by R. G. Belsky
Or there’s another one that goes:
Q: “How many editors does it take to screw in a light bulb?”
A: “Just one, but first he has to rewire the building.”
I don’t really have an editor these days for my job in TV news, but I do have a boss. Jack Faron. I put him closer to Ben Bradlee—well, a bit closer—than to the majority of other editors journalists have to deal with out there. But I knew I was still going to have a rough time convincing him that all of the material I’d accumulated since Marty’s death was a story for us to put on the air.
“A serial killer?” he said now, as I sat in his office going through everything I’d found out over the past few days.
“A potential serial killer.”
“Who might have been killing people for decades without anyone ever figuring out the connection between any of the murders. Except you don’t have any actual evidence for this.”
“Not at the moment, no.”
“This is all based on some rambling notes you found from this crazy old guy?”
“Marty wasn’t crazy.”
“You said he had dementia.”
“Possible dementia.”
“Whatever … there’s still nothing here about serial killers or decades-old murders that we can put on air.”
“I know that. I just wanted you to know about it all.”
“Then that means now you can go back to being news director again, right?” Faron said.
“Well, there is a story I got from Marty’s stuff that I do think we can do. The one I started talking about that first day I went on the air when you were out of town and got so mad at me.”
“Jeez, Clare, you’re not going to start up with that again …”
“Jack, hear me out on this.” I told him more about the buildings I had visited. The ones from Marty’s list that seemed to be run by underworld and corrupt owners. About tenants being forced out of their apartments to make room for sex industry spots, gambling operations, mob-run pizza places, and other businesses that were much more profitable. About the connection to a shady shadow company that seemed to exist only as a front for mob boss Victor Morelli. I’d thought about this a lot since coming back from Indiana. No, I didn’t have a story about any serial killer. Certainly nothing I could put on the air. But I still believed there was a story I could put on the air about corrupt building owners. Including Victor Morelli.
“I go back to these places now with a camera crew,” I told Faron. “I get people talking on air about what’s been happening there. I look deeper into the ownership issues and the mob connections to these buildings. Then we demand to know from city officials what they’re going to do about it. Especially Terri Hartwell, the DA who wants to be mayor by being a champion in the fight against city corruption. This is real journalism. Something we don’t do enough of these days. It’s a good story, Jack.”
“And you’d do the story yourself on air?”
“Yes.”
“At the same time you’re working as my news director?”
“That’s right.”
“But at least you’re not working any more on this crazy serial killer thing, right?”
“I still do want to make a few checks on that …”
Faron groaned.
“What about being news director?”
“I’ll do my job as news director, too.”
“How can you possibly do all those things at once, Clare?”
“I don’t sleep, eat, or have sex anymore, Jack. Trust me. I can handle it all.”
In the end, he agreed. I’d assign video teams and other reporters to go back to all the buildings to gather enough material for the segment, but I would be the one to report it on air. Before I left the office, Faron asked me again about the serial killer stuff.
“On the remote possibility that there might be some truth to what the old guy was saying—an until-now unknown connection between a series of murders over the years in a lot of different places—how could you go about confirming something like that? Do you know any law enforcement investigative sources that could help you?”
“I do know one person. At least, he could probably point me in the right direction. But there’s a problem with me reaching out to this guy.”
“Who is it?”
“Scott Manning.”
“Isn’t he the NYPD homicide cop you worked with last year on that Dora Gayle/Grace Mancuso murder business?”
“That’s right. Only he’s not with the NYPD anymore. He left the force a few months later to join the FBI. He’s with the FBI Behavioral Sciences Unit, the one that tracks and chases after serial killers. He’s a good investigator, too. He’d be perfect for me to go to with all this serial killer stuff.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“I slept with him.”
“And?”
“I’m not sleeping with him anymore.”
“What exactly is your relationship with this guy right now?”
“Not sure, but I guess I’m about to find out.”
CHAPTER 21
THE LAST TWO times I’d seen Scott Manning had gone very differently.
The first time, I’d slept with him. We had just finished working together on a case in which a man was shot to death a few feet away from us. It had been a very traumatic experience for me, and I asked Manning afterward to come over to my apartment to comfort me. He did that, and a whole lot more. We’d shared at the time what I thought was a pretty tender, meaningful—and damn exciting—sexual experience.
The second time, it got very ugly between us. I met him in a coffee shop a few days later. He told me he was going back to his wife and wanted to try to make their marriage work. I did not take this news well, and we hadn’t spoken since.
I sure liked that time in my apartment a lot more.
Manning was a homicide detective back then, but he’d been put on limited administrative duty because of an investigation into the death of a suspect who’d been in police custody at his precinct. Manning first lied to protect his partner, but then he told the truth and was eventually reinstated. For whatever reason, he’d left the police force shortly afterward and joined the FBI. I wasn’t sure why, maybe to get a new start. All I knew was that he’d been assigned to the FBI Behavioral Sciences Unit, which tracked serial killers.
I wasn’t sure how he’d react to hearing from me again, so I decided to play it totally professional. Simply a journalist reaching out to a law enforcement official for help on a story. That’s all it would be, nothing more than that.
“Hi, it’s Clare,” I said when I got him on the line.
There was no response.
“Clare Carlson.”
Still nothing.
“Channel 10 News.”
“What do you want, Clare?”
At least he was speaking to me; that was progress.
“So, you do remember me?”
“I remember you.”
“What do you remember?”
“You’re a journalist I worked with on a murder case last year.”
“Well, that’s true. It’s also true we had mind-blowing sex together back then. It’s true that you told me a lot of sweet things that night. And it’s also true that you went back to your wife afterward.”
I’d decided the professional approach wasn’t working.
“What do you want?” Manning asked again.
“I need your help on a story. A murder story. People’s lives could be at stake.”
“Why talk to me? Talk to someone on the NYPD.”
“Because you’re good.”
“There are a lot of good investigators at the NYPD.”
“No, I mean you’re good. You’re a good man. I believe that I can trust you, no matter what happened between us. I need your help on this. Will you help me?”
There was another long silence. At first, I thought he might have hung up.
“Tell me about it,” he finally said.
; “Has to be in person.”
“Okay, do you remember the bar where we met that first night on the Upper East Side?”
“Indelibly.”
“Meet me there tonight at seven.”
When I got there, I saw Manning sitting at a table. He didn’t look much different than the last time I’d seen him a year ago. Not that he should have changed much, I suppose. Although he could have grown a beard or a mustache or shaved his head during those months. But he was still clean-shaven, with curly brown hair like I remembered. He looked good. Damn good. Like I remembered him, too.
He shook my hand when I got to the table. No hug. Not even a peck on the cheek. Just a professional greeting. I got the message. I decided to plunge right into the reason I was there.
He already had a drink in front of him. I ordered something for myself, too.
“I have reason to believe there might a connection between some—if not all—of a series of murders,” I told him. “They’re from different parts of the country and over a long period of time. I’m hoping you can use FBI resources to see if there is any actual evidence to support this scenario.”
I handed him the printout of the murder victims I’d gotten from Marty’s secret computer file. He read through it. Casually at first, then with more intensity.
“Thirty years?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Why do you think the murders might be connected?”
“I’m not sure.”
“But you still think they might be.”
“The person I got this list from suspected there’s been a serial killer at work all this time, who’s responsible for these killings.”
“Why isn’t that person here with you?”
“He’s dead.”
“By the same killer of all these women?”
“Not sure, but probably not.”
“But you believed him—you think he was telling you the truth?”
“He never lied to me before.”
“And you want me to run these cases through the FBI computers and files and field offices and anything else I can think of to see if I can find any evidence which indicates a single killer could be responsible?”
“That’s my idea.”
This was the part where I half expected him to stand up and walk away. But he didn’t do that. He kept looking at the piece of paper with the list of victims that I’d put in front of him.
“From the notes you put on here, it looks like some of the murders have already been solved. People are in jail for committing them. How does that square with your idea of a single serial killer?”
“I’m not sure if all of them are connected. They might have been guesses by the person I got this list from. Which doesn’t change the fact that I still need to determine if there’s a possible connection between the others. Some of them could be by a serial killer, but not all of them.”
“Or maybe they put the wrong people in jail for the convictions here while the real killer went free?”
“That’s possible, too.”
He finished his drink. I’d barely started mine. I hoped he’d have another one so we could spend more time together. But, instead, he stood up. He was still holding the piece of paper with the names on it in his hand.
“Can I keep this?” he asked.
I nodded. I tried to think of something to say so that our conversation could go on a little longer.
“How’s everything with your wife?” I asked.
Hey, he could have divorced his wife by now. I figured it was at least worth asking the question.
“We’re fine,” he said.
“That means you’re still together?”
“I’ll see what I can do with this,” he said, gesturing to the list of murder victims I’d given him. “Probably nothing. But I will check it out and let you know if I find out anything interesting. I’ll do that for you, Clare. But only on one condition.”
“What’s the condition?”
“This is totally business between us—all professional, absolutely nothing else will be involved.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
CHAPTER 22
“I REMEMBER MY father,” Lucy said to me.
“Remember him how?”
“In a good way. I used to look forward to him coming home. I’d run to him and hug him as hard as I could. Those were good times. In the beginning, my mother was a part of those happy moments, too. At least in my memory she was. But then there was the bad stuff that started happening between her and me. Afterward, my mother and father would have these terrible arguments. Arguments about me. I used to hide in my bedroom and play my video games with the sound turned up as high as possible. Trying to escape into my own little fantasy world, I guess, so I didn’t have to listen to them. It worked most of the time. For a while anyway. But then my mother would come into my room, and it would start all over again.”
This was becoming increasingly painful for me to do. Sit here and listen to my daughter talk about the nightmare she’d endured as a child in that house. A nightmare I’d unwittingly helped create by abandoning her as a baby.
“Can you tell me what you remember about your mother?”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t remember anything at all?”
“I remember too much.”
“But …”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Anne Devlin, her mother, had done terrible things to her. I knew that, and I was pretty sure Lucy did, too. Eventually the physical and emotional abuse—most of it coming because of her insane jealousy of her beautiful daughter—resulted in a “kidnapping” by a vigilante group that found her a new home. Lucy Devlin disappeared forever, presumably dead—and eventually became Linda Nesbitt, the woman I was with now.
Of course, I was really Lucy’s mother, not Anne Devlin. Her biological mother. But she didn’t know that. And I wasn’t sure at this point if she ever would. The only parents she ever knew back then were Anne and Patrick Devlin.
For maybe the zillionth time I wondered why I was doing this. Why I was putting myself—and my daughter—through such an ordeal. There was a part of me that wanted to jump up out of my seat, run out of this house, and never come back. But I didn’t. I sat there and listened to her talk.
“Do you know what happened to my father?” she asked.
I hesitated before answering. I wasn’t sure how much I should tell her about Patrick Devlin and his new life. Or what part he might have played—I still wasn’t sure whether he did or not—in the abduction that got her out of that house and found her a new identity. But she deserved to know the truth. At least some of it.
“I saw him a while ago,” I said. “He lives in Boston now. He relocated there and started all over again with his life after you … well, disappeared.”
“Did you ask him about me?”
“Yes, that’s why I went there to see him.”
“Does he still miss me?”
I thought about that answer, too. About his new wife and his new children and the new company he had started there. He had moved on from the nightmares he left behind in New York. He’d managed to shut himself off from all that now. Just as he shut himself off from the child he once had named Lucy. She was dead to him now, just as she was dead to the rest of the world.
“Yes, he asked me about you,” I lied.
“But he has no idea that I’m still alive?”
“No.”
“No one else does, either?”
“Only me.”
“And Elliott Grayson, the man who took me away from my mother.”
“That’s right.”
“I still don’t understand why you’re doing all this. You say you’re not going to do a story about me. That’s what you promised.”
“I won’t, Linda. Not without your permission. You don’t want people to know yet, do you? Or find out about your past life as Lucy Devlin, the most famous missing child in the countr
y? That’s what you told me. And that’s what we agreed to when we began talking about all this.”
“Then why are you spending so much time here with me?”
Because you’re my daughter, dammit! Because I desperately want to spend this time with you. Because I want to make up for all the lost time when I never was with you. Because I want to be your mother again, even if I never really was your mother. But I want to try, Lucy. I so much want to try and be the mother that you never had.
Yep, those are the words I wanted to say to her.
It was the perfect moment—the opening I’d been looking for—to tell my daughter the truth about us.
Except …
There was a picture of her family on a mantel in the living room where we were sitting. Her husband, Gregory Nesbitt, was a good-looking guy—probably in his early thirties. They were at a backyard barbecue in the picture, and he was wearing a chef’s hat and a cooking apron. Their little girl, an eight-year-old named Audrey—who, of course, would be my granddaughter—was looking up at him with what seemed to be total adoration for her dad. Linda Nesbitt aka Lucy Devlin stood by his side with a big smile on her face. It was a nice picture. They had the feel of the perfect All-American family. But then so had Anne and Patrick Devlin when she was a little girl Audrey’s age growing up in New York. You never know about people. Not until it’s too late. But, from what I could tell, Linda Nesbitt had found happiness after all the terrible things that happened to her.
Was I going to somehow mess that up by being back in her life?
“I’m just doing my job as a journalist,” is what I told her.
On the way back to New York, I tried to take stock of my current situation with the young woman I now knew to be my long-lost daughter, Lucy.
There were a couple of options I could have pursued after finally tracking her down: 1) walked away and let her live her own life happily without me or 2) tell her everything—who I was, what I’d done, and try to explain why I had waited so long to reveal I was her biological mother, the woman who had set all this in motion a long time ago by giving her up for adoption as a newborn baby.