A Killer Like Me (15 page)

The rest of the story was an anal exam of the police department’s crawfishing on the serial killer. Kirsten hadn’t pulled any punches. One of DeMarco’s more poorly thought-out comments even suggested the department had known there was a serial killer all along but had publicly denied it in order to get the upper hand on the killer, which is exactly what Murphy had told Kirsten the rank would say.

Murphy reread DeMarco’s idiotic comment.

“In order to maintain the integrity of our investigation,” DeMarco said, “we did not immediately disclose everything we knew about those particular cases to the public because we did not want the killer to know exactly how much information we had. We even compartmentalized some of that information within our own staff, to include the investigative component.”

The simplified translation: We kept crucial information about a series of related murders from our own detectives because we didn’t want the killer knowing we were on to him.

Below the fold, Kirsten had a second story, this one about yesterday afternoon’s murders uptown.

MOTHER, TWO CHILDREN MURDERED, SERIAL KILLER SUSPECTED
By Kirsten Sparks,
The Times-Picayune

A 36-year-old mother and her two children were found dead yesterday afternoon inside their home on Freret Street.

Police have not officially named the recently confirmed serial killer as a suspect, but sources close to the investigation have said they believe the same person who committed the brutal slayings on Freret Street is responsible for eight other recent homicides.

Although the names of the victims have not been . . .

The “LOG” tag carved into the woman’s backside and the sexual assault on the boy had not been released to the newspaper. Still, even without those details, the city was going to go berserk. Plus, there was a storm coming.

Bumped by the serial killer to the bottom right-hand corner of the front page was a story that on any other day would certainly have rated a more prominent position. Early computer models showed that Tropical Storm Catherine was headed toward the Gulf of Mexico. The storm had picked up both wind speed and lateral speed and was tracking west-northwest toward Puerto Rico at eighteen miles per hour. Maximum winds were in the neighborhood of sixty-five miles per hour and expected to strengthen.

The article quoted city officials who said they were monitoring the storm closely and reviewing the city’s as-yet-untested post-Katrina evacuation plan.

Murphy finished his coffee on the way to his car. He tossed the newspaper on the backseat and drove south on Canal Boulevard to City Park Avenue and hung a left. Within minutes he was parked at the rear of the police academy, near the back door that led to the Homicide Division. He loitered in the parking lot for a few minutes before going inside, trying to prepare himself for his meeting with Donovan. The key was to remain calm.
Don’t blow up, no matter what Donovan says.

Inside the captain’s office, Donovan and Assistant Chief DeMarco were waiting. Surprisingly, the atmosphere seemed almost cordial. The captain waved Murphy into one of the two chairs in front of his desk. DeMarco remained standing.

“I put you back on this case, Murphy, because I want results,” Donovan said. “And I want them fast.”

Murphy shifted in the chair. Most serial-killer investigations took months if not years to crack. It had taken the cops in Seattle two decades to catch the Green River Killer. “What resources do I have?”

“Just what you asked for, a task force,” Donovan said. “Six detectives, including you and Gaudet. Maybe a couple more if I can spare the manpower.”

Just six detectives, Murphy thought, to catch a serial killer who had already murdered at least eleven people, including two children. A couple of years ago, the Baton Rouge serial-killer task force had thirty full-time investigators. In the little town of Houma, Murphy had been part of a twelve-member task force.

Captain Donovan glanced at the assistant chief. DeMarco nodded. Then Donovan said, “I can also give you two lab techs and an analyst. We’ll contact the FBI about a profile.”

“You can keep the profile,” Murphy said. He had never known a working detective who had gotten any benefit from an FBI profile. He was convinced the bureau’s Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico sent out form letters as profiles. They were all the same: white male, twenty-five to forty, low self-esteem, with mommy issues.

“We have to involve the bureau on this,” Donovan said. “The press is all over us, and not just the locals. I’m talking about CNN, Fox News, the
New York Times
. We’re under a microscope.”

“Am I in command of the task force?”

Donovan glared at Murphy. “Yes.”

“Then I don’t want the FBI involved. You said you wanted quick results. It’ll take them two weeks just to get set up, and then they only work Monday through Friday. They have to get special permission to work weekends.”

Donovan’s face turned red, but he kept his voice under control. “I said it’s your task force, Murphy, but I didn’t say you were going to run it without supervision. This is still a homicide investigation.” Donovan pointed to the name plate on the front of his desk that also listed his title,
HOMICIDE COMMANDER
. “And it’s still my division.”

“Look, Captain, one thing I learned in the Houma investigation is that bringing in people and agencies just for the sake of bringing them in is counter—”

“I’ve heard enough about your heroics in Houma,” Donovan snapped. “I read the crappy book that retired sheriff’s detective wrote about the case. I didn’t see any brilliant police work, just dumb luck.”

Murphy knew he wasn’t going to win the battle over the FBI’s involvement. It was time to move on. He needed to find out how deep the department’s pockets were going to be on this case. Overworked, frustrated detectives needed incentive. Police work was, after all, a job. To push cops hard, to take them away from their families and their off-duty security details, he had to pay them. “What about overtime?”

Donovan nodded. “Whatever you need.”

“Within reason,” DeMarco added.

Murphy turned toward the assistant chief.

“There’s a storm in the Atlantic,” DeMarco said. “The mayor and the chief, as well as the Homeland Security people, are looking at a mandatory evacuation if the storm enters the gulf, which the forecasters are predicting could happen inside of a week. If it does, all bets are off. Almost every officer will be reassigned to storm duty, including members of your task force.”

Murphy thought back to his conversation with Gaudet at the murder scene, about the rumor that PIB still had a green light on him. “What about PIB?” he asked DeMarco.

“What about it?”

“What’s the status of their investigation?”

“Ongoing,” DeMarco said. “Why would you think otherwise?”

Murphy took a deep breath. He thought about letting the PIB thing go. He was getting what he wanted, almost. But he decided to press it. “You’re bringing me back to Homicide and giving me a task force because I was right about the serial killer. I thought maybe you would call off the investigation.”

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Detective,” the assistant chief said. “It’s not a question of who was right or wrong. You are accused of violating department policy. The Public Integrity Bureau is investigating that allegation. Once their investigation is complete, the PIB commander will make a recommendation to the superintendent. At that point, the superintendent will decide what to do. Nothing that happens from this point forward will influence PIB’s investigation or the superintendent’s final decision.”

Murphy’s temper flared. “Why bring me back then! Why not just leave me in the property room until PIB finishes its inquisition?”

Donovan banged his fist on the desk then jabbed his finger in Murphy’s face. “You want to know why you’re here, hotshot? I’ll tell you. You’re here because some sick fuck mentioned you in his letter to the newspaper. You’re here because if we don’t put you back on this case, the press will want to know why, and as of right now, we’re not prepared to answer that question.”

So there it was, right out in the open. The rank wasn’t bringing him back because of his training and experience in serial-killer investigations. They were bringing him back because his ex-girlfriend mentioned him in a newspaper story and some freak used his name in a letter.

Nothing had changed. His head was still on the chopping block.

Wednesday, August 1, 5:35
PM

“The question is, what are we going to do tomorrow?” Charles Redfield said.

The afternoon budget meeting had dragged halfway through its second hour. As executive editor, Redfield chaired the meeting. His irritation was plain as his eyes swept the faces of the other editors seated around the conference table. “Are we going to run the damn letter or not?” he demanded. “And if so, are we going to run the cipher with it?”

Kirsten sank deeper into her chair. As a reporter, she didn’t normally get invited to budget meetings. They were for editors only. There were two budget meetings a day, 10:00
AM
and 4:00
PM
, during which the editors haggled over what stories were going to run in the next day’s paper and how many inches of space each would get. In newspaper-speak, a budget wasn’t money. It was space.

Today’s meeting was different.

The serial-killer nutjob who called himself the Lamb of God had demanded that his letter be reprinted on the front page within two days. The killer’s deadline was tomorrow. That meant the decision had to be made tonight. For an hour and a half the newspaper’s brass hats had wrangled over that decision.

“What do you think he means by ‘a killing rampage’?” asked Milton Stanford, the managing editor, to no one in particular. “If we don’t run the letter, are we responsible for whatever this crazy bastard does next?”

Redfield peered over his half-moon reading glasses at Stanford. The executive editor didn’t like impolite language.

“Sorry, boss,” Stanford said. “But I really want to know. If this guy kills someone because we didn’t run his letter, are we going to have blood on our hands?”

Publisher Darlene Freeman sat at the opposite end of the conference table from Redfield. The newspaper’s lawyer sat next to her. Neither of them ever attended budget meetings.

Freeman, who had barely said a word the entire meeting, nodded to Redfield. “We’ve been going over this dreadful business for hours. Really, we must come to a decision. The company’s general counsel in D.C. wants an answer by six o’clock.”

Redfield pushed his reading glasses higher up his nose. “I’d like to wait at least another day before we run the letter,” he said. “This is unprecedented, and I don’t like being bullied, especially by a self-professed serial killer.”

Kirsten cleared her throat. She hadn’t said anything in nearly an hour. “I think we should run the letter and the cipher.” She looked at Redfield. “Not because we’re being bullied, but because it’s news. The police have confirmed the finger is from the victim under the overpass, so the letter is—”

“We can’t mention that,” interrupted city editor Gene Michaels. He had come up as a cop reporter and had expressed concern several times during the meeting about publishing information the police department wanted kept confidential.

“I’m not suggesting we mention the finger, Gene, but it confirms the letter is authentic,” Kirsten said. “It’s from the killer. There’s no downside to printing it. He’s already killed several people. He’s not going to stop just because we run his letter on the front page. Publishing the letter might help the police catch him.”

“How so?” Redfield asked.

All eyes were now on Kirsten. She took a deep breath. “Several killers have been caught after their egos pushed them to write letters to newspapers. Remember the Unabomber? His own brother recognized his writing and dropped a dime on him. One of our readers may recognize something in the letter or the code.”

A blanket of silence hung over the conference table as the circle of editors looked back and forth at each other. Eventually, Darlene Freeman broke it. “Thank you, Miss Sparks, for sharing your opinion with us.” She looked at her watch, then at Redfield. “It’s your decision.”

“For Christ’s sake, Darlene, you’re the publisher,” Redfield said, a rare edge in his voice. “You’re the one who’s been on the phone with Newsome. It’s their newspaper. What do they want us to do?”

Kirsten had a lot of respect for Redfield. He was a good newspaperman, a decent boss, but he was overly cautious. With more than thirty years in the newspaper business, twenty-eight with the
Times-Picayune
, he wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize his position or his pension.

From the corner of her eye, Kirsten saw Darlene Freeman glance at the lawyer. He was in his early forties and wore his hair in a ponytail. He also wore strangely cut suits, as if he were trying to stave off middle age by being extra hip. And he always wore too much cologne.

Throughout the meeting the attorney had not said a word to anyone other than Freeman, and his words to her had been whispered in her ear. Common sense told Kirsten the man must have gotten instructions from corporate headquarters in D.C., where Newsome Media, the company that owned the
Times-Picayune
, was based. But for some reason, he wasn’t sharing those instructions with the editors.

Kirsten saw a setup coming. The company hacks were forcing Redfield to make the decision. That way, if the newspaper came out looking bad, it was his fault. But if his decision turned out to be a good one, Newsome executives were standing by to take the credit. For now, though, it was all on Redfield, who just wanted to reach his thirtieth anniversary with the paper, get the gold watch, and punch out.

Redfield took off his glasses and laid them on the table. He looked around the room, making sure to meet each person’s eye. “We’re not going to run the letter or the cipher,” he said. “At least not tomorrow. I’m not letting an anonymous killer dictate what we publish.”