Into the Dark

by Rick Mofina

  She’s a little girl in a park running into her mother’s open arms, seeing her smile, breathing in her soapy fragrance and feeling the warm love of her embrace. Another flash and she is in a huge hospital chair holding her brand-new baby brother, who felt like an angel. Then the whole family, even her father, happy at the beach in the sun.

  Now Claire imagined herself pregnant and having a healthy baby. But when she tried to envision herself and Robert as parents, Claire’s dream stalled over her nagging anxiety about the way he’d been acting lately.

  Does he still have feelings for his ex-wife? Am I being unreasonable or silly?

  She chided herself. Again she returned to the same excuses: Robert was still rattled by the crash, enduring some post-traumatic stress, all mixed with lay-off rumors and possible fatherhood.

  If that’s the case, then why won’t my misgivings go away?

  Because in her heart she knew something was just not right. Julie had made a good argument. After Claire had asked Robert about the phone call and his brooding, she was not convinced his answers explained everything.

  Claire felt frustrated and needed to talk to someone.

  A little therapy for the therapist, she thought, reaching for her phone and dialing the Nevada number for her longtime mentor, Martha Berman. They’d stayed in touch and Martha was up to speed with much of Claire’s life. Maybe the esteemed Dr. Berman could give her some advice, Claire hoped as the line was answered.

  “Hello, Martha, it’s Claire in California.”

  “Well, hello, Claire.”

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “Not at all, dear.”

  After pleasantries and small talk, Claire related her worries to the senior psychologist.

  “Maybe Robert’s just not ready to be a dad, Claire, or he’s anxious about it.”

  “What about the possibility that he may still be in love with his first wife?”

  “Always a possibility, but from what you’ve told me you don’t have any proof of that, do you?”

  “No, it could be a result of my own anxiety.”

  “That’s right. One thing you should consider, given that you are about to bring a baby into your marriage, now is not the time to let any doubts about your relationship fester.”

  “Yes, I know. Thank you, Martha.”

  “Call me anytime you want to talk.”

  After hanging up, Claire went into her home office, turned on her laptop and logged in to their account for their landline and cell phones.

  Their phone company’s new online billing service showed charges only for outgoing long-distance calls on the landline, but for their cell phones, it displayed all outgoing and incoming calls, downloads and texts.

  Claire studied the information history on charges for calls made after the crash, when she’d overheard Robert’s early morning call. From what she saw, nothing showed that would be a New York call on his cell phone.

  Maybe he’d used the landline?

  If he did, she wouldn’t see it until the bill arrived.

  She continued studying Robert’s call and text history. Plenty of calls and texts to her, a lot from media following the crash, a lot from all over L.A., from his trips made in the San Francisco Bay Area, Seattle and Vancouver, Canada.

  As she scrolled through his calls to his office, auto dealer, sports tickets, guy things, she was uncertain what she was looking for. There were toll-free numbers, online banking and credit card calls; and a sprinkling of numbers she didn’t recognize.

  This is nuts. I don’t know what I’m doing. I should forget it.

  No, she had to resolve this.

  Claire picked up her cordless phone and called Julie’s cell phone.

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Hey there, Claire.”

  “I want to do it. I want you to look into the phone numbers. He’ll never know, right?”

  “He’ll never know.”

  “Okay, you’ve already got our numbers, what else do you need?”

  “Your carrier, your phone company.”

  Claire gave it to Julie.

  “Also, what is his ex-wife’s last name?”

  Claire thought.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where does she live?”

  Again, Claire didn’t have any idea.

  “Never mind,” Julie said. “It’s okay. Give me some time. I’ve got some urgent stuff I need to take care of, so I’ll get back to you.”

  After Claire hung up, she found herself in Robert’s office, thinking. A hint of his cologne mixed with the leathery smell of his office chair. He was neat and orderly. Nothing was out of place. She glanced at the spot on the floor where she’d found the photo of Robert and Cynthia.

  He’d obviously put it back.

  As she traced her fingers over his mahogany desk it dawned on Claire how little she knew about Robert’s first wife and his marriage.

  25

  Los Angeles, California

  Mark Harding arrived at the L.A. bureau at 6:00 a.m., hours before any of the other ANPA staffers. He took the elevator to the twenty-fifth floor, swiped his security card at the office door and started working at his desk.

  He’d been coming in early ever since writing his feature on the Dark Wind Killer because he was desperate to land another exclusive with a follow-up.

  When he broke the story, it had received major play in newspapers across L.A. and Southern California. But beyond that, pickup by news outlets that subscribed to the news service was spotty for print. The Chicago Tribune, The Boston Globe and The Washington Post were some of the big metros that ran the feature, while most online sites carried an abridged version.

  Feeding on the angle of the killer’s vow to return, L.A.’s TV and radio news crowd had followed Harding’s five victim profiles. They’d also interviewed the relatives, criminology experts and the lead investigator.

  “Is the killer still out there?” one TV reporter had asked Tanner.

  “We can’t rule that out, but we think he’s dead,” Tanner had said to the camera. “We invite anyone with information on this case to contact us.”

  L.A.’s press kept the story alive for a few days before it faded.

  Now, nearly two weeks later, nothing new had surfaced. The story was all but forgotten and Magda had been quick to resume burying him with dull stories of limited interest about the entertainment industry.

  It pissed him off.

  Harding refused to abandon his story and came in on his own time to secretly work on it, trying everything he could think of. He monitored all social network traffic for any leads. He stayed in touch with the victims’ families, asking if police had privately indicated any breaks in the case. He used the time zone difference to call his cop sources across the country, thinking, hoping some had friends on the task force Tanner was leading. In the early hours he texted Tanner directly, or called him.

  “Nothing so far,” Tanner said each time. “I’ll let you know if anything significant surfaces.”

  Each morning Harding unfolded a map of L.A. on his desk, then set out all of his notes and the documents that he’d collected in his growing file on the case. Like a miner panning for gold he searched for the nugget of information that would advance the story.

  He was so tired.

  This morning, after working straight for nearly two hours, he stood at the window and looked at the city.

  Somebody out there has to know something.

  But he was at a loss at what to do next. All of his efforts had been futile so far. He started to doubt himself.

  “What are you doing, Mark?”

  He turned to see Magdalena Pierce standing at his desk, taking stock of all of his material on the Dark Wind Killer.

  He glanced around, realizing that while ruminating he’d failed to notice others were now settling into the office before he had time to put his research away.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “I was just rev
iewing notes.” Harding started collecting papers.

  Magda stopped him, setting her expensive-looking coffee mug-a gift from some aging European movie star-on Harding’s desk smack in the middle of his notes, as if driving a stake through them.

  “I thought I told you, Mark, this-” she nodded her chin to his work as if it offended her “-is a one-hit wonder.”

  “I don’t agree.”

  At that moment, across the small office at the reception desk, Allison Porter was well into the morning practice of handling the day’s mail. Even though it was an online world, people still used the post office, she thought. She was going through bills, junk mail, solicitations, news releases, resumes and other items when she came to a white business envelope.

  It was addressed in handwritten block letters to NEWS DEPARTMENT, ALLNEWS PRESS AGENCY-LOS ANGELES, and continued with the proper address and zip code.

  But it was the return address that gave Allison pause.

  In smaller block letters it read MY TORMENT, then IN THE BOWELS OF HELL.

  The envelope had a bit of thickness to it. There was more than paper inside. The bureau received the occasional rant from fringe groups or nut jobs but this one was weird, kind of creepy, Allison thought, slipping the letter opener under the flap.

  * * *

  Back at his desk Harding tried to make his case.

  “I think we need to follow this story closely, or someone else like the AP, Reuters or the L.A. Times will take it away from us.”

  Magda remained indifferent. Her designer jewelry was chiming as she scrawled a note on a page of one of his notepads, a habit of hers that annoyed him, tearing the fragment and handing it to him.

  “There’s nothing to follow until something breaks, meanwhile-”

  “But that’s the point, we should be dig-”

  “We need to stay on the stories that yield dividends. This guy-” a polished nail tapped the number “-is an old source of mine and he’s just heard that there’s going to be a massive shake-up at one of the big studios. Several executives are leaving to form a competing company.”

  “You’re serious?” Harding stared at her. “You think that is what the vast majority of people want to read about?”

  “Everybody loves the movies.”

  “A monster killing women, versus overpaid people switching chairs.”

  “Please follow my instructions, Mark.”

  In that instant he tried to fathom why New York had not fired her, or maybe they were giving her enough rope. He was on the verge of really telling her off when-

  “Oh, my God!”

  Allison’s scream yanked their attention to the reception desk.

  26

  Los Angeles, California

  Mark Harding was first to arrive at reception.

  Allison was standing, gaping with shock, and drawing back from the letter and its contents. Harding saw the sheet of paper and the salutation.

  TO MARK HARDING

  He caught his breath, his pulse quickened. The instant he read the first line a sense of knowing erupted in the pit of his stomach. Without touching the letter, he leaned closer. Each word hit him hard as he read:

  TO MARK HARDING: REPORTER FOR THE ALLNEWS PRESS AGENCY.

  THIS IS DWK SPEAKING.

  THANK YOU FOR YOUR RECENT INTEREST IN MY WORK. IT HAS BEEN A LONG TIME AND I WAS BEGINNING TO THINK THAT THE BRILLIANT MINDS OF L.A. LAW ENFORCEMENT WOULD NEVER APPRECIATE THE MEANING OF THE BEAUTIFUL GIFT I’D LEFT THEM.

  YOUR ARTICLE AWAKENED THE EVIL INSIDE ME.

  NO ONE CAN SAVE ME. NO ONE CAN STOP ME. NO ONE CAN UNDERSTAND MY PAIN, MY TORMENT AND THE UNPARALLELED AGONY AND ECSTASY OF MY EXISTENCE.

  I LIVE A NORMAL EVERYDAY LIFE AMONG YOU. BUT I AM NOT LIKE YOU, OR ANY OTHER HUMAN BEING. I LOOK DOWN ON THE MORTALS OF THIS WORLD-SO WEAK, SO VULNERABLE, AS I PREPARE TO FULFILL MY DESTINY.

  THEY CALLED ME A WORM. THEY TOLD ME I WAS NEVER MEANT TO BE. THEY TORTURED ME, TAUGHT ME TO KILL UNTIL I COULD NO LONGER EXIST WITHOUT KILLING.

  TO AUTHENTICATE MY REALITY I HAVE ENCLOSED AN EXAMPLE OF MY WORK THAT WILL REMOVE ALL DOUBT.

  IT WILL ENABLE YOU TO “SEE” THE LIGHT.

  I AM REACHING OUT FROM THE DARKNESS TO WARN THE WORLD THAT I HAVE KEPT MY WORD.

  I AM BACK TO CLAIM THE REVERENCE AND THE WONDER THAT I AM OWED.

  I HAVE ALREADY EMBARKED ON MY NEXT CREATION.

  I WILL SOON UNLEASH FEAR UNLIKE ANYTHING THE WORLD HAS EVER KNOWN FROM JTR AND ZK, MY LESSER PREDECESSORS.

  I DECIDE WHO LIVES AND WHO DIES.

  I AM THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WIND.

  YOURS IN BLOOD,

  DWK

  All the saliva in Harding’s mouth evaporated.

  “What are JTR and ZK?” Allison asked.

  “Likely Jack the Ripper and the Zodiac Killer from San Francisco,” Harding said.

  “It’s a hoax.” Magda had read over his shoulder. “It has to be a hoax.”

  Ignoring her, Harding saw that two other pages were folded under the letter and he turned to Allison.

  “Do you have tweezers, or something?”

  Flustered, she seized her bag under the desk, went through her manicure set and thrust small tweezers at him. Using them to grip a corner, Harding carefully moved the one-page letter off the next page.

  The second page was neatly divided by two crisp, color photos of the head and shoulders of a naked woman in her twenties. In the first picture she was bound in wide-eyed terror. In the second she was dead.

  “Jesus Christ!” Nick Obrisk, one of the bureau’s soon-to-retire staff writers, said. “That is un-freaking-believable.”

  Under that page there was a third page. Taped to it was the California driver’s license for Leeza Meadows, aged twenty-one, of Santa Clarita.

  “Is this for real, Mark?” Obrisk said.

  “I think so. Leeza Meadows was the first of the five victims. Tanner said two items were missing from her bag where she was found. One was her cell phone. Police never made public what the second item was. I think this is it, Leeza’s California driver’s license.”

  “Who’s Tanner?” Magda asked.

  Harding and Obrisk looked at her. She’d just confirmed she didn’t read the work of the people she supervised.

  “He’s the detective leading the DWK task force. He’s in my story.”

  “Of course,” she said. “It slipped my mind.”

  “That’s a helluva thing you got there,” Obrisk said. “What are you going to do?”

  “We need to record this.” Harding scanned the bureau. “Where’s Jodi-Lee?”

  “She’s buying a yogurt downstairs. She should be back by now,” Allison said. “Mark can we just get this stuff off of my desk?”

  “Hang on. Nobody touches anything.” Harding spotted Jodi-Lee Ruiz at the door, waved her over and told her what had happened.

  “Holy crap.” She set down her yogurt and juice and slipped off her camera bag. She pulled out a camera and changed the lens as Harding gave her directions.

  “We need photographs of Allison’s desk with the pages, showing exactly how the letter was received. Then close-ups of each page so we’ll have our own copies, the envelope, the license, everything.”

  While Jodi-Lee’s camera clicked with shot after shot, Harding saw Magda pull out her cell phone.

  “I’m calling New York. Mark, I want you to knock out a quick, exclusive item about the killer writing to us,” she said. “Can you put it together in an hour?”

  “What?” Harding was incredulous at her 180-degree turn on the story. “Hold up, we need to call the task force first.”

  “Why? Screw them. This is a huge story.”

  “No, let me talk to Tanner first.”

  “Burn him. We need this exclusive.”

  “What? I’m not going to burn him. Are you nuts?”

  “I don’t understand why you need to go to the cops with this. The killer wrote to us, it’s our property.”

  “We need the
m to confirm that this is from the killer. We’d look pretty stupid if we got taken in by a hoax.”

  Magda’s face flushed. It was clear to everyone that she lacked the experience to handle breaking news of this magnitude. Struggling to replace embarrassment with authority, she put her phone away and glared at Harding.

  “Fine.” She glanced at the wall clock before walking away. “I’ll give you three hours. Then I want a story.”

  27

  Los Angeles, California

  Tanner checked his phone for messages while watching L.A.’s sprawl roll by his window as Zurn exceeded the speed limit on the 10.

  Twenty minutes earlier, Tanner had been at his desk reviewing an old file when Mark Harding called his cell phone.

  “We just got a letter that you need to see. It’s from the Dark Wind Killer.”

  “The killer wrote to you?”

  “He’s responding to our story.”

  “What does it say?” Tanner had opened his notebook and poised his pen.

  “He’s going to kill again, and he included Leeza Meadows’s driver’s license and a photo of her bound and alive and a photo of her dead.”

  Tanner’s gut had spasmed.

  While he’d told Harding about the cell phone, only the killer would have knowledge about Leeza’s driver’s license. Investigators had never released that fact.

  In the silence that followed, he wedged his phone between his ear and shoulder while he searched the documents on his desk.

  “Do you still have the license and photos?”

  “Yes, at our bureau. We just got it.”

  “You’re there now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t leave. Don’t move or touch the material, and don’t let anyone who touched any of it leave. We’re on our way.”

  Before they’d left, Tanner had alerted his lieutenant to the break in the case. The lieutenant then advised the captain and a series of actions began. Calls were made to prepare to expedite a warrant in case the news agency refused to volunteer the letter. A request went to the FBI to dispatch its Evidence Response Team to collect and process the material. The FBI’s Los Angeles division was about four miles west of the ANPA’s bureau. Special Agent Brad Knox led a small team of agents and other specialists. They joined Tanner and Zurn, filling the ANPA’s small reception area where Harding met them.