The Informant

by James Grippando

  Chapter 16

  karen’s eyes blinked open at the crack of dawn. The bedroom walls were a pale sky blue. A poster-sized photo of Clearwater High Schoo’s Class of ’82 covered the bedroom door. Kermit the Frog, Winnie-the-Pooh, and the rest of her childhood collection of stuffed animals stared at her from across the room. The rousing smell of coffee told her life was stirring in the kitchen. She checked the old heart-shaped Snoopy alarm clock on the nightstand, then lay back on her pillow and smiled to herself. Seven A.M. A whole extra hour of sleep today. At least Mom sleeps in on the weekends.

  Although she’d instructed her secretary to tell everyone she was out of town on business, she’d actually gone home for a week away from Mike, their counselor and their well-intending mutual friends. She had things to sort out in her own mind, and it was impossible for her to be objective about their marriage while living in the home they’d built together, waking up every morning in the bed they used to share.

  She put on her robe and slippers, brushed her hair, made a quick stop in the bathroom and shuffled sleepily toward the kitchen.

  “Morning, dear,” her mother said cheerfully. Her face was already made up, and she was dressed smartly in blue slacks and a pink blouse, wrapped in a big flower-print apron. She was standing at the stove, flipping pancakes on the griddle.

  Karen gave her a peck on the cheek, then poured herself some coffee.

  “Cream’s on the table,” her mother said. “I have an appointment at the beauty shop at eight. I thought maybe you’d want to come with me.”

  She smiled sadly. Even after a whole year, it still depressed her to think of her mother as a member of the widows club that met every Saturday morning at the Curl Up And Dye. She ran her fingers through her tangled hair and said, “I…don’t think so.”

  Her mother brought a platter of pancakes to the table, then sat directly across from her. Karen’s eyes widened incredulously at the mountainous stack. “Mom, it’s just you and me, right? Or did you invite the neighborhood?”

  “The perfect ones are on top. The not-so-perfect ones are underneath.”

  Karen lifted her plate like a beggar and smiled with appreciation. “I’ll have a perfect one.”

  She smothered the cakes with the goodies she never kept in her own house—real butter with all the fat, real maple syrup with all the calories. She ate quietly, only half listening as her mother discussed their plans for the day. After a few bites, she put down her fork and flashed the troubled look that never in thirty-two years had failed to draw the appropriate response from her mother.

  “What’s wrong, dear?”

  “Mom, did you ever keep secrets from Daddy?”

  She shifted in her seat, a bit taken aback. “My, where did that come from?”

  “Did you?”

  Her coffee cup tinkled as she stirred nervously. “I suppose I did, sure.”

  “I don’t mean little things. Big things.”

  “Everybody has secrets, Karen.”

  “What’s the biggest secret you ever kept from him?”

  “Oh, my,” she said, sighing at the size of the question. “I don’t know.”

  “I know it’s personal. But it’s really important.”

  She looked into her daughter’s clouded eyes, and she could see it was important. “All right. Well…” She looked off toward the dining room, searching her mind. “I know. You remember your daddy’s first Lincoln? The Mark Four, or whatever it was called back in the early seventies.”

  “He loved that car,” Karen said with a nostalgic smile.

  “Oh, did he love that car. I was the only person he would let drive it, besides himself.”

  “Actually, I don’t even remember him letting you drive it.”

  “I drove it. Once. Got as far as the end of the driveway. Damn thing was so long I backed it right into the mailbox.”

  Karen laughed, then covered her mouth. “I’m sorry. That’s not funny.”

  “At the time it was terrifying. Never in his whole life had your father ever bought himself an expensive new car. It was just two weeks old, and I put a nasty dent in the fender.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Luckily, your father was out of town on business. So I drove it to the body shop and had it fixed.”

  “Did you tell Daddy?”

  “Never.”

  “Didn’t you feel bad about that?”

  “At times. But I figured, this was one of those unique situations where telling him what had happened would actually be selfish. My confession wouldn’t make him feel better. It would only make me feel better, by easing my conscience. That new car was such a joy for him. Why spoil it?”

  “That makes sense.”

  “Sure it does. But the problem, Karen, is that you can rationalize just about anything that way. You can rationalize lying about an affair that way. Why be so selfish as to tell your husband? It would only spoil his image of you.”

  “Then how did you draw the line?”

  “I just drew it. And that’s the real problem with secrets. It’s like Nixon and Watergate. The cover-up is worse than the crime. Once you keep a secret from someone, it gets harder every day to tell the truth. After your father sold his car and bought a new one, I could have told him I put a dent in it. No big deal. A car is just a thing. But the fact that I’d kept it a secret from him for so long—that would have truly hurt him. And it’s a Pandora’s box. He’d start to think, gee, what other secrets does my wife keep from me?”

  “So you never told him.”

  “No, I never did.”

  They sat in silence for a minute. Then her mother looked at her with concern and asked, “Sweetheart, is there something you’re keeping from Mike?”

  Karen stared down into her coffee cup. “Yes. And it’s just like you said. I’ve kept it inside so long that I don’t know how I can ever tell him.”

  “I’m sure if it’s just a little thing, he’ll understand.”

  “It’s not a little thing. Not even close.”

  “How big is it?”

  She looked up, and her eyes welled with tears. “Mom,” her voice shook, “you know how big it is.”

  The older woman’s eyes filled with sadness. She knew. And she could tell from the look on Karen’s face that the years of silence had made it even more of a secret than it ever had been. She could see that, at least in her own mind, it had become unspeakable.

  The morning sun was streaming into Zack’s waterfront condo, but Mike was only half awake. His hair was sticking out in all directions from another sleepless night of tossing and turning, reflecting on a bizarre week. It was almost morbid the way congratulatory calls had streamed in from friends and colleagues at the New York Times, the Washington Post, and all over the country. His Saturday-edition exclusive was a Sunday headline everywhere else. The random nature of the brutal killings and the wide geographic dispersion had turned it into national news: Anyone, anywhere could be next. The best part, quipped Aaron Fields, was that even the San Francisco Chronicle—the paper of record in the victim’s hometown—could only print the facts “as reported by the Miami Tribune.”

  Beautiful, he mused. Thirteen years of busting hump, and the biggest story ever comes from opening a checkbook.

  Behind the hubbub, however, thoughts of yet another victim swirled distractingly. He was all too aware that after the last cash deposit, the killer had struck immediately. Every time he managed to take his mind off the murders, troubled thoughts of Karen made sleep even more elusive. He’d been trying to call her since Monday, but her secretary said she was “out of town, couldn’t be reached.” He hated to let this fester, but she obviously wasn’t ready to let him explain the debacle at the Metrorail. Over and over he replayed in his mind the perfect conversation where he’d tell all and she’d forgive him totally. He wasn’t sleeping, but he knew he was dreaming.

  He was wearing gym shorts and a T-shirt, sipping hot coffee and staring sleepily at the television from Zack’
s leather couch, when the phone rang. He muted the early-Saturday-morning news and grabbed the cordless phone from the cocktail table.

  “Thanks for the money, Posten.”

  A sudden burst of adrenaline lifted him from the couch. With the receiver pressed to his ear he walked out the sliding-glass door that led to the balcony. He stared out over the leafy green canopy of treetops below, wondering if his informant was as close as he sounded. “Don’t thank me. This is extortion.”

  “Sorry. I keep forgetting that I’m forcing you to become the hottest crime reporter in America.”

  “Look, it’s too early in the morning to play your silly games. Tell me who the killer is.”

  “You’ll need a serious increase on your Visa limit for an answer to that question.”

  “Is it you?” said Mike.

  In the sudden silence, Mike could hear a tinkling sound over the line, like wind chimes—or like the hypnotic sound of halyards tapping in the breeze against the bare masts of a thousand sailboats. On a hunch, he leaned out over the balcony railing, craning to see the pay phone right across the street by the marina. He could see the BellSouth logo on the shelter, but the corner of his own building jutted out just far enough to keep him from seeing whether anyone was at one of the phones. “How about it? Are you the killer?”

  “Are you trying to trace this call? Is that why you’re dragging it out, talking shit?”

  “No.”

  “Wouldn’t do you any good anyhow. It’s a pay phone. I’ll be in the next state before anyone can track it down.”

  A pay phone—and he sounded so close! Mike leaned over the railing again, straining even harder to see around the corner of his own building. He was twenty stories up, stretching out like a trapeze artist. The instant he looked down he lost his balance. He caught himself at the last second, arms flailing as he nearly dropped the phone. Still, he couldn’t see. “I’m not tracing anything.”

  “Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t. The fact that I’m even worried about it sucks. I chose you over thousands of other reporters, because I thought I could trust you.”

  “I’m as trustworthy as they get.”

  “Not good enough. I’m trusting you with my life, man. All you got on the line is your reputation.”

  “At least one of us is risking something of value.”

  “Always the wiseass, aren’t you? Good thing we’ll never meet. Could be dicey.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “I don’t make threats. Only predictions—remember?”

  Mike felt a knot in his stomach. “You still haven’t answered my question. Are you the killer.”

  “I don’t answer anything free of charge.”

  “That’s what makes you so special, I guess.”

  “That’s what makes me no different from anybody else. Nobody tells the truth for free. We’re all looking for something in return. Power. Respect. Sex. Love. All I want is money. Hell—I’m easy.”

  “This is anything but easy.”

  “That’s because you make it harder than it needs to be, looking in all kinds of places you shouldn’t be looking.”

  “Where should I look?”

  “Try the glove compartment of your wife’s car.”

  “You son of a bitch. You leave my wife out of this.”

  “It’s a real scoop, Posten. Victims eight and nine. Married couple. First double homicide. How bad do you want the story? Enough to drive over to the airport garage and hunt for your wife’s car while she’s out of town?”

  Mike bristled at the thought of him following Karen, knowing her whereabouts. It drove home the chilling point that there was no protection from a faceless enemy. He looked out from the balcony in frustration, wishing he could just see around the corner of the high-rise. “From now on,” he said angrily, “you deal directly with me, or we don’t deal. Period.”

  “‘From now on’—I like the sound of that. It means you understand that this is a long-term relationship. That’s good, because your next installment’s another hundred grand. And I want it quick. I’ll give you two working days. It’s due on Tuesday.”

  “Enough already. Just stop the killing, damn it.”

  “Easy, hotshot. My time is just about up, so I’m hanging up now, just in case you are tracing. But stay right by the phone, because I’ll call you right back. I promise I’ll have something that’s well worth a hundred thousand.”

  The line clicked. Immediately, Mike leaned out over the railing to see if anyone was walking away from the bank of pay phones. From his angle he couldn’t even see that much. He considered hopping on the elevator or even running down the twenty flights of stairs. His cordless phone would only work inside the apartment, however, and he didn’t want to miss the return call. Then his face lit up with an idea. He rushed to his closet and grabbed his binoculars, then raced out of the apartment, leaving the front door open as he peeled down the hall. He stopped at the window at the end of the corridor, hoping for a clear view of the pay phones. A big sprawling oak was blocking his line of sight.

  “Dammit!” He hurriedly retraced his steps back toward the apartment, then stopped suddenly in front of a neighbor’s unit. The north view! He pounded on the door, waited a few seconds, then pounded again. A sleepy man in pajamas answered with the chain on the door. He peeked out suspiciously through the crack.

  “This is life or death! Let me in, please. I need to use your balcony!”

  The man made a face, then groaned something in Spanish.

  Shit! For the millionth time in Miami, Mike wished he were bilingual. “Por favor, uh…”

  The phone rang back in Zack’s apartment, and with the door open he could hear it echoing down the hallway.

  “Let me inside, just for a second—please!”

  The man shrugged and slammed the door.

  The phone kept ringing. Mike sprinted back inside and snatched it up.

  “What took you so long?” the voice asked.

  Mike paused to catch his breath. The call sounded even closer than before. “Where are you?”

  “Where I am, who I am. That’s not important. Now, the killer—he’s important. So get yourself a pen, and write fast. Here’s your hundred-thousand-dollar story. Here’s what the criminal psychiatrists of the world call a profile of a serial killer.”

  Mike stood in the doorway, torn. He could rush downstairs on nothing but a hunch that his caller was there, but with the limited range of his cordless phone he’d lose the connection and miss the story. His other option was to stay put and get the story—the whole hundred-thousand-dollar exclusive. His stomach churned with the same mercenary guilt that had tortured him last time, when he’d called Aaron Fields to reserve page one.

  “I’m listening,” he said as he stepped back inside and closed the door. “Talk to me.”

  Chapter 17

  victoria arrived at Washington National Airport with pleasant thoughts of a quick drive home and a long soak in a hot, sudsy bath. Before she even reached baggage claim, however, her plans had changed. Another agent met her at the gate with new orders. She got right back on another flight and landed in Tampa, Florida, at ten-thirty Saturday morning.

  Clearwater Beach was a forty-minute drive from the airport. Victoria knew the way and drove on automatic pilot, glancing now and again at the glistening waves on a choppy Tampa Bay. Wrapped in her thoughts, she was recounting those pulse-pounding moments outside Timothy Copeland’s apartment last Tuesday night, ending in a futile chase of the glowing orange dot down the dark alley. It seemed like a metaphor for the entire investigation: a flicker of hope, another blind alley.

  She wondered if she’d really been that close to the killer, trying to understand the logic behind a serial killer watching her inspect the crime scene. She didn’t have to stretch to find an analogue. Her training had taught her that serial killers—particularly intelligent ones—often insinuated themselves into the police investigation, sometimes just for the thrill of it, but more often
to learn more about the investigation and the people conducting it. Ted Bundy had volunteered at a rape crisis center while he was murdering women in Seattle. Edmund Kemper, the California co-ed killer—with an IQ of 148, higher than Einstein’s—had so befriended the police that when he finally called and confessed to the murders they thought it was a crank.

  Her tired eyes suddenly flickered with an idea. She picked up her Dictaphone from the passenger seat, brought it to her lips, and hit RECORD. “Possible proactive measures. One. Hold community meetings in each affected neighborhood to discuss the murders. Publicize through the local media. Killer may appear at one or more, so monitor each meeting with plainclothes or video surveillance. Two. Identify local bars or other social gathering places where officers investigating the murders in each city hang out. Be on the lookout for inquisitive civilians. Three…”

  She paused, then sighed. She knew there was a third idea, but after a night on an airplane her mind had checked out. The exit ramp was just ahead anyway, so she switched off the Dictaphone and turned off the causeway.

  In five minutes she was in a quiet old neighborhood sporting one ranch-style house after another, all built in the 1950s and 1960s. Most had been updated by younger couples in recent years with new barrel-tile roofs and bright pastel paint jobs. A few were still home to their original owners, marked by old jalousie windows and pink plastic flamingos on the lawn. She checked the street numbers, then parked the rental car at the curb at the end of the cul-de-sac.

  She checked herself in the mirror. Terrible case of mushy airplane face, but it would have to do. She walked up the sidewalk and double-checked the address. Four-fifteen Bell Aire Lane. She rang the door bell and waited. A full-faced woman in her sixties answered. She looked like she’d just come from Saturday morning at the beauty parlor, with styled gray hair and a warm expression.