A Killer Like Me (30 page)

Relax, he told himself.

As he got closer, Murphy saw that the tech was using a pair of tweezers to pick at a pile of cigarette butts, then dropping them one by one into a brown evidence envelope.

Murphy’s heart started fluttering.

Those are my cigarette butts.

He flashed back to last night, to the hours he had spent sitting in his car watching Marcy Edwards’s house, smoking cigarette after cigarette. Half smoking them really, then tossing them out the window. Into a nice neat little pile.

“You must really be jonesing for a smoke,” Murphy told the crime-scene tech, “if you’ve got to pick butts up off the ground.”

The tech looked up. He was a young black guy, thin like a cross-country runner, wearing a dark blue crime-scene jumpsuit. “I was walking the outer perimeter,” the tech said, “and I ran across this pile of butts. Could be the killer sat here watching the house while he worked up his nerve.”

“That’s good work.”

Those cigarette butts have my DNA on them.

Murphy glanced over his shoulder at the house, then back at the tech. “They’re kind of far from the scene. You sure you want to waste your time processing those?”

The tech dropped the last cigarette into the envelope. He stood up. “I don’t mind. If it turns out to be nothing, it still gives us another profile. If the guy didn’t do this, maybe he did something else, or maybe he’ll do something in the future and we’ll already have his profile in the database.”

The database.

The state DNA database was really two systems: the offender database and the forensic database. DNA samples taken from state prisoners went into the offender database. DNA evidence recovered from crime scenes went into the forensic database, the entire contents of which were regularly run against the DNA profiles in the offender database. That technology routinely produced cold-case hits on crimes that were years, even decades, old.

Murphy realized that after today his unidentified DNA profile would be in the forensic database, just waiting for a chance match with the profile of Sean Patrick Murphy. He knew he wasn’t in the offender database, but just the thought of his profile—a profile linking him to a murder—residing forever in a state computer system made him break out in a cold sweat. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead.

“You all right?” the crime-scene tech asked.

Murphy shook his head to clear it. “Yeah, I’m fine. Actually, I just came over to bum a cigarette.”

“I don’t smoke,” the tech said.

“Good for you,” Murphy said as he turned around and walked away.

Trudging back toward the house, he imagined a few nightmare scenarios that could lead to his DNA being matched to the DNA in those cigarette butts.

Although most of the profiles in the offender database came from convicted felons, some of them came from people who were only suspects or mere persons of interest. Some of that DNA was obtained by court order, the rest by consent. And all of it got dumped into what the state had dubbed the offender database.

Sometimes policemen landed in it.

A hundred and fifty miles west of New Orleans, a serial killer had murdered eight women in and around the small town of Jennings. Local suspicions that the killer was a law-enforcement officer were so strong that the sheriff ordered every deputy and policeman in the parish to submit a DNA sample so he could quash the rumors hanging over the case.

An even more likely scenario was that some bumbling detective or crime-scene tech would spit on the floor or cut his finger and compromise the integrity of the Marcy Edwards crime scene. Then the rank would order everyone who had worked the scene to submit a DNA sample for elimination.

And it wasn’t just this scene he had to worry about, Murphy realized. It could be any crime scene he worked from now until the end of his career.

Son of a bitch.

Kirsten sat at her desk and stared at the TV mounted on the wall above the newsroom. The five o’clock news was on.

Channel 6 meteorologist Maggie Gallegos was standing in front of a map of the Gulf of Mexico. The sound was off, but Kirsten could tell by the look on the face of the tall, aging redhead that she was nervous. Gallegos was famous for her on-air meltdown the year before Katrina, when, as Hurricane Ivan bore down on New Orleans, she shouted into the camera, “It’s too late to get out. We’re all doomed!” The storm turned at the last minute and wrecked Alabama.

The television map showed the eye of Hurricane Catherine, a cat-four monster, already well into the gulf and driving hard toward New Orleans.

“I thought the storm was still near Miami,” Kirsten said to the reporter in the next cubicle.

“Huh?” came the man’s reply.

Kirsten could only see the top of his head. “The hurricane,” she said. “I thought it was heading to Miami.”

“It barely touched Miami,” the reporter said. “Since then it’s picked up a lot of speed. The computer models are projecting a path straight for us.”

The phone on Kirsten’s desk rang. She picked it up. “Sparks.”

“What did you find in the morgue?” Gene Michaels said.

“Bodies.”

The city editor laughed. “I guess I asked for that.”

“Father Ramon Gonzalez,” Kirsten said.

“The priest who got killed in the French Quarter?”

“Whoever wrote the letter either killed him or is trying to take credit for it.”

“But the police caught the guy who did that,” Michaels said. “It was some gutter punk.”

“The case never went to trial. The kid hanged himself.”

“Anything else?”

“A gay street hustler got stabbed to death next to Saint Louis Cathedral six weeks before Father Gonzalez.”

“Jesus.”

“I doubt it,” Kirsten said. “He’s got an alibi.”

Gene Michaels let out another short laugh. “Seriously though, you think this guy has something against the Catholic Church?”

“I don’t know,” Kirsten said.

“We can’t say he’s claiming to have killed either one, since the letter is so vague.”

“But we can say that while we were researching the letter we found two cases that seem to match the murders the killer described.”

“Okay, write up a sidebar to go with the letter story,” Michaels said. “Space is tight, so no more than ten inches.”

“What about reaction from the bishop, former parishioners, maybe the homeless kid’s family?”

“We’ll work on that for Tuesday. The budget for tomorrow’s front page is absolutely full. We’ve got the story about the letter, your piece on the kidnapping, your French Quarter sidebar, and, of course, the storm.”

“Who’s writing the letter story?”

“Milton.”

Kirsten was surprised. It was unusual for the managing editor to write anything other than an editorial. She was also disappointed. A story about the newspaper receiving a letter from the serial murderer who kidnapped the mayor’s daughter was going to be
the
top story. “As lead reporter on the serial killer, I should be writing that story, Gene.”

“Remember what I told you about the big chiefs and the little chiefs?” Michaels said. “Well, he’s a big chief. By the way, I need your stories by eight o’clock.”

Kirsten glanced at the clock on her computer screen. It was 5:10. Deadline wasn’t until 9:00. “Why so early?”

“They extended the production deadline and authorized overtime for everyone in the printing plant, but they cut the copy deadline.”

“Why?”

“Tomorrow’s cover package is huge and the design people need extra time putting it together.”

She realized she would not have had time to write the story about the killer’s letter anyway. Still, it bothered her that she wasn’t being allowed to write it. Focus, she told herself. Focus. She had a short deadline. “What did you get from the security camera?”

“Nothing but a man in a big floppy hat dropping off an envelope.”

“Can you see his face at all?”

“He kept his hat in the way.”

“Can you tell his race?” Kirsten asked. “His age? What about his clothes?”

“Slow down,” Michaels said. “I’ll e-mail you the clip, but keep it to yourself. The legal department is all over this story, and they don’t want to see the video on YouTube.”

“Is Milton going to mention the video in his story?”

“Definitely not,” Michaels said. “All he’s going to say is that the letter was dropped off at our office this morning, but we don’t know by whom.”

The new-mail indicator at the bottom of Kirsten’s screen appeared. “Your e-mail just came in,” she said.

“Eight o’clock,” Michaels said.

“Yes, boss,” Kirsten said, then hung up.

She opened her e-mail program and clicked on the video file.

The black-and-white image showed an exterior view of the front door of the building. A time stamp at the bottom of the screen read 10:35
AM
.

A man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a straw hat appeared on the screen. The brim was pulled low to conceal his face. His right hand held an envelope. Beside the double glass door was a mail slot. It was a holdover from the days before faxes and e-mail, when people used to drop off letters to the editor and anonymous tips at all hours of the night.

The man slipped the envelope into the slot as if he were returning a DVD to Blockbuster; then he turned around and walked away. He kept his head angled so the brim of his hat was between the security camera and his face.

He was on screen for less than five seconds.

Kirsten replayed the video at a slower speed. She followed the movement of the letter, from when it first appeared on screen to when it disappeared down the mail slot. She noticed the white skin of the man’s forearms and the gloves on his hands.

She closed the video player. She had less than three hours to finish two stories. Her hands reached for her keyboard.

Sunday, August 5, 5:51
PM

The killer sits cross-legged on his bed watching television, flipping back and forth between the cable news networks and the local stations. His second video is on every channel. He is the topic du jour. In the heavily edited version of the video played on television, the young woman’s terrified face is clearly visible.

The press coverage is even better than he had hoped. Tomorrow the newspaper will certainly carry his letter.

Twice during the last few hours, the local TV stations have replayed this morning’s police press conference. The killer watched it both times with fascination. He is growing fond of Detective Murphy. The investigator appears to be a driven man, one who does not easily suffer the fools in the press. Unlike the mayor, though, Murphy is not insulting in his comments, just determined. The killer knows Murphy’s determination will ultimately be for naught, for God himself has so ordained it, yet he admires the detective’s doggedness.

Perhaps I have underestimated him. Perhaps he is my Javert.

As the killer watches a pair of talking heads on WDSU, the local NBC affiliate, debate what to do about the mayor’s missing daughter, a breaking-news banner flashes at the bottom of the screen, followed by a news scroll that reads
POLICE AT SCENE OF NEW SERIAL-KILLER ATTACK
. . .

What?

The killer stares at the screen as the same message crawls across again. This time it is followed by the additional teaser,
DETAILS AT THE TOP OF THE HOUR
.

The killer glances at the cable box above the television. Eight minutes until he can find out what WDSU is talking about. He switches to WWL, the CBS affiliate and the city’s perennial news ratings winner. The station is in the midst of airing a commercial for a car dealership. The killer suffers through the car ad, then has to watch a promotion for the network’s Sunday-night lineup, led by
60 Minutes
.

Finally, the weekend anchor comes on. She is a light-skinned black woman with a foot of hair shellacked to the top of her head. The graphic below reads,
NEWS ALERT
.

She gazes into the camera, solemn faced.

“WWL has just learned that New Orleans police are on the scene of what appears to be yet another serial killer attack. This one on Wingate Drive, just blocks from the University of New Orleans. NOPD has not released the name of the victim, but we have reporters enroute to the scene of this deadly attack. WWL will interrupt our regular programming to bring you live reports as the situation unfolds.”

The killer continues to stare dumbfounded at the television, even after the station returns to the network news talk show it had been airing.

Wingate Drive?

He springs from the bed and pulls a spiral notebook from beneath his mattress. The notebook contains his research. He flips through several pages, then stops. He has a page of notes about a woman on Wingate Drive named Marcy Edwards, a thirty-five-year-old harlot who cheated on her husband. Has someone beaten him to her? Is someone copying him?

At 6:00
PM
, the killer flips his television back to WDSU. The anchor, Randolph Neville, an aging black man with the bloodshot eyes of a boozer, leads with a brief description of the murder on Wingate. Then he cuts to a live shot at the scene. Greg Haynes, the station’s balding weekend crime reporter is there.

“Randolph, I’m standing on Wingate Drive, just a few blocks from the UNO campus,” Haynes says. “This was the scene of last night’s grisly murder and quite possibly the latest case connected to the suspected serial killer who calls himself the Lamb of God.” The reporter points over his shoulder. “This house behind me is where police discovered the body of a dead woman about nine o’clock this morning, and as you can see, several hours later, the house is still swarming with detectives, including members of the department’s serial-killer task force.”

The killer leans back against the headboard.

The screen splits and shows the anchor on the left, the reporter on the right. The anchorman, who only recently finished serving a thirty-day suspension following a DWI arrest, says, “Greg, what have the police said about this latest murder?”