Into the Dark

43

Los Angeles, California

Early morning traffic was light. Harding sipped his coffee as he drove to the news bureau, struggling with ideas for his next story. He needed to keep the ANPA out front.

But how?

It had been more than two days since he broke his exclusive on receiving the letter, which drew a lot of attention. Local TV talk shows covered the response and switchboards at radio call-in stations lit up. Throughout greater L.A. people were on edge over the Dark Wind Killer’s threat to claim more victims.

Arriving at his building, Harding stepped from the elevator and into his office, determined to advance the story. His resolve was underscored by his first email of the morning. It was from Sebastian Strother at headquarters in New York.

Mark: Need an unbeatable follow today before the competition takes this away from us. As you know, the pickup for your exclusive was huge across the country and around the world. Do not rest on laurels. SS

Harding downed the last of his coffee, tossed the cup into the trash and put in a call to Tanner, thinking maybe he could get an update on tips, or better, maybe the task force had a lead he would share.

Unable to reach Tanner, Harding left a message then texted him.

Waiting for a response, he began contacting the victims’ families and friends, the people he’d interviewed earlier. Harding asked those he could reach if the police had given them any progress reports on the investigation.

No one was aware of anything. In fact, most had assumed Harding was calling to inform them of a break. Several had suggested that he was in a better position to learn of a development than they were.

After making his last call, he thought for a moment then scrutinized his maps and documents from the splayed files on his desk. He had more research on his computer. A few mouse clicks and he opened a growing folder on his hard drive. It held notes, scanned attachments and the photos that Jodi-Lee Ruiz had taken of the killer’s letter.

Mining the material for clues, Harding lost track of time. He was oblivious to the office coming to life around him as other news staff arrived with the aroma of fresh coffee. He concentrated on the envelope until an earlier idea returned. It bore an Alhambra postmark-why not call Alhambra P.D.? See if they knew anything and if they’d share.

He was going through his electronic contact file for a number when he noticed the smell of strawberries as Allison Porter passed by his desk.

“Here’s some snail mail for you, Mark. Nothing scary looking, this time.”

“Thanks.”

He glanced at the handful of letters and an old magazine subscription card from the U.K. How many times did he have to tell them he was no longer interested? He tossed that one and went on to a membership renewal from the press guild; an invitation to speak to journalism students at a college; something from a Beverly Hills charity seeking coverage; and a letter addressed to him in neat handwriting, with the return name:

Mea Gain

60606 Deja Vu Avenue

Burbank, CA.

Mea Gain? Who’s that? Mea Gain? Deja Vu Avenue? That’s a bit strange, is that a real address? Allison missed this. Two seconds later it hit him that the letter- Oh, Christ-Me Again-Deja vu.

Using his cell phone he took pictures of the envelope. Then he hurried to the office kitchen and got a pair of rubber gloves from under the sink. He returned to his desk, fumbled for his scissors, noticing a stamp but no postmark, and his pulse kicked up as he sliced open the envelope. It was a standard letter size ten. It contained one page, a map to a location and the words “A gift for you and the Blue Meanies. Better hurry.”

The Blue Meanies? Harding knew that was a term from Yellow Submarine, the old Beatles album. He also knew that San Francisco’s Zodiac Killer had used the same term in his letters to the press.

His heart racing, Harding took several pictures of the map with his cell phone camera before carefully putting the page and envelope in a safe place at his desk. He had to go now. He couldn’t risk the chance that other reporters had been tipped, too. That someone else could beat him on this. He grabbed his car keys and nearly bumped into Magda, who was stepping off the elevator as he was stepping on.

“We need to talk about a follow-up story today,” she said.

“I think we have one. The killer wrote to me again.”

“What? Hold on, Mark!”

“I have to go, I’ll call you.” Harding jabbed the elevator button.

As the elevator descended, he reviewed the map and mentally planned his route. When he stepped off, he spotted Jodi-Lee Ruiz trotting toward him, juggling her camera bag with her take-out coffee and muffin.

“Hi, Mark- Hold the elevator!”

“You’re coming with me on an urgent assignment.”

“But I’ve already got two this morning.”

“This is a priority. We’ll take my car.”

Harding’s phone rang and he answered.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Magda said. “Don’t you ever do that to me again, you got that!”

Harding updated her quickly as he walked with Jodi, who struggled to keep up. After Harding calmed Magda and she understood what had happened she said, “Fine, I’ll alert Sebastian in New York.”

“Wait! Just tell him we’re working on a tip that may be solid, don’t oversell in case this falls through.”

“All right, but take a photographer with you and be careful.”

“I got Jodi with me. We’re on our way. I’ll call you when I know what we have. Then we’ll sort out telling Tanner and the task force.”

Once they got into Harding’s car, he updated Jodi as he entered the map’s information into his GPS. The drive time was an hour. They went east on Wilshire making their way to the 101. They were bound for Camarillo, a quiet bedroom community north of L.A., once known for its walnut, orange and lemon groves. It had evolved from a small farming town into a suburb of cookie-cutter homes, fast-food outlets, strip malls and big box stores.

Traffic was good.

As the morning sun climbed in a blue sky, Harding and Jodi said little until they neared the city.

“Don’t you think we should call the police or something first, Mark?”

“Why?”

“What if this is a setup or a trap?”

“It appears we’re headed for an open area. We’ll size things up as soon as we get close. We’ll be careful and apply common sense, all right? Look, we can’t risk that he may have tipped other papers, too.”

Eventually they left the freeway.

The map ultimately directed them to University Drive, a narrow two-lane road that twisted and turned along the rural fringes of Camarillo. As they moved along stretches of open land and fields bordered with small forests and brush, they saw fewer and fewer cars.

Jodi grew quiet.

They both knew the local history and geography. They were getting closer to the site of a former state mental hospital. Even though it had been redeveloped into a university in the late 1990s, some people claimed the area was haunted.

Harding’s attention sharpened on his GPS and he slowed the car.

“Almost there,” he said, passing her his phone. “Here, check the map again.”

Jodi first raised her camera and took a few pictures of the surroundings. She consulted the map and notes on Harding’s cell phone, then the GPS, and she surveyed the area before suddenly pointing.

“There! There’s the spot! There it is, over there!”

She took more photos.

Just as the map directed, they’d come to a small path that paralleled the road near a deer-crossing sign. Harding stopped next to the sign and shut off the engine.

They got out and took stock of the area.

Jodi continued taking pictures.

No other cars. No other hint of life other than the chirp of a bird as the motor ticked down.

Harding turned to her.

“Nobody here but us,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

She nodded.

The map indicated the “gift” was about forty paces from the sign into the grass and brush. Harding took one direction, Jodi took another. They counted off paces while examining the ground, uncertain what they were looking for, anxious about what they might find.

Sweeping the patches of grass aside, Harding scoured the ground as he hit the forty-pace point. He came upon a sun-faded beer can. He used a pen through the drinking hole to lift and inspect it. Nothing at all was unusual. Keeping his head down Harding resumed searching the area, working his way toward Jodi who was doing the same until she shouted.

“Found it!”

Harding’s head snapped to Jodi. Her face was clenched behind her camera as she adjusted her lens and took photos.

Harding rushed to her, then lowered himself.

Propped against two small rocks was a naked female doll about twelve inches tall with flowing dark hair. Her hands were bound with string behind her back. Her mouth was bound with tape. A small noose was fashioned around her neck and was tied to a tag bearing the words “Her name is Amber. She’s mine now. DWK.”