“Paying him isn’t the real issue,” said Mike. “The question is, do we have an opportunity here to help stop a serial killer who’s already struck once in our own city and is now up to victim number six nationwide.”
47
THE INFORMANT
“Well, excuse me, Michael.” Gelber cocked his head—and there went the hand to the cheek. “But catching the bad guys is Eliot Ness’s job.”
Fields dragged his feet off the desk and onto the floor.
“Tell me this, Mike: Do you think he’s the killer or don’t you?”
“Could be. Or he could be working in tandem with the killer. Or maybe he really is simply the evil—maybe even clairvoyant—genius he claims to be. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure which of those would be worse. All I know right now is that he wants his money, and if he doesn’t get it, I’m sure I’m going to get another call about another dead body.”
Fields ran a hand through his hair, troubled. “You don’t really believe that paying him is going to stop a murder, do you? Either way—whether he’s the killer or just an informant—his financial incentive is to keep these serial murders running longer than
A Chorus Line
. And let’s face it: The only way he can validate his predictions is to let the murders happen. We may be the first to get the scoop after victim number seven goes down, but I don’t think we’re ever going to get these
predictions
, as he calls them, in time to stop number seven, number eight or number twenty-nine.”
“You may be right,” said Mike. “But I’ve been following this story from the beginning, and my law enforcement sources tell me they’re not even close to naming a suspect.
Creating a dialogue with this guy could be the only way to yield a clue that might finally stop the killing. It’s like when the
Times
and
Post
published the Unabomber’s manifesto to help stop the bombings. It worked in that case. There’s no guarantee
48
James Grippando
that we’ll save lives, but we have a responsibility to try, at least. We can’t just throw up our hands and say we don’t pay informants, then pretend like nobody ever called me.”
“Fine.” Gelber was up and pacing on a Persian rug, waving his arm with emotion. “Let’s say we
do
pay him.
What if it turns out he really
is
the killer? How do you think our readers will react when they find out we’ve been giving a serial killer a financial incentive to keep on killing?”
“I thought of that. And that’s why we shouldn’t go out on this limb alone. I think we should work with the FBI on this.”
Gelber stopped short. “
What?
We’re independent journalists, not assistant deputies for federal agents. Are you
nuts
?”
“That’s enough, Charlie,” said Fields. His eyes narrowed and he spoke in a calm, even voice. “Mike, are you nuts?”
“I know there’s an ethical dilemma here, and maybe Charlie has a point. Maybe a journalist should
never
tell the FBI about an informant—even one who might help solve serial killings, or who might himself be the serial killer. But this particular informant isn’t just offering information about crimes that someone else has already committed. He’s demanding money for his predictions about
future
victims—and
he
may very well be the killer.
That’s almost extortion. It’s a unique situation where there simply aren’t any rules.”
“There’s one hard-and-fast rule,” said Gelber. “Journalists are independent.”
“Look,” said Mike, “all the sanctimonious bullshit 49
THE INFORMANT
in the world doesn’t mean we
never
cooperate with law enforcement. Remember back in July ’83? I was just two months on the job when terrorists kidnapped the wife of that former Salvadoran ambassador here in Miami. I uncovered it right after it happened, but the FBI asked us—asked
you
, Aaron—to keep the story from the public because the kidnappers threatened to kill the ambassador’s wife if he called in the cops. So we didn’t run the story, and neither did anyone else in the Miami media. When they caught the guys a week later the FBI even issued a public statement crediting the Miami media for our cooperation.”
“What’s your point?” snapped Gelber.
“Simple. Sometimes public safety has to take precedence over journalistic independence and the public’s right to know.”
“So what are you proposing in this case?” asked Fields.
“I want specifics.”
“A compromise—one that lets us retain a level of independence and that still gives the police the information they need to catch the killer. We pay the informant for his predictions, but the FBI secretly supplies the money.
They pay informants all the time, so they should go for it, and this way the
Tribune
technically wouldn’t be violating its own policy against checkbook journalism. But there’ll be no telephone taps or other intrusion by law enforcement into my conversations with the informant.
The FBI will get only those clues that I decide to pass along to them.”
“It’s pretty risky,” said Fields. “What’s in it for us?”
“We help catch a serial killer,” said Mike. “But if you’re looking for some kind of quid pro quo, I suppose 50
James Grippando
we could ask for some kind of exclusive if the FBI makes an arrest.”
Gelber grimaced. “This would be a huge mistake. I wouldn’t be worried if we knew Mike’s source was the killer. No one would fault us for going to the FBI in that situation. But here we don’t know; in fact, he’s telling us he’s
not
the killer. If we start running to the FBI every time we
think
that
maybe
one of our informants has committed a crime, our phones will stop ringing.”
Fields leaned back and stared at the ceiling, thinking.
“Tough call,” he said, sighing. “What you’re proposing, Mike, probably can’t be defended if it turns out your informant really is just an anonymous source out to make a buck, no matter how mercenary or reprehensible we think that is. Are you willing to go out on a limb over this?”
Mike’s eyes became lasers. “I know this much. I’m not willing to sacrifice another victim if there’s a chance we can help catch this psycho. Are you?”
The room went silent. Fields drew a deep breath and glanced at Gelber. But there was no more argument. “I’ll arrange the meeting,” he said.
51
n
ightfall made mirrors out of the windows overlooking Biscayne Bay, and without the vista the newsroom had the stark and gaping ambience of a high school gymnasium. Beige walls were the perfect complement to the industrial carpet and fluorescent lighting high overhead. A twisted network of dividers compartmentalized the room into open workstations for nearly a hundred fifty reporters and staff writers, each with their own video display terminal, gray metal desk, and modern telephone that emitted a muffled chirp instead of the good old-fashioned ring. It was relatively quiet now, but in peak business hours the incessant buzz of a hundred different conversations swirled above them. Mike’s pod was somewhere in the middle, like the wedge of cheese in a sprawling rat maze.
He leaned back in his chair, his face lighted only by the glow of his computer terminal in the screen-saver mode. He smirked at the familiar preprogrammed message that flashed across the screen in big green letters 52
James Grippando
from left to right, an old Vince Lombardi quote that Aaron Fields had drilled into his brain from day one. “Be fired with enthusiasm. Or you will be fired—with enthusiasm.”
For thirteen years that creed had kept him working late, night after night. How many times had he called Karen to cancel plans at the last minute? How many times had he simply forgotten to call, or even apologize?
He glanced at her photo on his desk—a honeymoon shot taken six years ago, back when he thought divorce was for the other fifty percent. Karen, wearing shorts and a cable-knit sweater, was perched atop a pile of huge gray boulders along the coast of Maine, the surf crashing in the background. There, he’d truly fallen for her: He slipped after snapping the photo and tumbled into a crevice. She climbed down to him, recklessly, as if the most important thing in the world was to reach him.
He was okay, so they sat there on the jagged coastline and watched the sun set, just talking. They were great talkers back then, took pleasure in exchanging small secrets.
Karen had a theory about that—one that made perfect sense to a newspaper reporter who dealt with anonymous sources. “Only two kinds of people can talk without inhibitions,” she said. “Strangers or lovers. Everyone in between is just negotiating.”
“So,” he said, “unless there’s love—”
“In some ways, you’re actually better off being strangers.”
After six years of marriage, he had to wonder when 53
THE INFORMANT
it was that they’d been reduced to “negotiating”—and whether they’d finally reached the point where they were better off strangers.
His phone rang and he snatched it up, thinking maybe it was Karen. To his disappointment, it was Aaron Fields.
“I knew I’d catch you at work,” the publisher said with approval. “Listen, I just wanted to let you know I’m making a slight change in your proposal to the FBI.”
“What kind of change?”
“I agree that we can’t have the FBI eavesdropping on your phone conversations. The idea of a bug in a newsroom makes me very nervous. But instead of you just passing the informant’s tip along to the FBI, we’re proposing that the FBI get its information just like everybody else—by reading your stories in the
Tribune
. We retain exclusive control over what we print and don’t print.”
“What do you mean
‘print’
? Who says this guy is telling the truth?”
“He’s proven himself reliable with Gerty Kincaid.”
“Come on,” Mike scoffed. “You always insisted we verify—”
“Things change,” Fields interrupted. “I’m not telling you to abandon your standards. Throw in all the qualifiers you want—‘unconfirmed reports…it’s alleged’…all that.
But the paper needs the sales bump this story will give us.”
Mike was speechless.
“Charlie’s in agreement with me on this,” said Fields.
“Printing a story after each call from your informant is 54
James Grippando
more in line with our role as independent journalists than passing tips directly to the FBI anyway.”
“I’m still not comfortable—”
“Mike, your instincts were right: We have to help stop this killer. But if we pay money for the tips and don’t write the stories, your informant will know we’re working with the police. Trust me, okay? This is the only way it’ll work. Now, get back to work, you slacker,” he joked, then hung up.
Mike breathed a heavy sigh, not sure what to think. He switched off his desk lamp.
Somehow, he didn’t feel much like working late anymore.
A slushy rain had been falling all day. By 9:00 P.M. temperatures were in the teens and downtown Atlanta was encased in ice. Most businesses had closed early that afternoon so that people could get home safely before dark.
Those who hadn’t left fast enough were now parked on the interstate, cursing the winter storm and a five-car pileup that had traffic blocked for miles.
A blast of cold wind nearly knocked Cybil Holland to the frozen sidewalk as she emerged from the Ritz-Carlton on Peachtree Street. No vacancy. It was the same at all of the downtown hotels. At this point everyone, Cybil included, had given up any hope of getting home tonight.
She cinched up her Burberry trench coat, turned up the lapels and headed directly into the chilly north wind toward the subway station at Peachtree Plaza. The Ritz had promised her a room at their Buckhead
55
THE INFORMANT
Hotel in midtown, but it was up to her to figure out how to get there. MARTA was her only hope.
She walked with her head down, bucking the wind and intermittent icy flakes that bit her on the cheeks and forehead. It was too dark and windy to tell for sure, but the precipitation seemed to be falling heavier in the streetlamps’ fuzzy light. Across the street, the store windows at Macy’s had glazed over with a thick layer of ice.
The Ritz was only a block behind her and already she felt like she’d trudged a mile, freezing and suddenly nervous—increasingly aware that she was alone on the streets.
Without gloves her hands were stinging. She blew on them and her breath steamed, fogging a big heart-shaped diamond in a platinum setting with emerald baguettes.
Out of street smarts she turned her ring inward to conceal the stones. She walked as fast as she could, planting her high-heeled shoes carefully on the ice-slicked sidewalk.
The incline was slight, but the ice and gusty wind made it like climbing a ski jump. Her feet slipped as she reached the corner. To break the fall she threw her hand out in front of her when, out of nowhere, someone hit her broadside and knocked her to the sidewalk.
She was facedown, sliding then bouncing down concrete steps, bearing the weight of whoever had slammed into her. They landed with a thud at the base of the steps in the pitch-dark bowels of a restaurant delivery pit, somewhere below street level. A gloved hand muted her scream as she stared up in fright at the man in a ski mask.
Kneeling beside her, he grabbed her by the hair, 56
James Grippando
snapped her head forward and back, slamming it against the concrete. He watched the eyes roll up into her head, then rifled through her purse. A nice wad of bills—a couple hundreds and some crisp fifties.
“Rich bitch,” he mumbled.
He pitched the empty purse aside and took her hand, which she’d clenched into a fist. He pried her pudgy fingers open to reveal the heart-shaped diamond cupped in her hand, like an oyster housing its pearl. He tugged at the ring, but it wouldn’t budge. Another tug, but it was stuck on her knuckle.
“Come
on,
fatso.”
He twisted it, even spit on her finger to help it slide off.
No dice.
Quickly, he unzipped his leather jacket and pulled a diving knife from its sheath, exposing an eight-inch blade with a serrated edge. Then, just for an instant, he pressed the flat side of the shiny steel blade against her lips. It steamed. She was breathing, still alive. His eyes lit, as if he preferred it that way.