cooter when it comes to terrorism, there’s no defense for a
sick fuck who wants to kill one person at a time.”
“Lourdes,” I said, “was surrounded by a hundred people
when he died. His shooting caused a stampede. It couldn’t
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have been any easier for the killer to disappear than if Scotty
had beamed him aboard the Enterprise. ”
“Nobody disappears,” Jack said, swallowing the last of the
whiskey. “It’s our job to find out what rug they’re hiding
under.”
“I’m on it,” I said. “You know the last quote he used. When
he killed Joe Mauser.” I’d told Jack about my tip.
“I’ll let them know what bad means,” Jack said.
“I looked it up,” I said. “Guess quoting a junior reporter
just wasn’t scary enough, he had to upgrade to sicker game.”
“Billy the Kid,” Jack said. “Carruthers scowled during his
statement, like he couldn’t believe this thing could get any
more macabre.”
“He’s moved on from quoting me to quoting mass murderers,” I said. “Forgetting for a moment my disgust at being
in that company, if the killer does see himself as some sort of
avenger it probably means there’s a longer list of people this
guy doesn’t like.”
“Billy the Kid,” Jack said. “You know the Kid, or whatever
the hell his real name was, pretty much started the trend of
yellow journalism. His estate should get royalties from the
National Enquirer and Weekly World News. Reporters and
hack novelists all over the country tripped over themselves
to drool over this guy. Made him out to be some kind of hero.
Some kind of Robin Hood. Idolizing celebrities practically
began with the Kid.”
“You think that’s how this killer sees himself? Offing the
rich and famous to help the poor?”
“Remember he also quoted your ass,” Jack said. “Let’s just
hope all he’s got is an affinity for scary words. In the meantime, we need to stay ahead on this story.”
“Stay ahead? What do you mean?”
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He took another sip and looked at me. And for the first time
since I’d known him, Jack O’Donnell looked worried.
“Paulina,” he said.
“What about her?”
“She’s selling newspapers.”
“Well, that’s her job,” I said. “From what I hear she just
didn’t fit at the Gazette. ”
“Maybe not,” Jack continued, “but if the Dispatch beats
us to this story, they could see a double digit circulation
growth by the end of the year.” I stayed silent. “What that
means, in lay terms, is we’d be fucked.”
I considered this. “I know the Dispatch’ s circulation is up
since she joined the paper, but I mean…”
“There’s been a three percent swing this week alone,
Henry. Whether it’s our reporters getting beat to the punch or
her articles attracting our readers, it’s happening. These three
murders are the biggest story of the year, everyone with a pen
and a brain trying to get a piece. There’s going to be a clear
winner and loser here. We need to make sure we’re not the
ones holding the silver.”
“They weren’t beating us to the punch when I reported
Athena’s murder the morning she died,” I said, my voice
coming out angrier than I’d hoped.
“That was days ago, Henry,” Jack said. He sighed, sank
into the couch. “Since then it’s neck and neck. Nobody is
getting new scoops. So it comes down to juice, plain and
simple. Paulina has it, we don’t. People want salacious stories,
headlines in bold, and photos of celebrities in bikinis. Only
thing that can distract them from that is real, honest-to-God
news. And until we get that, we’re going to get creamed every
day. If two people are tied during the race, everyone stares at
the one wearing flashier clothing.”
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“I prefer jeans,” I said.
“Don’t be a smart-ass. And listen, Henry, you should be
aware of it…Paulina knows you were at the crime scene
today. Knew it before we did, actually.”
“What—how is that possible?”
“I think she has some chumscrubber tailing you. But she’s
mentioning it in tomorrow’s article on the Lourdes murder,
claiming you always find yourself at the scenes of brutal
crimes. Between Fredrickson, Mauser, your quote being
found at Athena’s crime scene and being seen talking to a
witness today, she’s got enough paint on her brush to level
some pretty brash accusations.”
“That was a coincidence. I was talking to a friend. Any
decent reporter would have done the same thing.”
“A friend. You mean the cop.”
“Yes, a cop friend, Curt Sheffield.”
“I know Curt. Seen that recruiting poster everywhere but
my refrigerator.”
“Whatever,” I said. “Bottom line is I have a lead on a hell
of a story.”
“You know, I thought you might.”
“That gun, the one the killer is using, there’s a reason he’s
using it. I’m going to find out what that is. Paulina doesn’t have
that. Combine that with this new quote, it’s going to fit somewhere.” I sat there silent. Watched Jack rattle his empty glass.
Then he stood up, tipped his cap at Amanda, nodded at me.
“Find the story,” Jack said. “Behind every murder is a
motive. The cops don’t care about that right now, they just
want the man. Motive will come later, once they can be sure
there aren’t any more high-caliber bullets aimed at anyone’s
skull. So keep on keeping on.”
“I will.”
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“Important work is silent until it needs to be heard. Keep
that in mind. Other people want this story, too.” Then he left.
I turned to Amanda. “Your history professor,” I said. “You
think she’s still awake?”
18
The headline read, Head Of Franklin-Rees, Now Without
A Head.
Even I was shocked by the tactlessness and audacity of the
Dispatch’ s front page. The lead story, naturally, was the murder
of Jeffrey Lourdes, accompanied by a gruesome photo of the
man’s legs with blood pooling around them. In Technicolor.
The paper neglected to mention how Jeffrey Lourdes had
revolutionized the magazine industry in the early seventies
with several titles that captured the zeitgeist with aplomb and
erudition, how he’d mentored many of the country’s most
talented writers and journalists from scruffy-haired hipsters
to men and women who changed the face of American
culture. Instead the Dispatch focused on rumors of money
laundering, infidelity, drugs and under-the-table deals. It
noted how, over the last decade, Lourdes had been accused
of letting his legacy go to seed, eschewing strong journalism
for salacious stories and shoddy reportage that his younger
self wou
ld have thrown in the fire. It also noted how, despite
Lourdes’s rumored twenty-million-a-year salary, circulation
for Moss was way down, and the magazine had long ago
ceded any cultural impact.
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They would have had you believe Lourdes was as dirty as
they come, a common rat working in an ivory tower.
Our article for the Gazette painted a more accurate, more
even picture. Giving Lourdes credit where he deserved it. I
expected the Dispatch to kick our asses at the newsstand.
If I didn’t know any better, the Dispatch was suggesting that
the magazine industry was better off with Jeffrey Lourdes dead.
At the same time, I knew I was on to something, that there
was an even bigger story surrounding the deaths of Athena
Paradis, Joe Mauser and Jeffrey Lourdes. I needed to find out
why someone had murdered a famous socialite and a publishing magnate, and tried to assassinate a government official
mere days apart, and why the killer seemed to be using weaponry and ammunition completely impractical for someone who
was smart enough to carry the murders to their grim conclusion.
I’d spent all night poring over the details given by
Lourdes’s assistant regarding the gun she saw, the man she
saw wielding it, as well as the info Curt Sheffield gave me
about the ammunition caliber. At eleven-thirty I’d left a
message for Professor Agnes Trimble. I name-dropped
Amanda, her former student, said I needed to talk to her about
an important story. She called me back within fifteen minutes.
“I don’t have much of a nightlife,” she’d said. If what
Amanda said was true, and she collected firearms, I wasn’t
totally surprised. But could a college professor help paint a
clearer picture of a murder suspect?
I squinted as we walked toward the subway. Agnes was expecting us at eight-thirty sharp. Not much of a nightlife, didn’t
care much about sleeping in. No wonder Amanda liked her
so much.
“So you’re sure Trimble isn’t just someone who has a
strange gun fetish,” I said. “You really think she can help?”
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“No, I just like spending my free time with old teachers,”
Amanda offered. “Trust me, if this thing has a trigger, she can
help. Not that you learned anything at whatever that school
was.”
Guess it was that simple.
We took the 4 train down to West Fourth street and headed
toward the NYU College of Arts and Sciences, located in
downtown Manhattan by Washington Square South.
“You know, I did go to a pretty good college,” I said.
“According to who, U.S. News and World Reports? Please.
They know as much about academia as I know about horticulture. Most Ivy Leaguers are the kind of students who work
twenty hours a day to make a three-point-eight, then get hit
by a bus on your first day of work because you don’t have
enough common sense to know that red means ‘stop.’”
“I’ve never been hit by a bus,” I replied.
“Right. You just got shot.”
She had me there.
Amanda had taken a class with Trimble, Professor of the
Humanities, Professor of nineteenth-century American Cultural History, during her junior year. She claimed Trimble was
brilliant, slightly loony, but if you wanted to know anything
that took place between Maine and California between eighteen hundred and nineteen hundred, you could be sure it was
rattling around in her brain.
Hopefully we could jar something loose, because aside
from my employer losing ground to the print princess of
darkness, three people had been killed and a murderer was
still on the loose.
I’ll let them know what bad means.
It was early May, and Trimble had just finished up finals
week. According to Amanda, she was spending her final days
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in the city packing up the office before heading off to Malibu
for the summer. I wanted to ask more about this Malibu trip,
but Amanda shushed me.
“Better you don’t know,” she said. “Let’s just say her favorite movie is Point Break. ”
I hadn’t been back to NYU since several people had
wanted me for murder. That coincided with how I met
Amanda. Needless to say, the school held some memories for
me. Traded pain for pleasure, took a bullet in the leg in
exchange for a lover at night. Fair deal, but if the bullet had
been a few inches higher I wouldn’t be thinking that.
The NYU College of Arts and Sciences had a storied
history, and what was now known as the Brown Building was
formerly known as the Asch Building. The Asch Building was
the site of the infamous Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire. The
blaze, which occurred on March 25th, 1911, began on the
eighth floor and quickly spread. Due to cramped working
conditions and a lack of exits (including one that had been
locked ostensibly to prevent workers from stealing), the fire
killed a hundred and forty-six workers before it was put out.
It was purchased by real estate magnate Fredrick Brown,
who donated it to the University where it became the Brown
Building of Science. I didn’t want to ask Amanda about it,
but I don’t know how I would have felt taking classes in a
building where nearly a hundred and fifty people had died.
“Ah, home sweet home.” Amanda sighed as we entered the
CAS building. Despite the fact that summer was nearing and
most sane students would have fled the campus weeks ago,
there was a line twenty people deep waiting for an elevator
that looked like it’d been erected by people who still wore
shirtwaists. Amanda, though, seemed completely unsurprised.
“It’s always like this,” she said. “The elevator goes about
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a floor an hour. It’s an excuse for students to be late to class.
Professors can always tell who the serious students are
because they’re the ones who are panting and sweating when
the bell rings. Come on, let’s take the stairs.”
Agnes Trimble’s office was on the third floor. I was hardly
panting when we arrived. I felt a small amount of pride at
that. Then I felt ashamed for being proud of walking up two
flights of stairs.
I followed Amanda down a whitewashed hall. Most of the
doors were closed, the faculty having all adjourned for the
summer, the corkboards adjacent to them holding naked
staples and thumbtacks and occasional notices whose posters
had neglected to take them down.
As we turned down one corridor, I heard loud noise coming
from the end of the hall. As we got closer, I could hear the strains
of the Grateful Dead’s “Casey Jones” playing at full blast.
“That’d be her,” Amanda said without an ounce of irony.
“She’s a huge deadhead.”
We followed the music and came to an open doorway
whose nameplate read Professor Agnes Trimble. And immediately my expectations were blown to hell.
Agnes T
rimble was a small woman, sitting down I guessed
about five foot three and a hundred ten pounds. She looked
to be in her late fifties, with hair dyed so red I was surprised
a horde of bulls weren’t stampeding around the office. Her
hair was done up in what I could best describe as a bird’s nest,
pretty much clumped together and held there with a brown
scrunchy and a few terrorized bobby pins. On her ears rested
a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, which I suppose helped her
enjoy the two lava lamps in either corner. On her computer,
a felt monkey dangled from a small American flag, its Velcro
hands fastened to the top of the Stars and Stripes. Taped to
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one shelf looked to be an actual ticket stub from the original
Woodstock, complete with authentic-looking mud stain. Her
shelves were covered in books whose staid titles must have
been hideously embarrassed by the rest of the décor. I debated
relaying the information that the Partridge Family bus had left
the parking lot a long time ago.
And resting among these hipster-drenched relics were
dozens of toy guns. All makes and models. Rifles, cannons,
small arms and enough tanks to blow the hell out of the Indian
in the Cupboard.
And somehow I was not surprised to see pictures of various
male celebrities, many of them sans shirts or other commonly
worn articles of clothing, taped to a corkboard behind her
desk. I suppose reporting while staring at the nipples of
Orlando Bloom and George Clooney had to happen
sometime.
“Amanda, baby!” Agnes leapt up, leaned over the desk and
wrapped her arms around Amanda, who leaned in awkwardly
to reach the small woman. Agnes squeezed her eyes shut,
sucked in a breath, and for a moment I worried she might be
trying to inhale Amanda’s soul.
When they separated, Amanda gestured to me and said,
“Professor Trimble, this is who I was telling you about, Henry
Parker. He’s a reporter for the Gazette. ” I held out my hand
to shake hers. She eyed me, squinted slightly.
“He your…boyfriend?” she asked, a sly smile on her lips.
“Uh…” I said.
“Actually, yes,” Amanda said. “I didn’t realize we were
wearing name tags.”
Agnes sat back down, reached into her desk and pulled out
a candy cane. She unwrapped it and popped the whole thing
in her mouth. Through a mouthful of peppermint, she said,
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