Crime Beat

by Scott Nicholson

  I could have shifted over to the town police chief as the tentpole, but I buried him eight paragraphs down, along with the obligatory bluster and outrage expressed by Mayor Wilbanks. As a leader, Wilbanks seemed completely lost without a pair of ceremonial scissors in his hand, plus he was still distracted because of his pervert son.

  “You should have been there,” Moretz said, face flush with adrenalin as he raced in, though his eyes were as cold and dark as ever.

  “I suppose I will be, once I read your article. Was Kavanaugh on the scene?”

  “Yeah, you should have heard her grilling the sheriff. Asked him whether it was a serial killer or the work of a copycat killer.”

  “Good question. Not yes-or-no, but either-or.”

  “Hardison gave his old standby of ‘Conclusions have not yet been drawn.’“

  “Let’s run with both of them, keep the public guessing. Nothing will get them talking like the notion that there might be two killers at work.”

  “I can spin it to three killers if you like. There’s nothing on the Hanratty murder, either.”

  I waved him off. “Drop it in the last paragraph just to remind people, but that case doesn’t fit the whole serial-killer profile we’ve built up. Can you have it finished by deadline?”

  Moretz nodded. “Funny how all these bodies keep turning up just before we go to press.”

  I touched the ceramic “Genius at Work” knickknack on my desk. “Don’t question the gods of ink and paper. Just count your blessings and the digits on your paycheck.”

  Moretz rolled out clean copy while Baker typed up a quick timeline on the murders. Seeing the bulleted list made me fully realize how quickly all our lives had been altered since Moretz arrived. Of course, it had changed most dramatically for those now immortalized as victims.

  Moretz turned in a skeletal article that had all the statistical details but little color. I kicked it back to him and requested that he beef up the end, planting speculation and suggesting a police force that was hopelessly confused.

  Moretz wasn’t happy about that. He stormed into my office after receiving my IM’ed request. However, since I was the editor and boss, it actually wasn’t a request at all.

  “Chief,” Moretz said, his intonation dripping with sarcasm. “We already played that hand. You almost got me arrested, remember. You’re the one who gave me the lecture about not editorializing in the news copy.”

  “This is different,” I said. “This is just a case of giving readers what they want. Hell, half the town thinks Hardison’s a dumb-ass redneck who would never be hired for the job if he wasn’t elected.”

  “He’s not going to be happy if you stab him in the back again. Kavanaugh’s already getting more inside stuff than I am.” Moretz hovered over my desk, his fists clenched. “But I guess you’re getting plenty of inside stuff from her, aren’t you?”

  “Look, John, I’m not taking sides here. I have a duty to this paper and our readership. If we want to remain the trusted news source of this community, we have to examine the issues from every side.”

  You’d think the guy would have a thicker hide by this time. It’s not like this was his first rodeo. These were all strangers. Take me, for example. After laying out hundreds of obituaries, I could probably place my own grandmother’s and not shed a tear.

  “All right, I’ll give you a couple hundred words,” Moretz said. “Just make sure Kavanaugh doesn’t get a copy before it hits the street.”

  “This isn’t Facebook. This is real life.”

  “Yeah. Let’s just hope they don’t find any Rebel clippers in my desk again. Kavanuagh might start beating me to the murder scenes.”

  “You say that like you expect the murders to continue.”

  “After you run that headline, this is going national. We’ll probably even draw the big magazines and cable news networks.”

  “I have faith in you, John. You’ll beat them all.”

  “Including Kavanaugh?”

  I hadn’t decided that yet, but I saw no reason to upset him before he finished the article. “You’re my Number One with a bullet.”

  16.

  Sure enough, the vultures flew in. Fox News, MSNBC, 60 Minutes, The New York Times, and USA Today ran bulletins, mostly compilations of our published clips, the lazy way out for modern armchair journalists. The Washington Post was the only traditional media outlet to send a real reporter. Deadspin and TMZ sent stringers, proof that the lines of celebrity gossip, hard news, and journalistic integrity had blurred into a murky, blood-colored stew.

  To his credit, Hardison rose to the challenge, holding another press conference that was a mirror of the first, only this time he was prepared to answer questions. Well, he didn’t really answer, but at least he responded.

  “No possibilities have been eliminated,” he said to the audience of three dozen as the district attorney stood to the side. “This office is cooperating fully with the SBI and Sycamore Shade Police Department to bring the perpetrator to justice.”

  “So there’s only one perpetrator?” asked a crew-cut guy with a microphone who had a face made for radio. But he was loud enough to make up for any other shortcomings.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Hardison said.

  “Do the fingernail clippers have any significance?” shouted one of the TV heads.

  “Blame the dang old Internet,” the sheriff said, in a rare display of candidness. “We’re working to trace them, but they could have come from anywhere. Anyone with any information is encouraged to come forward, and a Crime Stoppers reward is being offered.”

  The D.A. stepped to the mike and added, “The reward is only valid in the event of a successful prosecution, offer not available where prohibited by law.”

  “Sheriff, have you made any solid connections between any of the four victims?” Kavanaugh asked, though I knew she’d already asked him the question one-on-one. She was across the room from Moretz and me, preferring to keep our relationship out of the public eye.

  I knew even Hardison was too smart to come back with something sarcastic like, “Well, they’re all dead.” He let his jowls sag a little more than usual, making him look like a beaten hound.

  “We’re going through family histories,” Hardison said. “All of the victims were locals, and it’s possible their paths crossed from time to time.”

  “Can you release additional details on the latest murder?” Moretz asked, raising his pencil even though he was taking notes on his laptop.

  The sheriff glowered at him, and then me. “All information has been made known,” Hardison said. “Plus some information that’s not known.”

  A couple of hands shot up at the confusing remark, but the sheriff held both palms up. “That’s all today,” the sheriff said. “These crimes don’t solve themselves.”

  The national attention spawned a bunch of orders by mail, so the publisher upped the print run by an additional 3,000 copies.

  Our subscriptions had increased, too, and Westmoreland had even dared mention the possibility of raises for the writing staff. And they say journalists are cynics.

  17.

  I met Kavanaugh for dinner again five days and two editions later. She’d gone to Raleigh to file a few stories and work on a big government scandal, but we kept in touch via text messages. Moretz thought I’d been feeding her inside information, but the deal cut both ways. Kavanaugh didn’t have Moretz’s knack for being on the spot, but she was pretty sharp at analysis and spin.

  After another round of garlic entrees at Roman Joe’s, I suggested we visit the scene of the first murder and take a moonlit stroll around the lake brainstorming connections between the victims, working up a retrospective series to let our readers relive the crimes. And, of course, buy more papers.

  “Romantic,” she said.

  “Plus we can bill for mileage,” I said.

  “Combining business and pleasure. That’s even better.”

  We reached the lake in 20 minutes. The
original crime scene was no longer roped off, and it had become a bit of a tourist attraction. Beer cans and burger wrappers littered the woods. I was a little sad that the murder site had not become some sort of memorial shrine, but I knew from vast experience that yesterday’s news was yesterday’s news.

  “He was standing right here,” I said, measuring the distance to the lake. “Maybe he’d already planned the whole thing, or maybe he just came across the paddle and went insane.”

  What she said next surprised me, but it probably shouldn’t have. “You think it’s Moretz, don’t you?”

  I was silent for a moment, listening to the crickets, bullfrogs, and the gentle lapping of the water. “He’s Johnny on the Spot, first one to the crime scene. Maybe the sheriff is keeping a closer eye than we thought.”

  “If so, the sheriff blew it by letting a couple more people get killed before making the arrest. His career is dead in the water.”

  “Just like the third victim. With a straight razor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Patterns. The paddle thing was an aberration. But then you had a strangling, a razor to the neck, and then another strangling. Despite that clipper gimmick, it sounds like he has a thing for necks.”

  “You seem to enjoy mine,” she said.

  “Along with everything else.” I took her in my arms and gave her a soft kiss. I was growing fond of Kavanaugh. I was about to make my move when the spotlights blasted us with five thousand watts of white brilliance, momentarily blinding me.

  “Don’t move,” bellowed a male voice.

  “Hands where we can see them,” commanded another.

  I didn’t think it would go down that way. For all their bungling, Hardison’s crew came through as professionals when it mattered most. I pulled my hand from my pocket and let the folded razor drop to the ground.

  I thought about reaching for the clippers in my other pocket, but figured any sudden moves might kill any chance for a follow-up.

  Kavanaugh gasped in shock, the cops closed in and did their thing, and it was a blur after that. When they got to the part about “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law,” I simply said, “Mistakes were made.”

  18.

  My defense attorney agreed to allow Moretz to interview me. She thought I’d get sympathy from the people who would eventually comprise the jury pool, assuming the trial wasn’t moved. Or at least the interview would provide plenty of ammo for the insanity plea we’d probably render.

  “I read your articles on my arrest,” I said, sitting at the table in the bare concrete room, a burly sergeant watching us. “Award worthy, for sure.”

  Moretz’s eyes were as dark and devoid of human compassion as ever. “Like you said, it’s the subject matter that wins awards, not the reporter.”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I especially liked the part where you booted up my computer and saw I’d laid out the next day’s headline.”

  “Reporter Slain At Lake. I wouldn’t have figured it out if you hadn’t typed the lead line.”

  I quoted myself. “Police were stunned when the Rebel Clipper’s fifth victim was discovered at the scene of the first murder. Kelsey Kavanaugh, 33, a reporter for the News & Observer, had been covering the case when she died from injuries apparently inflicted by a sharp instrument.”

  “Even after you edited so many of my stories, you still can’t write as good as I can.”

  “‘Well,’“ I said. “The correct grammar is, ‘You still can’t write as well as I can.’“

  “The editor always has the final word,” he said.

  “How’s Kavanaugh?”

  “Haven’t you heard?”

  I looked at the concrete walls, the little glass two-way mirror, and the stoic guard. I shrugged. “I don’t get out much.”

  “She was on ‘Good Morning America,’ got an agent and six-figure book deal, and she’s going to be the subject of a one-hour Showtime special.”

  “Nice kid. She deserves it.”

  Moretz leaned forward, studying me. “Why did you do it?”

  “Is this off the record?”

  “You taught me that nothing is off the record.”

  I shrugged again. I had affected a convenient case of jailhouse elan. “Deadline pressure. It gets to you after a while.”

  “You type the headline, get everything ready, hint to me where the body’s going to be found. I’m on the scene just in time to get it in the next edition. Right under the wire, so nobody can scoop us.”

  “More or less. If the Picayune had gone daily like I’d wanted, everything would have worked out much better.”

  “Hardison almost pulled me in because of it. He thought we were conspiring. I was on the crime beat, after all.”

  “That paddle, that was a stroke of genius, inspired by all that death and carnage that hit like the Biblical plagues when you came to town. It gave me the idea of a way to build up circulation. After the first one, I was hooked. Not on the murdering, that was just unpleasant work that’s likely to break your fingernails. But selling papers was a rush.”

  “You’re insane.”

  I smiled. “That’s an editorial opinion, not a clinical diagnosis.”

  “You wanted to build circulation and get some acclaim. I get that part. But there’s no real payoff. What was this really all about?”

  I’d been wondering that myself, but I think I’d finally come around to the answer.

  “Obits,” I said.

  “The obituary column?”

  “You read enough of those, and they all blend into one big, bland bowl of oatmeal. Homemaker, retired mechanic, former Marine, schoolteacher. I just pictured my bottom line, my final word, and all I saw was the title ‘Newspaper editor.’ Not so memorable in the grand scheme of things. Sure to be set in small type.”

  “And now you’re famous. A headline. Howard Nance, the Rebel Clipper.”

  “Well, I could have come up with a better name, but I blame the deadline pressure.”

  “We all write our own obituaries, Chief,” Moretz said. “Day by day.”

  The guard interrupted and told us our five minutes were up. Moretz remained sitting while I stood, the handcuffs clinking. “You can’t type so well in handcuffs,” I joked.

  “We’re all in handcuffs,” Moretz said, getting the final word at last. “They’re just invisible most of the time.”

  THE END

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  ###

  About Scott Nicholson:

  I believe we build valuable ideas together, some of them inside a book, and some outside a book. I am honored that you shared my ideas and brought them to life in your imagination. I invite you to write a brief review or tell your friends about these ideas we have shared.

  I’m author of more than 30 books, including The Red Church, Liquid Fear, Chronic Fear, The Harvest, and Speed Dating with the Dead. I collaborated with bestselling author J.R. Rain on Cursed, The Vampire Club, Bad Blood, and Ghost College. I’ve also written the children’s books If I Were Your Monster, Too Many Witches, Ida Claire, and Duncan the Punkin, and created the graphic novels Dirt and Grave Conditions. Connect with me on Facebook, Goodreads, LibraryThing, Twitter, my blog, or my website. I am really an organic gardener, but don’t tell anyone, because they think I am a writer.

  Feel free to drop me a line anytime at hauntedcomputer@yahoo.com, or visit my Author Central page at Amazon to ask a question. Thanks for sharing your valuable time with me.

  If you enjoyed this book, please tell your friends and give another Nicholson title a try. If you hated it, why not try another one anyway? What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger, and what does kill you is probably lurking in my next book. Read on for more.

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  BONUS STORY:

  DO YOU KNOW ME YET?

  By Scott Nicholson

  (From HEAD CASES, an anthology of paranoia,
psychological suspense, and terror. Learn more about the collection at Haunted Computer or view it for Kindle at Amazon or Amazon UK.)

  It all started with a story. You know the one I mean, don’t you, Doctor?

  Of course you do. You know everything. You smile and nod and write down little words on your paper and then go home at the end of the day, safe in the knowledge that I’m the crazy one and you’re normal.

  But let me tell you something. These walls work both ways. They not only keep people in, they keep you “normal” people out. Except you have a key, don’t you? You can come and go anytime you want. Just like my ideas. They come and go anytime I want.

  I know what you just wrote. “Episodic paranoia?” With a question mark. Where’s your smile now, doctor? Try to hide it under that bald head of yours, it won’t do any good. I can read thoughts. That’s why I’m here. That’s why they put me here.

  Except they’re the crazy ones. See, they can read thoughts, too. Only they do it better than me. And the world calls them “leading lights” and “visionaries,” the critics rave about how they “stare unflinchingly into the darkness.” The editors fight over them, make fools of themselves in their rush to outbid each other. Agents snap like sharks in a bloody sea, hoping to get a piece.

  Sorry. I’m getting angry, and my last doctor told me that getting angry is not the path to healing. And I want to be cured. I really do. I want to get outside again. They won’t let me have any pencils or pens or other sharp objects, and it’s really hard to write novels with crayons. Plus editors won’t look at handwritten manuscripts.

  Tell about how it started? Again? How many years did you go to school to earn a piece of paper that empowers you to judge me? Ten years of college, just like I thought. Seems like you’d need a good memory to get through all those classes.

  But I’ll do it. Because I’m a storyteller, and you’re the audience. Even if I can read your thoughts and know that you don’t believe a word of what I say. At least you’re honest, and by that, I mean you don’t lie to my face. Not like them.