A Killer Like Me

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Wednesday, August 1, 5:35 PM

“The question is, what are we going to do tomorrow?” Charles Redfield said.

The afternoon budget meeting had dragged halfway through its second hour. As executive editor, Redfield chaired the meeting. His irritation was plain as his eyes swept the faces of the other editors seated around the conference table. “Are we going to run the damn letter or not?” he demanded. “And if so, are we going to run the cipher with it?”

Kirsten sank deeper into her chair. As a reporter, she didn’t normally get invited to budget meetings. They were for editors only. There were two budget meetings a day, 10:00 AM and 4:00 PM, during which the editors haggled over what stories were going to run in the next day’s paper and how many inches of space each would get. In newspaper-speak, a budget wasn’t money. It was space.

Today’s meeting was different.

The serial-killer nutjob who called himself the Lamb of God had demanded that his letter be reprinted on the front page within two days. The killer’s deadline was tomorrow. That meant the decision had to be made tonight. For an hour and a half the newspaper’s brass hats had wrangled over that decision.

“What do you think he means by ‘a killing rampage’?” asked Milton Stanford, the managing editor, to no one in particular. “If we don’t run the letter, are we responsible for whatever this crazy bastard does next?”

Redfield peered over his half-moon reading glasses at Stanford. The executive editor didn’t like impolite language.

“Sorry, boss,” Stanford said. “But I really want to know. If this guy kills someone because we didn’t run his letter, are we going to have blood on our hands?”

Publisher Darlene Freeman sat at the opposite end of the conference table from Redfield. The newspaper’s lawyer sat next to her. Neither of them ever attended budget meetings.

Freeman, who had barely said a word the entire meeting, nodded to Redfield. “We’ve been going over this dreadful business for hours. Really, we must come to a decision. The company’s general counsel in D.C. wants an answer by six o’clock.”

Redfield pushed his reading glasses higher up his nose. “I’d like to wait at least another day before we run the letter,” he said. “This is unprecedented, and I don’t like being bullied, especially by a self-professed serial killer.”

Kirsten cleared her throat. She hadn’t said anything in nearly an hour. “I think we should run the letter and the cipher.” She looked at Redfield. “Not because we’re being bullied, but because it’s news. The police have confirmed the finger is from the victim under the overpass, so the letter is-”

“We can’t mention that,” interrupted city editor Gene Michaels. He had come up as a cop reporter and had expressed concern several times during the meeting about publishing information the police department wanted kept confidential.

“I’m not suggesting we mention the finger, Gene, but it confirms the letter is authentic,” Kirsten said. “It’s from the killer. There’s no downside to printing it. He’s already killed several people. He’s not going to stop just because we run his letter on the front page. Publishing the letter might help the police catch him.”

“How so?” Redfield asked.

All eyes were now on Kirsten. She took a deep breath. “Several killers have been caught after their egos pushed them to write letters to newspapers. Remember the Unabomber? His own brother recognized his writing and dropped a dime on him. One of our readers may recognize something in the letter or the code.”

A blanket of silence hung over the conference table as the circle of editors looked back and forth at each other. Eventually, Darlene Freeman broke it. “Thank you, Miss Sparks, for sharing your opinion with us.” She looked at her watch, then at Redfield. “It’s your decision.”

“For Christ’s sake, Darlene, you’re the publisher,” Redfield said, a rare edge in his voice. “You’re the one who’s been on the phone with Newsome. It’s their newspaper. What do they want us to do?”

Kirsten had a lot of respect for Redfield. He was a good newspaperman, a decent boss, but he was overly cautious. With more than thirty years in the newspaper business, twenty-eight with the Times-Picayune, he wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize his position or his pension.

From the corner of her eye, Kirsten saw Darlene Freeman glance at the lawyer. He was in his early forties and wore his hair in a ponytail. He also wore strangely cut suits, as if he were trying to stave off middle age by being extra hip. And he always wore too much cologne.

Throughout the meeting the attorney had not said a word to anyone other than Freeman, and his words to her had been whispered in her ear. Common sense told Kirsten the man must have gotten instructions from corporate headquarters in D.C., where Newsome Media, the company that owned the Times-Picayune, was based. But for some reason, he wasn’t sharing those instructions with the editors.

Kirsten saw a setup coming. The company hacks were forcing Redfield to make the decision. That way, if the newspaper came out looking bad, it was his fault. But if his decision turned out to be a good one, Newsome executives were standing by to take the credit. For now, though, it was all on Redfield, who just wanted to reach his thirtieth anniversary with the paper, get the gold watch, and punch out.

Redfield took off his glasses and laid them on the table. He looked around the room, making sure to meet each person’s eye. “We’re not going to run the letter or the cipher,” he said. “At least not tomorrow. I’m not letting an anonymous killer dictate what we publish.”

Freeman smiled.

Redfield stood, signaling the meeting was over. As he picked up his glasses, he looked at Kirsten. “I want you to write a story about the letter. Don’t get into the contents but mention the deadline the killer gave us and his threat. Also include any new developments with the investigation. I’ll write an editorial for tomorrow explaining our reasons for not running the letter.”

Kirsten rose and headed for the door. She was sure Redfield’s decision was a mistake, but he was the boss. He had a tough choice to make and he had made it. Something Darlene Freeman was incapable of doing.