.”

  “How old?”

  “Four.”

  “And you got custody in the divorce?”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Gee, Cody, I’m getting a newfound respect for you. Do you have a picture?”

  “Of my dog? You mean in my wallet?”

  “Sure.”

  “Nah. I used to carry one, but my ex said it was idiotic.”

  “No wonder the marriage was doomed.”

  “Yeah, well, it was probably doomed anyway.”

  “So how come you got hitched?”

  “I thought I was supposed to be grilling you.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Okay, what say I trade you one for one? I spill some hideously painful personal detail, then you.”

  “So let me get this straight. Is this the point when we bond by sharing details of our empty lives?”

  “Works for me.”

  “Deal. But only if I think you came across with something sufficiently hideous.”

  “That’s tough but fair.”

  “So go. Hand me your tale of woe.”

  “And you won’t call me a nancy boy behind my back?”

  “Not unless you cry.”

  “I’ll try not to. Anyway, it’s not even that interesting. Her name was Lucy, we met in college…”

  “You went to college?”

  “Cops can’t go to college?”

  “Sure they can, I guess. I never really thought about it.”

  “Well, lots of us do nowadays. Some of us even know which fork to use.”

  “Sorry. No offense. You were saying?”

  “I went to U-Mass on a Navy ROTC scholarship. After graduation, I owed the service four years, and I was damned if I was going to spend it sailing around in a circle, so I applied for the SEALs. I probably would have gone career except my ex said she wouldn’t marry me unless I got out. What she really wanted was to be married to a cop.”