Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  “I know,” Kate said. “But I think his interaction with you is critical. The letters tell a part of the story, but not all of it makes sense. Why not use his nickname earlier? He claims he killed a girlfriend of yours and then he let you go. I never knew he let anyone go.”

  Anderson sighed and waited.

  “I’ll start at the beginning,” he said. “The Chronicle was my home and I loved it. I worked every day and had very little social life. In those days, I was a rising star. Laurence let me do whatever I wanted and once I started winning Virginia Press Association awards, Ethan let him pay me closer to a living wage. I was a big fish in a little pond and I liked it. I didn’t expect to be there much longer—maybe a couple more years—before I would try my hand at the Post or one of the dailies just outside D.C.”

  “Then Lord Halloween showed up,” Kate said.

  “I thought the first letter was a joke,” Anderson said, and he wasn’t looking at them anymore. He was staring at the window as if lost in memory. “‘Some of what I tell you will be lies.’ He had said it himself. I thought it was some kind of prank that Buzz or Kyle had created.”

  “They both worked there then?” Quinn asked.

  “Buzz did,” Anderson replied. “Kyle was actually working for the fire department at the time, but he desperately wanted to be a reporter. He was always hanging around the paper, wanting to know the latest scoops. He asked me to help get him a job, which I did, albeit unintentionally. I left. Anyway, those guys were both known for a practical joke or two, so I thought this was a good one. I thought it was sick, don’t get me wrong, but I didn’t take it seriously. I did what any good reporter does, however. I checked out the scene myself.

  “Up until the moment I found her body, I still thought it was a setup. Just where he told me, there was an easel set up and painting equipment. And I kept thinking, ‘Wow. Someone went to a lot of trouble to make this joke work.’ I walked around the park, looked at the painting, which was quite good, and was just about to get back in my car when I saw it. There was a clump of forest just outside the clearing and I saw something glinting in the sun. It was a paintbrush. So I went over to check it out and the body was just ten feet away. There was blood all over the ground and the number of flies buzzing around her was incredible. I didn’t know they could be that loud—or there would be that many. I vomited into the bushes. I had never seen a dead body and I simply couldn’t look away. It wasn’t like the movies. I kept looking at her face, which looked frozen in agony.”

  “What did you tell the police?”

  “Everything,” he said. “I knew if I didn’t it would look suspicious. I knew enough not to contaminate the crime scene, drove to the office, gave the letter to Laurence and we called the police together. Showed them the letter, which they promptly took, and they went to find the body. I spent a full day being questioned by them. I think many of the cops thought the letter was a ruse—that the woman was somehow my girlfriend and I had just created an elaborate scheme. I don’t think they seriously considered that it was for real. Well, not until the second letter.”

  “Did you check that out ahead of time too?” Quinn asked.

  “No,” Anderson said. “That time I just called the police. I had no choice. They had ordered Ethan Holden not to publish the letters and I was to hand them over as soon as they came in. I wasn’t even supposed to read them first.”

  “Ordered him not to publish?” Quinn asked. “They can’t do that.”

  “That was what I said,” Anderson responded. “In the early days, it was all about journalistic integrity to me. We had a duty to warn the public, we had a responsibility to give information to the readership. And hell, it was a good story, right? It wasn’t the primary motivating factor, but I’m not saying I didn’t know that.”

  “But Laurence wouldn’t do it?”

  “The problem wasn’t Laurence,” Anderson said. “It was Ethan. He would rant and rave about not being a puppet to a madman. He saw it as a noble thing that we weren’t publishing the letters. For a while, we didn’t even use the nickname. I couldn’t change his mind. I actually thought about giving the letters to the Post, but I was being watched too carefully. As soon as I got a letter, I would show it to Laurence, he would make a copy, and we would give it to police. But the cops got wise to the act. They got a couple of the letters before I could even see them.”

  “What happened?”

  “If you’ve seen the letters, you know,” Anderson said. “He got angry. He didn’t get the publicity he wanted and I wasn’t doing my job. I managed to sneak a few things into the early articles so that he didn’t feel like I was totally ignoring him, but I didn’t see it as my job to do his bidding. I didn’t really think he would come after me. It sounds stupid now, but I was a journalist and we view ourselves as protected. I could cross crime scene lines, ask rude questions to important people—we are observers of the world, not participants.”

  “But Lord Halloween didn’t see it that way,” Kate said.

  “No,” he said. “First there were the phone calls. They started in the evening. Just someone calling and then hanging up. I could never hear anything but breathing. But the calls started coming in the middle of the night. I kept my phone on in case there was some kind of emergency and at first I didn’t want to turn it off, but eventually I had to. There was no pattern to them. He could call you at 1 a.m., then fifteen minutes later, then wait two hours. But I wasn’t sleeping well. I wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep and when I finally did—the phone would ring.”

  “He was trying to harass you, put you off guard,” Kate said.

  “Exactly,” he said. “It struck me as a militaristic tactic, really. It was strategic. He didn’t want me to be thinking totally clearly. And then I started to feel watched. When I went to the grocery store, I would feel like someone was following me. I would park my cart, walk over to get milk and come back and find some of the things I thought I had bought weren’t there. I know it sounds crazy, but do you have any idea how unnerving that is? He’s messing with my fucking shopping cart in the middle of a store and I don’t catch a glimpse of him? And then I was doubting myself. Did I really buy that guacamole? It only happened a few times—but it happened, I know it did. The last time my entire cart was rammed into a store display. The manager thought some kid did it, but I knew. Of course I knew.

  “And it got worse. He bled into everything. I would be at the book store and books would start falling off the shelves around me, just barely missing my head in one case. No one ever saw anything and I just seemed crazy. Maybe I was crazy, I don’t know. I saw him everywhere in everything. I couldn’t be anywhere anymore without a clear line of sight. I moved my desk to a far wall so no one could sneak up behind me. I bought four extra locks and a security system for my apartment—this was before the real rush on that stuff occurred. I was afraid to shower or play music or watch TV or do anything that made any noise.”

  Anderson was shaking then, not looking at anyone. He was slightly rocking back and forth as if trapped in a memory.

  “And then Carrie…”

  There was a long pause. Quinn wondered if he would start talking again and then Kate quietly said, “Carrie Sterns?”

  For just a moment, the spell was broken and Anderson looked up.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Victim number nine to you, isn’t she?”

  Kate shook her head. “You should know better.”

  “Right,” Anderson said. “Your mother.”

  “She was your girlfriend?” Quinn asked.

  Anderson laughed. Once again, Quinn was struck by how little warmth or humor was in that laugh.

  “No,” Anderson said. “That was the thing. She wasn’t. She was just a girl I knew in the advertising department. She was pretty and I liked her, but we had only gone out once after work. It wasn’t a serious thing and we didn’t even kiss. She was so sweet, though. The reporters never mixed with the advertising staff, but she was an exception. Everyo
ne loved her. She was nice and thoughtful. She remembered birthdays. I at first thought she was flirting with me—that’s why I asked her out—but I realized later she was that way with everyone. She was one of those people that make you think the world is better and brighter than it is.”

  “And he murdered her,” Kate said.

  “No,” Anderson said forcefully. “He butchered that girl. Murder is too nice a word for what he did. He tortured her. I saw the police report. It took hours for her to die. Hours in which I’m sure she begged for God, or the police, or anyone to come find her. Hours in which she was lying so near other people that if they had only heard her, they could have saved her.”

  “She died by the printing press,” Kate said.

  Anderson looked surprised.

  “How could you possibly know that?” he asked.

  Kate shook her head. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes,” Anderson said, and his eyes looked shrunken and hollow. “It matters to me. That girl’s death is my fault. I didn’t cut her face up or make small incisions on her body to let the maximum amount of blood drain without letting her die quickly, but it’s my fault. He killed her because I didn’t do my job. He killed her because I didn’t give the public all the information it deserved. He killed her because I listened to the cowards and the fools who say they have control, when they control nothing! All they wanted is to control information. Did they try to find the killer, or did they just hope he would go away? They were powerless to stop him and they did everything they could to make it seem like they were in charge, but he was in charge.

  “I broke the rules and a sweet, pretty, lovely girl who always remembered birthdays and everyone loved died in the worst fashion I can imagine. We were all in the building, did you know that? She was dying and calling for help and we were all there! All of us upstairs making changes and doing our jobs and she was begging us to help. But we couldn’t hear her. The printing press was running and running and running and it was so loud. She died screaming for help, knowing it was seconds away.”

  Tim Anderson wrapped his arms around his legs. Quinn had the feeling this was something he had wanted to say for 12 years and never had.

  “In the letter, he made it sound like you were dating Carrie,” Kate said. “Do you think he knew you weren’t?”

  “Oh, he knew,” Anderson said. “It was all just an elaborate trap. I had to spend hours talking to the police about a relationship that simply did not exist. They thought I did it. Once again, they thought I was Lord Halloween. Because why not? They couldn’t find any other candidates. Holober was a sick fuck, but he wasn’t a serial killer and they knew it. He was just another schizophrenic. They wanted a better candidate. I spent hours with the police. Hours I should have been looking for the real killer.”

  “What happened? Why didn’t they blame you?”

  “Holden happened,” he said. “He showed up with a lawyer and scared the shit out of them. He got them to seal the records on Carrie’s death, too. She was listed as a victim of Lord Halloween, but he convinced the police to keep where the body was found as confidential. He said it was about protecting information that only the killer would know, but I knew better. It was about protecting his precious paper.”

  “And after that?”

  “By then, all hell had broken loose anyway,” Anderson said. “The town banned Halloween, trick or treating, you name it. They would have agreed to any demand from Lord Halloween, if he had asked. And I just followed the story. Ethan finally gave me free rein to write about the impact on the town, speculation as to the killer’s motives, everything. Lord Halloween was happy with me. He wanted chaos and I gave it to him. I couldn’t write about the letters, but I wrote enough. There was sufficient information to characterize the killer and I did it.”

  “So he let you live?” Kate asked. “You did what he wanted and he let you live.”

  “Oh no,” Anderson said. “With him, there is always something beneath the surface. He set up a final test. You read the hint he gave already; pull no punches. That was about the police, but I pulled no punches with everyone. I am surprised Laurence let me publish it—certainly Ethan was pissed as soon as it came out, so he apparently didn’t know anything about it. Go find it in the archives. It was the best piece I have ever written—a sum up of the murders, the town’s reaction, the paper’s involvement, and the killer himself. And I let everyone have it.

  “‘When we give in to madmen, we lose the most vital part of ourselves. And we have given in to Lord Halloween. We have panicked, turned on each other and lost our way. In a time when we should be united against fear, we have let it run rampant, divided ourselves and given terror a free hand. This man—and that is all he is or will ever be—is a thief. He has robbed us of our safety, our piece of mind and our faith in each other. He has stolen our very soul. And we have let him do this. Where we should stand firm and fast, we have wilted. Where there should be resolve, there was cowardice. For that, we bear some responsibility.’”

  “Sounds like Lord Halloween would have loved it,” Quinn said.

  But Anderson wasn’t finished yet.

  “‘But I do not forget who holds the most responsibility for this month that will never end. It is the man who calls himself Lord Halloween. He preys on the weak, feeds on fear and lurks in the shadows. He does this under the illusion it makes him powerful. It makes him nothing. He is a phantom and nothing more. True, he has held a mirror to our faces and we have been found wanting.

  “‘But if we have given into fear, so has he. He could have played a part in this world, but he has chosen to hide in it. He strikes at us because there are things he doesn’t understand: love, compassion and empathy. They have always been alien to him. He mocks them with his actions, but the truth is something he must know: he envies us. We experience feelings he can’t know or express and he hates us for them. He is a creature to be pitied, not feared. He is alone in this world and always will be. When we pick up the pieces of our lives, we will go on loving, caring and empathizing. We can hope we will learn from this miserable experience and stand stronger against the things that would tear us apart. He, however, will be by himself, lost in a world he cannot fathom.

  “’I do not fear you Lord Halloween, I fear what you have wrought in us. One day we may bring you to justice, but if we do not, do not think it has not already been meted out. You have been judged and found unworthy.’”

  “Damn,” Kate said.

  “You should have been dead man walking.”

  “I expected it,” Anderson said. “That was published on Oct. 31. And I went home and waited for him to strike. I wasn’t going to make it easy. I had bought a shotgun and I sat in a corner of the room where no one could sneak up on me through a window or anything else. I didn’t answer the phone, I wasn’t going to be baited outside. I just waited. It never occurred to me that he would let me live. Why should he? I had called him out. I had told him who he really was. I had struck him with the only weapon I have, the only one that ever matters: the pen.”

  “And you remember it word for word?”

  “I took a long time to write it,” he replied.

  “What happened?” Quinn asked.

  “At about midnight exactly, a letter was pushed through my door. I watched it come through, but I didn’t move. I assumed it was a trick. I would get up, read the letter and he would somehow sneak in behind me. So I sat there for six more hours. I could hear the birds in the trees and dawn was coming. And I thought, ‘What does it matter now? He’ll get me in the end anyway.’ And I got up and read the letter.”

  “He let you live,” Kate said.

  “Yes. I realize now it was his way of saying goodbye. He told me in no uncertain terms to get lost, but he also said he was letting me go. I didn’t fully believe him, but I suppose the fact that I am still here means he was serious.”

  “Why?”

  Anderson got up and paced around the room.

  “You’ve seen the l
etter,” Anderson said. “I gave it to Laurence, whom I know kept copies. He kept copies on all of Lord Halloween’s victims.”

  “Why?” Kate asked.

  Anderson shook his head.

  “Laurence was once a reporter, too,” he said. “It was a good story. A good journalist keeps all his notes. I’m assuming he gave you those letters from Lord Halloween. I know the police didn’t.”

  “I wouldn’t say he gave them to us…” Quinn said.

  Anderson smiled wanly.

  “I didn’t feel any relief when I got the letter,” he said. “Not then and not now. I had been let go. I didn’t escape, he had simply chosen to let me live. And I thought about Carrie a lot. About how she died. I also did what he wanted: I left. I knew then that he was going to lay low. My death would have looked like an accident, but he would have found a way to kill me. So I packed up, handed in my resignation and moved west.”

  “Why didn’t you go further away?” Kate asked.

  “The same reason you came back,” Anderson said. “Because you are never really free. Would I be safer in Seattle? Maybe. But I didn’t know who he was and he could find me, I knew that. Anywhere I went, he could show up and take me out. So there was no point in going far away. I sometimes wonder if he did me no favor by letting me live. I still see him everywhere. I don’t trust anyone and the fact that you found me so quickly shows how useless that was. I’m a haunted man, Quinn O’Brion. I don’t need to tell Kate this: she already knows. I’ve been waiting for him to show up for 12 years.”

  “Do you know who he is?” Kate asked.

  “No,” Anderson answered. “I had theories at some point, but none of them really held together. I will tell you this: whoever he is, he’s connected with your paper.”

  Kate nodded.

  “Why do you say that?” Quinn asked.

  “He chose me,” Anderson replied. “And at first I was arrogant enough to assume it was about me. But it wasn’t. He chose the paper, not the reporter. I find it curious he hasn’t sent letters to either of you—what that means, I don’t know, but it means something. But I think that paper mattered more to him than the Post or New York Times or any of it—papers, by the way, that did cover his killing spree. I think it was this: I think the Chronicle was his hometown paper. I don’t think he went anywhere for 12 years. I think he just laid low. But whoever he is, he knew who you two were long before he started his latest spree. My guess is he knows everyone at the paper.”