by Paul Sating
At the bottom of the slope, Janis had already lost direct sight of the man who could close a million loops. By the time she rounded the edge of the hill, he was crossing the Riverwalk. The move gave her pause. There was nothing on the other side but trees and hundreds of millions of gallons of filthy, brown water flowing south.
She pulled up on her all-out run, second guessing her intuition. Was it possible she was wrong about his identity? Was this not the same man she saw in Marshall's mugshot? As paranoid and hyperbolic as Angelique was, maybe she was right, at least in part, and this guy would turn out to be evil. Was she willing to risk that on a chance to prove her mother correct?
But what if her mother was wrong? The question demanded an answer.
Janis descended the hill as quickly as her flats allowed. She couldn't see much under the dulled canopy of trees and she wasn't thrilled about going into that mess of nature to look for him. That would be playing right into his hands and she had to be sure about his identity before she took chances like that. Instead, she walked down the Riverwalk, careful to keep as much distance between herself and the tree line as possible. Just in case.
"Can't find him," Janis recorded. "The Riverwalk ends in a loop. That's where I'm standing now and he's nowhere to be seen. I don't know what happened. The tree coverage along the river is thick, nothing too serious though. Not thick enough that I shouldn't be able to pick up where he went. Yet I can't. There's no way he went down to the banks of the river. Swim in the Mississippi? Not going to happen. But where the fuck did he go? Why here?"
Something cracked behind her. Janis spun, half expecting the man to burst from the woods and drag her into his hiding place. Her throat throbbed with her jumpy heartbeat.
But he wasn't there, nor was there a frothing mouth killer flying from the tree cover, intent on making her a victim. In fact, this entire part of the Riverwalk was empty. Putting the recorder to her lips, she said, "He didn't circle back and come around me. The park is only spotted with trees and flat. I would have noticed him. So that leaves him going south, towards a new station or the church. Possibly the I-55 bridge. He must have used the tree line to cover his route because it's just too open otherwise."
Janis spun, scanning the park for any sign, any hint of the man's whereabouts. She'd given him too much of an allowance. "Dammit," she snapped, turning off the recorder. "Where the hell are you?"
Her cell phone vibrated in her purse, rattling her keys. Without pulling her eyes away from her pursuit, she searched for it and sighed when she saw it was Angelique. "Hey," she kept it curt, hoping it would put Angelique off. Janis wasn't sure if she could hear the river and didn't want to give her that chance. Angelique would have too many questions if she did.
But Angelique's tone made it obvious that she wouldn't pick up on anything. She was in panic mode again. "What are you doing?"
"I'm out right now, walking."
"What? Why?" And then as if overriding herself, Angelique said, "Never mind. Get down here now!"
She had bigger priorities than putting up with Angelique's over-excitement. But she had to get off the phone somehow. "Where? The paper?"
"Yeah," Angelique's voice began to break. "There's been another murder."
28
Janis cut the lane as she pulled into the parking lot. The lot was full almost full, but as she raced down its length, she found one spot in the back row to squeeze her car between the cracked curb and an oversized pickup truck. The Chevy had dual rear tires and a chrome exhaust pipe that rose along the back of the cab. If Janis had more time, she might entertain all the clever insults she could swing the way of the owner, even leaving a note etched in his door just to balance out the likely penis envy he was trying to balance out.
As it was, there was another dead Memphis woman to attend to.
The breaking news pulled her away from her pursuit of a man who went by the name Roman Byars. There was mystery behind why he chose to go by that name, one she would dig into. At least for now, that would have to wait. Janis hoped there would be another opportunity, the tease of closure demanded it.
Janis approached Monica's office door and was about to knock when she heard the voices on the other side. Hesitantly, she cracked it open and peered inside.
"... because it's not like the other ones," Marshall was in mid–sentence as Janis stepped inside the room. "This one is different. Like—hey Janis. I'm just catching everyone up."
Janis closed the door behind her quickly and moved over to the table to join her counterparts and boss. Before anyone asked why she was late, she drove the conversation. "How about catching me up too?"
Marshall nodded. "Right. About three hours ago we got a report. Another floater down at Nonconnah Creek. Female, estimated in her late twenties. No positive ID yet."
"That's three," Angelique cried. "Same killer?"
"We can't be sure yet," Marshall shrugged. "It's possible. The body was found in roughly the same location as the others. Her throat was slit, pretty badly, but not nearly what we had with Nichols and Chapman. It could mean a million things. A different killer or ..."
"Or what?" Janis prodded.
Marshall narrowed his eyes, as if in a slow wince. "It could mean her killer was interrupted," he said. "He might not have been finished. In fact, I'm pretty sure he wasn't."
"God," Monica put a hand to her mouth.
"Yeah," Marshall sighed.
Being late, she wasn't sure what had already been said, and she wasn't about to allow Branson to have the upper hand. Marshall was going to give up more information. "Wait, why would you say that?"
"Because he messed up this time."
"How?" she asked.
A youthful smirk spread across Marshall's face, an odd expression considering the circumstances. He leaned forward, tapping his finger into the tabletop repeatedly. Monica mumbled, Angelique groaned, and Branson mimicked Janis, his focused eyes reading every single one of Marshall's movements. Marshall looked confident, almost cocky. His eyes bore into hers and Janis felt that familiar hot rush again. But her blood chilled as soon as Marshall answered.
"There was a witness."
***
Janis stared at the redhead reflected back in the window. The woman looked beaten down.
"You're a mess," she told the woman, who slumped in response as if she was already aware of the fact and didn't need reminding.
A witness.
Someone had seen the latest killing.
The story was about to accelerate beyond her ability to keep up, to stay out in front, to drive the narrative for the fearful city. With each revelation, it was slipping further away. With each minute Marshall and his squad pried into the details, they were getting further ahead of her. Cracks were appearing and in them lay the threat of losing everything.
The story of the Memphis Murders was turning into so much more than she expected, bordering on more than she could handle. Maybe she needed to slow down, to pull back and let someone else take the lead? All of those things sounded equally enticing and horrible. This was her story. To give it up wouldn't serve what she was attempting to achieve. She deserved the notoriety, the accolades, the idolatry that came with a story told epically. That had been her right from the day she was encouraged to chase her destiny. In another's hands, her legacy wouldn't be done justice.
Deep in thought, she realized she had been washing her hands for almost a minute. Janis slid down the counter to where the red and green peppers were laid out and started slicing them, placing them on a towel to dry before bagging everything in a mix. She needed to eat well to stay healthy throughout this. A small step, but one she wouldn't have typically taken unless she was pushed into doing by Angelique. This time, it was all on her own. Janis smiled as the Wusthof blade moved through peppers with ease. Never one to spend too much time in the kitchen, Janis found small joys in the catharsis of preparing food occasionally, especially during times when stress threatened to overwhelm her.
In the
background, the now–familiar cinematic music synonymous with breaking news interrupted the weather report, pulling Janis away from the peppers. The headline, framed in a red ticker border at the bottom of the screen underneath the image of the news anchor, caught her attention.
BREAKING: ANOTHER MEMPHIS MURDER, the text shouted.
The anchor stared into the camera. Behind her right shoulder, partially covering the mound of blond hair styled like the hairdresser had forgotten the last ten years actually happened, sat the inserted image of her field reporter counterpart, staring back at that ambiguous central point somewhere in the digital space. "Authorities aren't saying much," the field reporter said. "But we can now confirm that Shelly Stride, a single mother from Trigg, is the latest Memphis murder victim. Her body was found along Nonconnah Creek, just west of the Route 61 bridge."
"Are they saying anything about the cause of death?" the news anchor asked.
The field reporter held her hand up to her earpiece, listening carefully, before nodding briskly. "Yes," she answered, "again, we must warn viewers that the nature of the story is intended for mature audiences. Sources say Ms. Stride suffered the same fate as the city's two other recent victims. One source even claimed the murders of these three women are, in fact, linked. Stride was apparently strangled before her throat was cut, eliminating the possibility of a drowning. Police haven't confirmed that yet, but my source tells me they're confident of the autopsy will show that."
"This is unconscionable," Karen the news anchor shook her head. "What other information were you able to get regarding what can only be described as a horrific situation?"
Again, the hand to the earpiece and the few-second delay before answering. "Well, as viewers may remember, Ms. Nichols and Ms. Chapman were both single mothers as well. These murders occurred within the past two months and a lot of people are worried there may be something more to this than we're being told. In fact, my sources confirmed these aren't random acts."
Oh, ballsy, Janis thought as she moved around the end of the counter toward her television. This reporter had legitimate sources. Was Marshall playing the field, working the television and newspaper angles? Could he also be working with someone in radio too? Janis wrung her hands, still clammy from their longer-than-necessary wash.
"Are police confirming these murders are linked?" Karen asked. "Premeditated? Is there any new information or indication that this is the work of the same person?"
Where the fuck is that coming from? Why are they working that angle? Janis chest swelled with deep breaths. Tense.
The field reporter shook her head. "Not yet, but I'm being told we're getting close to that admission from the Chief of Police. It may come as early as today but, if not, we'll definitely hear something within the next forty-eight hours. According my source, police have been approaching the situation as the work of a single killer ever since Margaret Chapman was killed weeks ago."
That chick is good. Too good.
The news anchor scrunched her face in a practiced expression of concern. "Very disturbing," she said. "So they've had suspicions for weeks? Did your source indicate why they think it's a single killer?"
"I spoke with multiple sources on the issue and it appears they're looking at women who share similar backgrounds and demographics," the field reporter stated bluntly. "The victims were all white, single mothers and, interestingly, they all attended services at the same house of worship."
"Fascinating," Karen said, sounding as if she genuinely meant it. "Surely the authorities are pursuing that angle, questioning members of the congregation?"
The field reporter nodded even as the question was asked. "At least that's what we're being led to believe," she answered. "Apparently the police are focused on finding two homeless men who are people of interest."
"Homeless? How are they connected?"
Jesus Christ! What don't they know? Janis stomped back and forth, circling the coffee table, head down, no longer watching the report but still listening intently. The fear that she was being duped nearly confirmed by the depth of insight this channel had. Why would Marshall betray her.
Her thinking was interrupted by the field reporter's next bit of commentary. "There's something authorities aren't willing to release right now. It may be that police believe all three women were killed in or around Nonconnah Creek, or the savagery of their deaths that's leading authorities in that direction. We can't be sure at the moment."
"Just terrible news," Karen the news anchor shook her head, her decade-old hairstyle swaying slightly enough to disprove its elasticity. "Thank you, Lisa."
The field reporter nodded, and the camera cut away before she bid her peer farewell. The news anchor's expression was a case study in how to dramatize even already–dramatic news. "A city gripped in fear," she said in a cool, measured tone. "A possible serial killer on the loose. Authority stymied. Are we safe? One thing we know for sure is that we must use caution. Authorities recommend—"
Janis punched the power button on the remote. "Well, there it is," she said to her empty living room, "finally. They've released that it's a serial killer. Let's see how this changes things."
She moved to the bedroom and flopped on the bed, peppers forgotten. The old mattress bounced up and down as if she was riding the calming waves at a water theme park, except there was nothing calming about any of this.
How could you remain calm when you'd just had your heart broken?
29
The bond of genetics.
Determined to be the successor.
The need to protect.
To shelter.
To hide.
Memphis was questioning now.
Pride.
30
She seethed.
Chewing vicious thoughts and hateful words.
It was all such an insult, a disgusting, hurtful insult. Beginning weeks ago with Branson forcing his arrogant nose into her story, continuing with Monica sanitizing her writing, it all got so much worse when Marshall displayed his true colors. Was there anyone she could trust anymore? Now, sitting in the office with Monica and Branson, the fear they wouldn't leave her alone to tell the story grew. And Angelique was bringing Marshall up? Again?
All Janis required was leverage and resources, and she would deliver a story worthy of any news outlet in the country, never mind this mid–sized city. What she didn't need was Monica giving everyone else the impression they had a bigger part to play than what Janis had already determined for each them. If they would just allow her the space and freedom to build the story the right way, they would all become immortals. Why couldn't they see that?
She could. She had.
Ever since she was shown the way.
Her jaw popped as she ground her teeth.
"Marshall will be here shortly," Monica said. "Can we please go over what we have until he gets here?"
"Okay, well I was thinking—" Branson began before Janis cut them off.
"Do you mind?" Janis snapped. "This is my story."
"I realize that," Branson withdrew.
"No, she's right, Branson. Her story, her meeting. What do you have Janis?"
Janis flipped open her notebook, scanning for her latest entry. The notebook had been an inch thick only a couple weeks ago but the constant reference of its contents helped fatten it with ruffled pages and sticky notes clipped in the intervening time. Seconds of searching for what she needed led to Branson releasing a dramatic sigh. Janis' teeth clicked. Finally, she found the page with her latest scribbles. "We've got three victims. All women, all similarly mutilated and—"
Branson groaned. "The last one wasn't carved up like the others."
"No, she wasn't," Janis acknowledged. "I didn't say she was. But her throat was sliced open, and we all heard what Marshall said. They suspect the killer was interrupted, so I think we can be confident in their assessment that if he hadn't been, Ms. Stride would have been mutilated, just like Nichols and Chapman."
"I think t
hat's fair," Monica nodded.
Janis turned her attention to her boss. "So I propose we run with that angle. A serial killer, hiding among Memphis' homeless population, targeting younger women. Single moms."
Branson's eyes squinted, and he pulled his head back. "What would be his motivation?"
Janis gestured with the pen, writing invisible lines in the air. "Desperation? Money? Sex? Hell, misogyny? This is the South, after all. Honestly, it's not a blank that needs to be filled right now. Let's start seeding the story. I like the misogynistic angle myself."
"The hell it doesn't," Branson argued.
Monica leaned forward across the lip of the table. "Calm down," her low voice cutting through the building argument. "I like this angle, Janis. Write up the draft for me." A knock on the door, another invasion. "Marshall. Come in. Thank you Angelique."
Angelique led Marshall into the office, closing the door behind him. He walked straight to the table and took his now–familiar place. Angelique went for the coffee pot. "No problem, I love playing escort."
"I don't have a lot of time," Marshall injected.
I'm sure you don't, Janis thought. Too many media sluts batting eyes, showing thighs, and getting exclusive information you promised to me? Marshall hadn't made eye contact with her yet. She took it as a sure sign of guilt. Many men before Marshall had taught her its hints.
"We were discussing the angle we're taking," Monica said almost apologetically.
"Fine, just don't surprise me," Marshall demanded. "Right now I imagine it'll be something like 'city in fear', 'killer on the loose', 'craze homeless man stocks women'—type of thing, right?"
Janis was reminded of one of her first conversations with Monica about Marshall, about his jaded view of the press. Coupled with his recent betrayal, this sliced wide and deep. At the beginning, she hadn't wanted to believe her boss, but here was Marshall, proving Monica right all along.
