“Of course, I didn’t know that at the time.” Landry nodded. “It certainly explains a lot. He was very adamant that I did not know what I was talking about and insisted that I should write another book and admit I was wrong.”
“How many times did he write to you?” Will asked.
“Several times, but he stopped writing when I started asking him questions about how he knew so much about the criminal mind. I invited him here to chat, offered to give him an opportunity to explain his point of view, but I never heard from him again. After a time, I just chalked him up as a crazy and forgot about him,” Landry said. “Then, a few months ago, I read about his long life of crime, and I looked up the letters—”
“You still have the letters?” Miranda appeared surprised.
“Yes. I don’t know why I kept them, frankly. Must have subconsciously suspected I’d hear of him again.”
“May we see them?” Will asked.
“Certainly. They’re in my office.” He started to get up, and Regan stopped him.
“I’ll get them, Dad. I know exactly where they are.” She turned to Miranda and Will and said, “I’ve reviewed them several times over the past few weeks, ironically, in preparation for a new book.”
“R. J. Landry,” Will said. “You’ve cowritten several books with your father.”
“Yes.” Regan nodded and appeared to be pleased by the recognition. “I’ll be right back with the letters.”
“She’s the real brains.” Landry tilted his head in his daughter’s direction. “Much better writer, much cleaner insights. Sharper instincts . . .”
Regan rolled her eyes and laughed as she left the room.
“Now, tell me, what exactly are you looking for in Channing’s letters?” Josh Landry ran a hand through his thick white hair. “I mean, the man is dead, and I can assure you he never mentioned a thing about having killed anyone. I would, of course, have gone straight to the police had he done so.”
“We’re sure you would have, Mr. Landry, but the truth is, we’re not investigating an old murder. We’re trying to prevent a future one,” Miranda told him. “Let me explain . . .”
She proceeded to tell him about the unholy trio who had put into play a game that required each man to kill three people who had, in some way, been a thorn in the side of one of the others.
“Hmmmm.” Landry stroked his chin, his eyes bright as he contemplated the scenario. “So you think this last fellow, this Lowell, is going to kill three people named by Channing. Interesting.”
Regan came back into the room carrying a red file, which she handed over to Miranda.
“Most of the letters are here,” Regan told her. “There are several others we’re still looking for. I think a few might have been misplaced when Dad hired a new secretary. She moved some files around, and there are some things still missing. But these will give you a start.”
“Thank you.” Miranda opened the folder.
“This Lowell . . . you say he’s not the killer type?” Landry directed the question to Will.
“We certainly didn’t think so. At least, not until Al Unger was murdered,” Will replied. “Even our profiler believed that Lowell wouldn’t play it out.”
“Wait a minute. What did I miss?” Regan asked. “Who is Lowell?”
“Archer Lowell,” Miranda said, and repeated the connection of Lowell to Channing.
“Three killers?” Regan’s eyebrows raised, and she glanced at her father. “There’s a story for you.”
“Indeed. I admit to being intrigued by what Agent Cahill has shared with us. Now, back to this Lowell fellow. You were saying that your profiler thought he wasn’t the killer type. Most people are repelled by the notion of killing, you know. Most normal people, anyway.”
“According to the reports I’ve heard, Lowell was definitely repelled by the photographs of Giordano’s victims,” Miranda told him as she skimmed the contents of the file.
“Then I suppose it needs to be determined what could have coerced this young man to kill,” Landry noted. “If in fact he did kill Albert Unger. You’re certain there was no fourth player?”
“As far as we know, there are only the three involved.”
“Hmmm. Certainly a lot to think about. A real puzzle to be solved.” Landry looked pleased at the prospect.
“Mr. Landry—” Miranda looked up from the letter she was reading “—Channing says in this letter, ‘You need to tell it the way it is. You set it straight, or someday I will set you straight. I hate people like you who think you know, when you don’t know. You talk about these things like they are truth, but you do not know the truth. You are getting rich telling lies. My mother always said that liars are found out. Maybe someone should find you out and show you the truth. Maybe someday I will. . . .’ ”
Miranda held the letter up. “Does that sound like a threat to you?”
“Not really.” Landry shrugged. “Besides, Channing is dead and . . .” He paused for a moment, then said, “Oh. I see. You’re wondering if maybe mine was one of the three names?”
“The thought is crossing my mind.”
“What an intriguing idea. Me, a victim.”
Regan looked up sharply.
“Dad, I don’t think you should be so cavalier. If this man was part of this killing club, and there’s reason to believe that you might have been singled out—”
Landry waved a hand as if to dismiss her. “Those letters were written six or seven years ago. I’d be surprised if Channing even remembered writing them,” Landry told her. “And I’d be surprised if this was all that important to him even when he wrote them.”
“It’s been thirty years since Unger killed Channing’s mother,” Regan reminded him. “And Unger’s now dead.”
“True, but that’s entirely different. According to the news reports I read, Channing watched from a closet as Unger murdered his mother. He was eight years old at the time. Of course he would harbor a long-term resentment.”
“Not for the reason you might think,” Will said. “He told our profiler he hated Unger for killing his mother because he, Channing, had wanted to kill her himself.”
“Oh.” Landry mulled over this information. “That might put just a slightly different spin on things.”
“Mr. Landry, we’re trying to locate people who we think might have angered Channing at some point in his life. It sounds from those letters that your books set him off.”
“Well, then, supposing you’re right, Agent Fletcher. What do you suggest we do about it?” Landry’s daughter’s eyes clouded with worry.
“I think the first thing we need to do is get your local police involved,” Miranda said. “And we need to assess your security here.”
“I assure you my security system is top of the line. I have all faith in it.” Landry smiled and added, “As for the local police, well, let’s just say I have more faith in my alarm system, and we’ll leave it at that.”
“There’s always private security, Dad. You can always hire someone.”
Landry made a face. “I think you’re getting a bit carried away, honey.”
“And I think you’re being a little too cocky about the possibility of your name being on a hit list. It isn’t a game, Dad.”
“Oh, but apparently that’s exactly what it is.” Landry appeared unfazed.
“Any other red flags in those letters?” Will asked Miranda.
“No. It’s interesting, though, that he wrote at least one of them right around the time I interviewed him about the Ohio murders.” Miranda passed the file on to Will.
“The Ohio murders?” Landry turned his attention from his daughter to Miranda.
“About six years ago, there was a series of murders in southern Ohio. Several suspects were picked up. Channing was one of them. I interviewed him, couldn’t get a thing from him, so we had to let him go. But at the time, he just gave me the feeling that . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“That he was involved?” Landry compl
eted the thought for her.
“Yes. But it was my first case, and I didn’t know at the time if I just had unusually good instincts, or if I was seeing things that weren’t there because I wanted to crack the case. I just hadn’t learned to trust myself then.”
“These are the cases that were recently linked to Channing through DNA, the ones I read about in the paper?” Landry asked.
“Yes,” Miranda said.
“So your instincts were right on, after all.” Landry leaned over and patted her arm.
“Fat lot of good it did us.” Miranda shook her head. “After he was interviewed, he disappeared.”
“So you scared him off,” Landry noted. “You could possibly have saved the lives of several unsuspecting women.”
“Only to put others in jeopardy,” Miranda replied. “We now know that later that same year he killed four women in Kentucky, and several other women in other locales. There are probably more. We’re still piecing his movements together.”
“Well, then, it appears you may have stymied him at a critical time. Stopped his forward motion, so to speak. I doubt he’d have been too happy with you at the time.” Joshua Landry leaned forward, his arms resting on his thighs. “As a matter of fact, I imagine it would have made him quite angry. Aren’t you just a bit worried, Agent Cahill?”
“Worried about what?” Miranda frowned.
“Worried that perhaps your name is on that list as well.”
CHAPTER
NINE
“So what did you think of him?” Will asked as he settled into the front seat of Miranda’s car.
“Landry? I liked him,” she replied. “I liked him a lot. The daughter, too. She seems pretty sharp, don’t you think?”
“Sharper than the old man, in some respects. But I liked him. I hope we’re wrong.” He hesitated for a moment. “I hope he’s wrong.”
“About what?”
“About Channing being pissed at you.”
“I doubt Channing ever gave me another thought once he’d left that interview room. I can’t think of one good reason why he would.”
“Well, as Landry pointed out, you did stop his forward motion.”
“You think it made a difference to him? He just moved on and started over.” She turned on the ignition and backed the car out of its spot near the barn. “Now, Joshua Landry, he’s a different story. You read those letters. Landry really had old Curtis pissed off.”
“You think he’s taking this seriously?”
“Not as seriously as Regan is.”
“That was my impression, too.”
“He did seem almost amused by the prospect of a killer coming after him, didn’t he?” She shook her head. “Writers. Every one I’ve ever met has been just a little off, you know what I mean?”
“Yeah. But I feel better knowing that the local police will be keeping an eye on things.”
“Ah, may I remind you that we just went through this in Telford?”
“Well, with any luck, these guys will do a better job than the Telford police did with Al Unger.”
“Though the officers who came out to Landry’s in response to his call seemed genuinely fond of him,” Miranda noted. “Guess he’s somewhat of a local celebrity. I think they’ll keep tabs on him. Plus, he has that mega security system. Hopefully, he should be all right until we find Lowell.”
“Well, I’ll feel better if Regan is successful in getting her father to agree to hiring someone to watch his back. She seemed concerned about leaving him when she goes back to Philly tomorrow. She doesn’t look like she’d be much of a bodyguard.”
“I don’t know about that. I read an article about her last year. She’s pretty accomplished. She’s supposed to be quite the marksman. She’s a black belt in tae kwon do and competes in triathlons.”
“Maybe so, but I don’t think watching out for Landry is a job for his daughter.”
“I think I’d have more faith in her than in the local police.”
“Speaking of whom, you didn’t hear back from Fleming yet, did you?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Maybe I should pull over and make a call.”
“Why don’t we stop for dinner at one of those restaurants out there on Route One? I noticed there were quite a few when we came in.”
“Good idea. I’ll never make it back to Virginia on an empty stomach.”
“Me either.”
They rode in silence for a mile or two, down the winding country road.
“This is Grovers Mill,” Will noted as the car rounded a curve that wrapped around a large lake. “See the sign back there?”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“Sure. Orson Welles. War of the Worlds.”
“You’re talking about the novel?”
“I’m talking about the radio show, back in the late thirties. The night before Halloween, 1938. The novel was adapted as a radio play and rewritten as a live news broadcast. Actors described the landing of a force of invaders from Mars. It was supposed to have happened on a farm right back there in Grovers Mill.”
“I think I might have heard about that but don’t recall the details.”
“It was really famous. As a matter of fact, you can buy the entire broadcast on tape. I’ll see if I can find it for you; you can listen to it yourself. People tuned in, not realizing it was a play, and there was all kinds of panic. People hid in cellars, locked themselves in their houses, boarded up the windows, and loaded up their shotguns, ready to take on the Martians. The broadcast was so convincing, people really believed the United States was being invaded by a force from outer space.”
“Didn’t they tell the public it wasn’t real?” She frowned. “That’s not very responsible.”
“They did make it very clear at the beginning, and occasionally reminded the listeners that it was just a play. But you know how it is, if you turn on the radio or the TV in the middle of something, you often have no idea what’s going on. If it looks like a real broadcast, sounds like real news coverage, you think it’s real.”
“So if you tuned in at the wrong time, you thought we were under attack?”
“Apparently, a lot of people really believed it.”
“And they broadcast from back there?”
“No, they just said they were there.”
“Why’d they pick that place? It’s in the middle of nowhere.”
“That’s probably why they picked it. I guess if they’d said they were broadcasting from someplace like Times Square, everyone would know it wasn’t real.”
She stopped at a stop sign, tried to get her bearings and remember which way they had come.
“Take a right here,” Will said.
“You sure?” she asked, then, rather than wait for an answer, said, “Oh, of course, you’re sure. You’re always sure of yourself, aren’t you, William James Fletcher, special agent for the FBI?” She slanted him a look from the corner of her eye and hit the gas.
“Right now the only thing I’m sure of is that I’m likely to die in this car with you behind the wheel,” he muttered, and she laughed.
Minutes later the Spyder was pulling into a parking spot in front of a busy diner, and Miranda was digging into her purse for her cell phone. Will got out of the car while she made the call to Fleming, and wondered if there was any real possibility that Miranda’s could be the third name on the list. He didn’t have a good feeling about it. The thought of it caused his insides to twist.
“I had to leave a message for Carson to call me back,” she said as she stepped out of the car and locked it. “Ready?”
Will nodded and they walked up the steps of the diner.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Miranda said after they’d been seated.
Before he could reply, a waitress in a black dress appeared with menus in one hand and flatware in the other.
“Specials are inside,” she told them as she set their places for them. “I’ll be back with your water in a sec.”
“Efficient, isn’t she?” Will noted as he opened the menu.
Miranda looked at him over the top of hers. She knew the look on his face, the set of his jaw. Something was working below the surface, and she was going to find out what it was.
“I think I’ll have the turkey sandwich,” Miranda told him. “How about you?”
“I’m going to have the pork chops,” he said.
The waitress returned with their water, and they placed their orders.
“So,” Miranda said when the waitress disappeared. “Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?”
“You have to ask?”
“You’re wondering how we let Lowell get to Unger and how we can make sure Landry is protected.”
“Bring it a little closer to home.”
“You’re thinking about Landry’s suggestion that I’m the third?” She frowned.
“I think we need to discuss it with John. I don’t think we can take this lightly.”
“I’m not taking it lightly,” she said softly. She hadn’t. But she’d pushed it aside to think about later.
“Tell me about the interview you had with Channing six years ago. Tell me everything you remember. What he said, how he said it. How he looked when he said it. Let’s go over it, bit by bit.”
“I don’t recall all the details.” She played with her spoon, spinning it around slowly on the table. “But if we could find the file, there is a tape.”
“A tape of the interview?” he asked. “He let you tape the interview?”
“Yes. Actually, he seemed amused by the prospect.”
“It has to be in the file, though I don’t remember seeing a tape when I looked for your reports a few months back. I’ll check again as soon as we get back to the office. I think we need to listen to the tape and see exactly what he had to say to you back then.”
“I remember his tone—he was pretty cocky with me, I remember that. As if he knew exactly what I wanted to know, but he wasn’t going to give me a thing.”
“Was he aggressive? Combative?”
“No, no. More like he was toying with me. The impression that I had was that he seemed more amused than angry. At least in the beginning, he did.” She continued to play with the spoon. “I think if he was angry at all, it might have been toward the end of the interview. I seem to recall there’d been a shift in his demeanor, somehow.”
Dead Even Page 11
