by Mike Omer
“Very well,” Captain Bailey said, and turned to the chief. “You should let the dispatchers know. The public will get hysterical. They’ll be swamped with calls.”
“I’ll talk to them,” she said. “I want a summary of everything we know about this killer on my desk in two hours.”
“Detective Lonnie will take care of it,” Bailey said. “He’s great at writing summaries.”
Chapter Thirteen
Tanessa had been surprised at how quickly she adjusted to the graveyard shift. She’d thought it would be terrible, going to sleep in the morning, waking up in the afternoon, staying up all night. A teenager’s life during spring break, but with less dancing and alcohol, and more arresting prostitutes and answering complaints about noisy neighbors.
Waking up in the afternoon still felt wrong. Her head always felt as if it had been submerged in sand while she slept, and her eyelids were heavy and gritty. She knew from experience that a cup of strong coffee in front of the TV, followed by a warm shower, helped her metamorphose from a shriveled mummy to a human being.
She sat down with her mug of life-reviving coffee and turned on the TV. The chief appeared on screen, talking on the front steps of the police department. That was enough to make Tanessa rub her eyes, sit up straighter, and turn the volume up.
“—two women in Boston, and two more in Glenmore Park,” the chief was saying. “We have established that these heinous crimes were committed by one individual.”
Tanessa listened in amazement as the chief explained about the serial killer running loose in Glenmore Park. Apparently, the police force was doing all it could to catch him. That didn’t seem to include Tanessa, who up until that moment had not known anything about a serial killer at all.
She dialed Mitchell.
“Hey,” he answered. “You’re up.”
“There’s a serial killer in Glenmore Park?” she asked him.
“Oh, you’re watching the press conference,” he said, but she hardly heard him, because the chief had just listed the names of the killer’s victims. The name Tamay Mosely rung in her ears, and images of the broken girl lying on the road popped into her mind. She recalled how she’d caressed the girl’s cheek, how she had told her it was going to be all right.
“Are you on the case?” she asked, her voice tense.
“Yeah. Jacob is lead. All the detectives are involved.”
“I want to help.”
“Sure. Uh… Keep an eye out for anyone that seems suspicious during your patrols, and—”
“Don’t bullshit me, Mitchell. I want to help.”
“What do you want me to do, Tanessa, ask the chief to promote you to detective?”
The chief was explaining that the killer was targeting young women, and that if anyone received an image from an unknown source she should immediately dial 911, to inform the police.
“What’s this about?” Tanessa asked. “The messages.”
“Tanessa, I really can’t talk about ongoing cases. Not even with—”
“Cut the crap, Mitchell.”
Mitchell sighed. “He sends his victims an image of what he’s about to use to kill them,” he said.
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.”
“So Tamay… Tamay Mosely,” Tanessa swallowed hard. There was a lump in her throat. She recalled the girl’s braids. Hundreds of braids. “Did she…”
“She had a message with an image of the Toyota Camry in her phone.”
The chief was now leaving the press conference, refusing to answer any more questions. Tanessa kept staring at the TV, thinking of the girl she had seen die.
Only ten minutes later she realized she had never hung up. The phone was discarded in her lap.
The shower did not help her feel better this time.
He was watching the press conference. At first, a wave of panic shot through him. They knew.
But then he realized he was more angry than worried. They were talking about him. They were calling his deeds “heinous” and “brutal.” No one mentioned the care with which he acted, making sure he left no trace to follow. They said all the victims were young women, but they didn’t say they had been beautiful. They mentioned the texts, alerting the public, letting them know that someone was sending something. They never mentioned the elegance in the text. The anticip…
…ation.
They were not telling his story, and this was a story that should be told. He had always known that eventually someone would connect the dots. He’d known it would come. He’d waited for it.
He anticipated it.
Now it was time. But the public should hear the full story. Not the one sided, vague police version. No. They should hear from him as well.
He opened his browser, and found the Glenmore Park Gazette’s site. He located the e-mail addresses of two reporters. One was named Steve Pollard. The other was named Ricky Nate.
He flipped a coin. Heads for Ricky, tails for Steve.
He didn’t check the outcome. Instead, he covered the coin with a small yellow Post-it lying on the table.
Anticip…
According to his articles, Steve Pollard seemed like a serious man who checked and double-checked all the facts, reported everything objectively, and never hid anything from the public. Ricky Nate seemed like a woman who reported on sensational stories, looking for the juicy bits, exposing the dirt on everything and everyone.
Who would tell his story?
He left the coin covered for fifty minutes.
…ation.
Finally, he could bear it no more, and he lifted the Post-it.
Ah.
Mitchell sat across from Pauline in the kitchen, drinking his morning coffee. The night before, he had gotten home at two in the morning, after long hours spent going through the list of models and model wannabes from Atticus Hoffman’s computer, checking them out, trying to find links between them and the murder victims, attempting to predict the murderer’s next victim.
It was impossible. Glenmore Park wasn’t such a large place. Many of the models were acquainted with one of the victims, or had shared friends with one of them. They all knew Atticus, of course. Mitchell knew he’d have to spend the day calling them, interviewing them. It was not a task he was excited about.
“There’s an article about your serial killer,” Pauline said, swiping her finger along her tablet. She was eating some granola. She hadn’t really spoken to him all morning; she was apparently pissed off, though he couldn’t fathom why.
“Yeah,” he said, tiredly. “I’m sure there are a lot of articles.”
“He sounds like a really creepy psycho,” Pauline muttered. “Sending messages to the victims, with the murder method? That’s fucked up.”
Mitchell stared at her in shock. He snatched the tablet from her hand.
“Hey!” she shouted at him, but he ignored her.
The public wasn’t supposed to know that the messages were the murder method; that was information the department had held back on purpose. He scanned the article quickly, his heart sinking in horror. It was all there. The article included the actual text messages, as well as detailed descriptions of the images. It also mentioned that all the victims were “unusually beautiful.” The article even gave the killer a name: The Deadly Messenger. What the hell was going on?
He checked the name of the reporter. Ricky Nate.
“Here,” he said, shoving the tablet into Pauline’s hands. This was his fault. He should never have supported the press conference idea. Jacob and Captain Bailey had obviously known something like this would happen. He got up and began pacing back and forth in their tiny living room, then pulled his phone from his pocket. He browsed to the Glenmore Park Gazette site, found their phone number and called it.
“Glenmore Park Gazette,” a young, feminine voice answered “This is Neomi, how can I help you?”
“I need to talk to Ricky Nate.”
“I’m sorry, Ricky’s not here yet. Can I take a message?
”
“This is Detective Mitchell Lonnie from the Glenmore Park PD. I need to talk to her urgently. Can you give me her number?”
“The private phone numbers of our reporters are confidential,” she answered. “If you’ll leave a message, she’ll call you as soon as—”
“It’s about the serial killer. I need to talk to her now.”
“As I said, the private phone numbers of our reporters are—”
“Okay, listen,” Mitchell said, losing the little patience he had. “Write down my badge number. Call the department. Verify that I’m really a damn detective, and then have Ricky Nate call me to this number.”
There was a moment of silence, and then the woman asked for his badge number. He dictated it, and she hung up. A few minutes later his phone rang, and he answered immediately.
“Hello?”
“Detective Lonnie?”
“Ricky Nate?” Mitchell paced around the coffee table.
“That’s right.” The voice sounded feminine, but low and throaty. Mitchell knew that many men found this kind of voice sexy. He just wanted her to cough out whatever was lodged in her trachea.
“I’m Detective Mitchell Lonnie from the Glenmore Park PD. I’m calling about the article you wrote.”
“I was about to call you myself,” she said.
“Call me?” he felt confused. “Who told you about me?”
“No! I meant call the police. Let you know that the killer had contacted me.”
Mitchell felt as if all his hair stood on edge. “What?” he hissed “When did that happen? How?”
“He sent me an e-mail last night,” Ricky said, her voice completely calm. “He described the messages he sent. He also mentioned that he took care to make sure that his victims were all incredibly beautiful.”
“Why didn’t you tell us about this last night?”
“Oh, it was quite late. I thought it could wait until morning,” she said.
He wanted to shove his hand through the phone and strangle her. He knew very well why she hadn’t called. She hadn’t wanted the police to stall the article.
“I need a copy of that e-mail,” he said. “And I need to talk to you.”
“What a coincidence.” She sounded as if she was smiling. “I need to interview you.”
“We’ll see about that,” he said, his voice sharp and angry. “How soon can you get to the police department?”
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Good. I’ll see you there.” He hung up the phone, fuming. He grabbed his small briefcase and walked out, trying to think how he should approach Ricky Nate.
He didn’t realize until he got to work that he hadn’t said goodbye to Pauline.
Ricky Nate was young; Mitchell pegged her as no more than thirty. She was brown-skinned with a warm bronze undertone that emphasized her dark eyes. Her hair was pulled back haphazardly into a curly ponytail. She sat across from the detectives in the interrogation room and regarded Mitchell and Jacob with a small smile. Mitchell hated her instantly. There was something patronizing and mocking in her entire demeanor. He despised the feeling that someone was looking down on him.
“So, Ms. Nate—” Jacob said.
“Ricky,” she interrupted him sharply.
“Ricky,” he said, his rhythm unwavering. “When did you receive the e-mail from the supposed killer?”
“Yesterday at eleven p.m,” she said.
“And why didn’t you inform us?”
“Like I told your friend, it was late. It didn’t seem urgent. I thought I’d wait until morning.”
“You received an e-mail from a serial killer, and it didn’t seem urgent to call the police?” Jacob raised his eyebrow. “You and I have different perceptions about what’s urgent.”
She shrugged. “It’s not like there’s information there you didn’t already have,” she said.
“We should be the judge of that,” Mitchell snapped. “You just didn’t want us to stop you from publishing the article.”
“Stop me?” she looked at him, clearly amused. “How would you have done that, Detective? Isn’t the First Amendment a thing in this country anymore?”
“That’s bullshit and you know it. We could have—”
“Ricky,” Jacob said loudly, cutting Mitchell off. “Did you have any other contact with the killer?”
“I replied to his e-mail with some questions,” she said. “And he didn’t answer.”
“Had he ever contacted you before?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? It could have been a random message on your phone, or an e-mail from a different address—”
“I receive a lot of messages, e-mails, and tweets every day, Detective,” Ricky said. “Of course it’s possible that one of those was the killer. But if it was, he never identified himself as the killer before, and never mentioned the serial murders.”
“Any idea how he got your e-mail?”
“It’s available on the Gazette’s website,” she said. “That’s probably how. Or maybe he somehow obtained one of my business cards. They have my e-mail as well. My e-mail is not a very well-kept secret. I’d be a crappy reporter if people had a hard time reaching me.”
“Is this the e-mail he sent you in its entirety?” Jacob showed her a printout of the e-mail she’d forwarded to them.
She glanced at the printout. “That’s right.”
“He doesn’t identify himself as the killer here, either,” Jacob said.
Mitchell glanced at his own copy. It was unsigned, and fairly brief. It stated what the messages to the victims were, described the images, and quoted the texts, followed by that creepy sentence about beautiful victims. It had been sent from a temporary mailbox site.
“No,” she agreed, “But he details all the messages, and says that he only selected beautiful young women. The fact that he’s the killer is implied.”
“How did you know it wasn’t a crank call?”
“I have my sources,” she said. “And I’m not going to expose them. Once I had the messages in hand, it was easy enough to validate that they were genuine.”
Mitchell wondered if her sources were on the Glenmore Park police force, or Boston’s. She probably had sources in both, he thought angrily.
“If the killer approaches you again, please let us know immediately,” Jacob said.
“Well…” She grinned at him. “We could both help each other, you know. I can promise to let you know as soon as he contacts me, and you can give me an interview.”
“Go to hell,” Mitchell said feeling a sudden pulse in his forehead. “You’ll let us know, or you’ll be charged with accessory to murder.”
“Fine,” she said, her voice clipped and sharp. Her patronizing look disappeared, replaced with fury.
“Thank you, Ms. Nate,” Jacob said.
She left in a huff. Jacob glanced at Mitchell, his blue eyes disappointed. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Mitchell muttered, knowing very well what was wrong. He felt guilty for causing this. “She got under my skin.”
“You don’t want the press to be hostile,” Jacob said. “She might look like a snotty woman who’s just out to spite you, but she’s a reporter. You don’t fuck with reporters.”
Chapter Fourteen
Detective Hannah Shor was following a trail of hair—the hairs found in the Toyota Camry that had been used to kill Tamay Mosely.
Matt had sent all the hair to the lab for diagnosis, hoping they might contain some rebellious nuclear DNA, so they could find a match via CODIS. The mayor, or perhaps even the governor, had pulled some strings, and their sample had been pushed to the front of the line. And, lo and behold, one of the strands did contain some nuclear DNA.
It matched a woman named Beatrice Smith, who lived in West Virginia. She had been arrested twice for theft, three times for prostitution, and once for drugs found in her possession. No one had any idea what her hair was doing in the car. It did n
ot sound likely she was their serial killer, especially considering the fact that she had been incarcerated at the time Aliza Kennedy had been murdered. Jacob had theorized that the Toyota Camry had been hers before it was Rabbi Friedman’s, but a quick investigation found that the Toyota had only had one other owner, a Glenmore Park resident.
There was only one conclusion: Beatrice had ridden in the car as a passenger at some point. Rabbi Friedman vehemently denied ever driving around with a prostitute from Idaho. He was, in fact, fairly specific in his denial; apparently, driving around with prostitutes from someplace other than Idaho might be a different story. He also said, when shown her mugshot, that he didn’t recognize her.
Hannah had decided to talk to Beatrice face to face.
She might have tried using the phone in any other case; Idaho was not exactly nearby. But, hey—unlimited resources, right? She booked a flight.
She was assisted by the local police in Nampa, Idaho, who escorted her to a rundown trailer in which Beatrice was known to serve customers. Beatrice—or Clover, as she was known in the area—refused to go to the police station. She reluctantly agreed to talk to Hannah in her trailer.
Now Hannah sat in the cramped space, the smell of sex and sweat clogging her nostrils. All the trailer windows were curtained by a pink cloth, and the light was dim and bluish. A small mini-fridge stood in the corner, an assortment of bills and a small picture of a family tacked on it with magnets. Hannah had politely refused to sit on the bed, knowing if her pants rubbed the bedsheets by accident, she’d throw them away. She sat on a small stool instead, while Clover sat on the bed.
Clover was incredibly pale and thin. She wore almost no makeup except for very light mascara on her eyelashes. She wore a loose, faded blue t-shirt and a pair of black yoga pants. Her black hair was cut short.
“I ain’t never been to Massachusetts,” she said. “I don’t know where Glimmer Park is at.”
“Glenmore Park,” Hannah said. “Have you ever seen this man?” She showed Clover the sketch they had of the killer.
