A Killer Like Me

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Sunday, August 5, 10:00 AM

The killer rolls a plain sheet of white paper into his twenty-five-dollar pawnshop typewriter. His gloved hands pause over the keyboard for a moment as he gathers his thoughts. Then he begins to type. Dear times-pikayune Editor: This is the Lamb of God. you disobeyyed me and have reaped the consequences. do not repeat your error, or i shall repeat your punishment. As of this writing the mayor’s daughter is alive, though I WILL NOT say SHE IS well. I have decided to ‘keep’ her for a time. pleese assuure THE MAYOR that i can ‘get it up.’ detektive murphhy will not ketch me. TOO BAD FOR HIM. From the press reports, i rather like him. in some respects he is like me. BE ASSURRED my work-the lord’S work, the god of blood and fire-will continue until i/we have purged this city of its harlotts, sodomittes, scoundrells, and scallywaggs. i will save this city even if i have to burn it to the grounnd. Print this letter on the front page or i will… well, you can guess what i’ll do. your humble servant, log. p.s. want to know a sekret? I killed two SODOMITES in the fq more than a year ago. p.p.s. any luck on the cypher? ha, ha.

The killer pulls the letter from the typewriter and lays it on his desk. He folds it in thirds. From a box at his feet he removes a plain envelope and rolls it into the typewriter. His fingers pound out the Howard Avenue address of the Times-Picayune. Then he slips the letter into the envelope. Beneath the flap is a self-adhesive strip. He peels the covering from the strip and seals the envelope.

On a whim, the killer decides to deliver the letter in person. The post office is closed on Sundays. If he puts the letter in a mailbox today, it will not be delivered until Tuesday. That means the newspaper could not publish it until Wednesday.

Tomorrow, the story of his second video will be splashed across the front page. He wants his letter to run beside that story.

Today’s paper carries a banner headline about the killer’s first video. He has circled the newspaper’s descriptive adjectives in red: shocking… outrageous… brutal… vile… disgusting.

The Sunday edition also contains several follow-up articles about the fire that focus on what the editors consider the heroic tales of survival and the heart-wrenching stories of the sodomites who perished.

Sickening, the killer thinks.

He enjoyed the profile in yesterday’s paper of Detective Sean Murphy, his resolute pursuer. What must he be like? the killer wonders. What motivates him? What drives him?

The killer considers his letter. Did he give away too much by mentioning the sodomites in the French Quarter last year? No, he thinks. The news will only serve to further confuse the already-confounded investigators.

All except Detective Murphy, perhaps. He seems a tad sharper than the rest, though not much. They are all quite the lot of dullards, but Murphy may merit some extra attention. The forces that drive killers may not be unlike the forces that drive those who hunt them.

Shakespeare was right. Madness in great ones must not unwatched go.

The killer walks to his closet. He dons a wide-brimmed straw hat and a Hawaiian shirt, then checks himself in the mirror above his dresser.

The newspaper offices will be less crowded today. Surely, the administrative and clerical staffs and the advertising people must have Sundays off. He expects only a skeleton crew of reporters and editors.

“You’re going in there and talk to the press,” Captain Donovan said.

Murphy was slumped in a chair in front of Donovan’s desk. His head was spinning but not from the booze. It was spinning because of the unbelievable turn of events of the last hour. He had walked into the Homicide office expecting to be arrested for murder. Now he was being told he was going to brief the press about the kidnapping of the mayor’s daughter, something he had not even known about until a few minutes ago.

“Why me?” Murphy asked.

“This fucking asshole just kidnapped the mayor’s daughter,” Donovan shouted. “And now, thanks to you, the press knows that same asshole set the fire at the gay bar.”

Murphy sat up. Despite his spinning head, despite Marcy Edwards, despite everything, this accusation was making him mad. It couldn’t go unchallenged. “I didn’t tell Kirsten Sparks or anyone else about the killer’s connection to the fire. Call her and ask her yourself.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“We have a rule here, Murphy. Cops don’t talk to the press without prior approval. Period.”

Murphy kept his mouth shut. There was nothing he could say that would convince Donovan he was telling the truth.

The captain leaned over his desk. “Get this straight. I want you out of my division, out of this bureau, and off the goddamn job, but I can’t do any of that right now because we have a psycho running loose in this city who just committed the biggest mass murder in history. Then he played Al-Qaeda and chopped off a woman’s head on fucking TV. Then he snatched the mayor’s daughter. All that in just two days. The public and the press want answers, and you’re the head of the task force we created to catch this sick fuck. And to top it all off, we’re about to have another fucking Katrina.”

Donovan jumped to his feet and jabbed a finger at his office door. “Now, I want you to walk out there, stand in front of those reporters, and deliver some kind of statement that doesn’t make us look like Barney fucking Fife is leading the Keystone fucking Cops.”

Murphy stood and walked out.

Behind him, Donovan shouted, “It’s going to be carried live, so don’t fuck it up.”

The makeshift press-briefing room was set up in the police academy’s main classroom. On the way there, Murphy stopped in the squad room. He found Gaudet at his desk.

“Captain chew your ass?” Gaudet asked.

Murphy nodded.

“Where the hell were you?”

“I spent yesterday afternoon at the clerk’s office trying to find links between the victims,” Murphy said. “Then I went to the Records Division. Then I went home. I needed a break, so I turned off my radio and my phone. You disappear all the time and nobody says shit. Why is it such a big fucking deal when I do it?”

Gaudet threw up his hands. “I was just asking.”

Murphy glanced in the direction of the waiting reporters. “What do we know about the mayor’s daughter?”

Gaudet shrugged. “Two guys from the day watch are at her apartment right now. They said the door was locked and there was no sign of forced entry. She was at some kind of awards banquet last night. Friends said they dropped her off at her apartment a little after midnight. There’s no indication she ever made it inside.”

“Are we sure it’s her in the video?”

“The mayor confirmed it.”

“What’s he saying?”

“The chief talked to him. Word came down through Donovan that the mayor spoke to his daughter yesterday morning and congratulated her on the upcoming awards ceremony. That was the last time he talked to her.”

Murphy walked toward the squad-room door.

Behind him, Gaudet said, “Good luck, partner.”

“Thanks,” Murphy mumbled over his shoulder.

“Whatever you do, don’t mention the other murder.”

The other murder?

Murphy spun around. “What murder?”

“Donovan didn’t tell you?”

Murphy shook his head. He felt the blood drain from his face.

“Jesus, you have been out of the loop.”

“What murder?” Murphy said again.

“Last night, before he kidnapped the mayor’s daughter-I guess it had to be before-he strangled a woman on Wingate.”

The floor dropped from beneath Murphy’s feet. It took him several seconds just to find his voice. “Who’s working it?”

“Nobody yet,” Gaudet said. “Donovan has been trying to get a team over there, but with the mayor’s daughter… so far it’s just been the district day watch over there. I guess after your press conference, it’s gonna be you and me.”

“Who found her?”

“Neighbor went over a couple hours ago to borrow something-sugar, eggs, some shit like that-and found the back door pried open. She goes in and sees the woman dead in the bathroom.”

Murphy turned around and stumbled toward the briefing room.

The press conference was scheduled to begin at 10:30. At 10:29, Murphy stood outside the classroom. The buzz of dozens of anxious voices seeped through the metal door. He felt nauseous. After a couple of deep breaths, he pulled open the door and stepped inside.

The glare from the television cameras nearly blinded him. There were at least fifty reporters packed inside the room-TV talking heads, print journalists, photographers, camera operators-all now looking at him. A few of the faces he recognized as local press. The rest had to be from out-of-town newspapers and TV stations, and the networks.

He felt like a lamb at a slaughterhouse.

Reporters started firing questions as soon as Murphy reached the lectern. He ignored them. As he waited for the crowd to quiet down, he stared at the dozen microphones that had been taped to the top and sides of the lectern.

The buzz stopped. Murphy cleared his throat. He felt beads of sweat on his forehead. “My name is Detective Sean Murphy. I’m the head of the serial-killer task force. The events of the last few hours have been pretty shocking. We are still…”

He looked out at the throng of reporters and wiped a hand across his face. “Look, as many of you already know, I’m not a press guy. I’m a detective, so I’ll just be straight. Based on the video we’ve all seen this morning, it appears the mayor’s daughter has been kidnapped, most likely by a person we believe is a serial killer. We’re analyzing the video right now for clues, and we’re trying to determine where Kiesha Guidry was last seen and by whom. As of right now we’re not-”

“Is she alive?” a reporter shouted.

“We have no evidence to suggest Kiesha Guidry has been killed.” Murphy was sure the serial killer was watching the press conference, so he wanted to use Kiesha’s name as often as he could to pound the idea into the killer’s head that she was a living, breathing human being, whom others cared a great deal about. He didn’t think his pop-psychology bullshit would have any effect, but it was all he could think of.

“Have you heard from the killer?” a WWL-TV reporter said.

“No,” Murphy said.

The floodgates opened and nearly every reporter started shouting questions. Murphy realized he had lost control of the press conference.

He raised his hands to try to restore order. “Listen, there are a lot of things I can’t discuss, but what I can tell you is-”

“Has the FBI offered any help?” a woman’s voice asked from behind the row of the TV lights.

Murphy raised a hand to block the glare, but he still couldn’t see Kirsten. “Yes, they have offered assistance,” he said.

The room got quiet.

“Is the department going to accept?” Kirsten said.

“We will certainly… entertain any offers of assistance.” Murphy knew it was a lame answer. Kirsten’s presence had thrown him off. Plus, he just didn’t like the FBI. The bureau had come after him twice for bogus brutality complaints filed by the mothers of dope dealers he had arrested. Both times he had been cleared, but the complaints stayed on his record.

Another reporter said, “Are you saying you don’t have the resources you need to investigate the serial-killer case?”

Murphy had to get his focus back. “We have plenty of resources, but we can always use more.”

“Are you willing to negotiate with the serial killer for the return of Kiesha Guidry?” asked a blonde-haired female reporter who had network written all over her.

Murphy took a deep breath. “We don’t negotiate with killers. We catch-”

“But isn’t a plea bargain a negotiation?” another reporter shouted.

“We’re the police,” Murphy said. “We arrest criminals. What you’re talking about-plea bargaining-is a function of the DA’s office.”

“What about the Times-Picayune story linking the serial killer to the Red Door fire?” someone asked.

Murphy shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “What about it?”

“Was the story accurate?” the same reporter asked.

Murphy glanced toward the door. Donovan was standing there. “I don’t know where that came from,” Murphy said. “You’ll have to ask the Times-Picayune where it got its information.”

“Are you saying the fire was not the work of the serial killer?” the reporter pressed.

“That’s a separate investigation and I’m not going to talk about it.”

“The Picayune reported that the letters L-O-G, as in Lamb of God, were found at the fire scene,” a reporter shouted. “Is that true?”

Murphy felt his blood starting to boil. “Look,” he snapped, “I’m not responsible for what’s in the Times-Picayune. And I’m not going to answer questions about the Red Door fire. That is a separate investigation. I’m here to answer questions about the kidnapping of Kiesha Guidry.”

“Do you have any independent confirmation,” a TV reporter asked, “other than the video, that the mayor’s daughter has been kidnapped?”

Murphy was glad for a question he could answer. “The mayor has confirmed that the woman in the video is his daughter and that she is missing.”

“Is there any chance the video is a hoax?” said a young male reporter sitting to Murphy’s left.

The question drew a general sigh of derision from the rest of the room, but Murphy fielded it anyway. “We’re pretty sure it’s authentic.”

For nearly thirty minutes the reporters peppered Murphy with questions. Some were insightful, some were stupid, but they kept his mind off Marcy Edwards.

He heard a cell phone ring. A few seconds later he saw Kirsten slip out the door, her phone pressed to her ear.

Murphy announced he would answer one more question. He picked a female television reporter sitting in the front row. “Has the FBI come up with a profile of the serial killer?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Murphy said. “I don’t have much faith in profiles.”

“Why is that?” the reporter asked.

“I’ve never heard of a detective catching a killer based on a profile.” Murphy glanced at his watch then held up his hands. “That’s all the questions I have time for.”

The sound of discontent echoed through the classroom.

Murphy turned away from the lectern.

“When are you going to hold another briefing?” someone shouted.

“I’ll let you know,” Murphy said over his shoulder on his way out the door.