Heartsick

CHAPTER 5

The lobby of the Oregon Herald didn’t open until 7:30 A.M., so Susan had to use the loading-dock entrance at the south side of the building. She was running on four hours’ sleep. She’d spent an hour on-line that morning, trying to get up to speed on the latest missing girl, forsaking a shower, so her hair still smelled vaguely of cigarettes and beer. She’d tied it back and dressed simply in black pants and a black long-sleeved shirt. Then threw on some canary sneakers. No point being completely boring.

She flashed her press pass at the night security guard, a plump African-American kid who had finally made it through The Two Towers and had just started reading The Return of the King. “How’s the book?” she asked.

He shrugged and buzzed her into the basement with barely a glance. There were three elevators in the Herald building. Only one of them ever worked at one time. She took it to the fifth floor.

The Herald was located in downtown Portland. It was a beautiful downtown, full of grand buildings that dated back to when Portland was the largest shipping port in the Northwest. The streets were tree-lined and bicycle-friendly, there were plenty of parks, and public art on every block. Office workers on break lounged next to homeless people playing chess in Pioneer Square, street musicians serenaded shoppers, and, Portland being Portland, there was almost always somebody protesting something. In the midst of all this elegance and bustle was the Herald building, an eight-story brick and sandstone behemoth that the good citizenry of Portland thought was unsightly back when it was built in 1920 and had thought was unsightly ever since. Any interior charm had been gutted during an ill-conceived renovation in the 1970s, which must have been the worst decade in which to renovate anything. Gray industrial carpeting, white walls, low-paneled ceilings, fluorescent lights. Except for the framed Herald stories that lined the halls and the unusually cluttered desks of the employees, it could have been an insurance agency. When she had thought about working in a newspaper office, she had imagined bustling chaos and color and fast-talking colleagues. The Herald was soundless and formal. If you sneezed, everybody turned to look.

The paper was independent, meaning that it was one of the few major dailies in the country that wasn’t part of a corporate chain. A family of timber barons had owned it since the 1960s, having purchased the paper from another family of timber barons. The timber barons had brought in a new publisher, a former public-relations executive from New York named Howard Jenkins, to run the place a few years before, and since then the paper had won three Pulitzers. It was a good thing, Susan figured, because, newsprint aside, there wasn’t a lot of money in being a timber baron anymore.

The fifth floor was so quiet that Susan could hear the water-cooler buzzing. She scanned the main room, where rows of low-walled pens housed the Herald’s news and features staff. A few of the copyeditors sat hunched over their desks, blinking sadly at computer screens. Susan spotted Nedda Carson, the assistant news editor, walking down the hallway with her usual large travel mug of chai in hand.

“They’re in there,” Nedda said, jerking her head toward one of the small meeting rooms.

“Thanks,” Susan said. She could see Ian Harper through the glass panel next to the door. He had been one of Jenkins’s first hires, away from the New York Times, and he was one of the paper’s star editors. She walked over and knocked once on the glass. He looked up and waved her in. The room was small and painted white, with a conference table, four chairs, and a poster encouraging Herald employees to recycle. Ian was perched on the back of one of the chairs. He always perched like that. Susan thought it was because the elevation made him feel powerful. But maybe it was just more comfortable. News editor Clay Lo sat across the table from Ian, his doughy head in one hand, glasses askew. For a minute, Susan thought he was asleep.

“Jesus,” Susan said. “Tell me you haven’t been here all night.”

“We had an editorial meeting at five,” Ian said. He flung his hand at a chair. “Have a seat.” Ian was wearing black jeans, black Converse sneakers, and a black blazer over a faded T-shirt with a picture of John Lennon in front of the Statue of Liberty on it. Most of Ian’s T-shirts were intended to communicate that he was from New York.

Clay looked up and nodded at her, eyes bleary. A cup of coffee from the commissary downstairs sat in front of him. It was the last dregs from the air pot. Susan could see the grounds around the lip of the Styrofoam cup.

She sat down, pulled her reporter’s notebook and a pen out of her purse, set them on the table, and said, “What’s up?”

Ian sighed and touched the sides of his head. It was a gesture intended to indicate thoughtfulness, but Susan knew Ian did it to check that his hair was still tucked back into his neat, short ponytail. “Kristy Mathers,” Ian said, smoothing his temples with his hands. “Fifteen. Lives with her dad. He’s a cabdriver. Didn’t know she was missing until he got home last night. She was last seen heading home from school.”

Susan knew all this from the morning news. “Jefferson High,” she said.

“Yeah,” Ian said. He picked up a Herald mug that sat in front of him, held it for a minute, and then set it back on the table without taking a sip. “Three girls. Three high schools. They’re adding a police detail at each school for security.”

“Are they sure she didn’t just go to meet a boyfriend or head to a sale at Hot Topic or something?” Susan asked.

Ian shook his head. “She was supposed to baby-sit for a neighbor. Never showed. Didn’t call. They’re taking it pretty seriously. What do you know about the Beauty Killer Task Force?”

Susan felt goose bumps rise on her arms at the very mention of the infamous serial killer. She looked from Ian to Clay and then back to Ian. “What does the Beauty Killer have to do with this?” she asked.

“What do you know about the task force?” Ian asked again.

“Gretchen Lowell killed a whole bunch of people,” Susan said. “The Beauty Killer Task Force spent ten years trying to catch her. Then she kidnapped the lead detective on the task force. That was over two years ago. Everyone thought he was dead. I was home for Thanksgiving from grad school when it happened. She turned herself in. Just like that. He almost died. She went to jail. I went back to grad school.” She turned to Clay. “They keep attaching murders to her, though, right? I think they got her to give up something like twenty more victims in the first year after she was arrested. Every month or two, she cops to a new one. She was one of our great psychopaths.” She chuckled nervously. “Great, as in scary, brutal, and cunning, not super-duper.”

Clay folded his hands on the table and looked at Susan meaningfully. “We gave the cops a bit of a hard time.”

Susan nodded. “I remember. They got loads of negative press. There was a lot of frustration and fear. Some very catty op-eds. But in the end, they were heroes. There was that book, right? And like a thousand human-interest stories about Archie Sheridan, hero cop.”

“He’s back,” Ian said.

Susan leaned forward. “Shut up. I thought he was on medical leave.”

“He was. They talked him into coming back to lead the new task force. The mayor thinks he can catch this guy.”

“Like he caught Gretchen Lowell?”

“Without the ‘almost dying’ part, yeah.”

“Or the op-eds?” Susan asked.

“That’s where you come in,” Ian said. “There was no access last time around. They think that if they let us in on the process, we’ll be less inclined to point and snicker. So they’re letting us profile Sheridan.”

“Why me?” she asked skeptically.

Ian shrugged. “They asked for you specifically. You weren’t here the last time around. And you’re a writer. The M.F.A. makes them less anxious than a J-school degree.” He touched the sides of his head again, this time finding a tiny stray hair and gliding it back into place. “They don’t want a reporter. They don’t want digging. They want human interest. Also, you went to Cleveland High.”

“Ten years ago,” Susan pointed out.

“It’s where the first girl disappeared,” Ian said. “It’s color. Plus, you’re a terrific feature writer. You do great at the series stuff. You’ve got a knack for it. Jenkins is convinced this is our ticket to another Pulitzer.”

“I write quirky essays about burn victims and rescued pets.”

“You’ve been wanting to do something serious,” Ian said.

Should she tell them? Susan tapped her pen against the notebook for a minute and then laid the pen carefully down on the table. “I’ve sort of been looking into the whole Senator Castle thing.”

It was like she had started masturbating right there on the table. There was a moment of complete stillness. Then Clay slowly sat up. He glanced at Ian, who sat on the back of his chair, hands on his knees, back straight. “Those are rumors,” Ian said. “That’s all. Molly Palmer had a lot of psychological problems. There’s nothing there. It’s a smear campaign. Trust me. It’s not worth your time. And it’s not your beat.”

“She was fourteen,” Susan said.

Ian picked up his mug but didn’t take a sip. “Have you talked to her?”

Susan sank an inch in her chair. “I can’t find her.”

Ian gave a vindicated little snort and put the mug back on the table. “And that’s because she doesn’t want to be found. She was in and out of juvie. In and out of rehab. You think I didn’t look into this the moment I got to town? She’s disturbed. She was in high school and she lied to a few friends and the lie snowballed. Period.” He frowned. “So do you want the serial killer task force dream story, or should I give it to Derek?”

Susan winced. Derek Rogers had been hired at the same time she was, and he was being groomed to cover crime. She crossed her arms and considered the rather appealing possibility of not having to write another story about a police dog. But she had hesitations. This was important. It was life-and-death. And while she would never admit it to anyone in that room, she took that very seriously. She wanted the story. She just didn’t want to be the one to fuck it up.

“We’re thinking four parts,” Ian continued. “We’ll jump each story from A-one. You follow Archie Sheridan. You write about what you see. It’s your only beat. If you want it.”

The front page. “It’s because I’m a girl, isn’t it?”

“A delicate flower,” Ian said.

Ian had won a Pulitzer back when he worked for the Times. He’d let Susan hold the medallion once. Sitting there now, she could almost feel the weight of it in her hand. “Yeah,” she said, her pulse quickening. “I want it.”

Ian smiled. He was handsome when he smiled, and he knew it. “Good.”

“So?” Susan said, snapping her notebook shut in preparation to stand up. “Where am I supposed to find him?”

“I’ll take you over there at three,” Ian said. “There’s a press conference.”

Susan froze. Now that she had committed, she was dying to get started. “But I need to see him working.”

“He wants some time to get organized.” Ian’s expression didn’t leave much room for discussion.

Half a day. It was a lifetime in a missing person case. “What am I supposed to do until then?” Susan asked.

“Finish up all your other work,” Ian said. “And learn everything you can.” He picked up the newsprint-stained tan telephone that sat on the table and punched some buttons. “Derek?” he said. “Can you come in here?”

It took about a nanosecond for Derek Rogers to appear at the conference room door. Derek was Susan’s age, which she, in her more contemplative moments, admitted brought out her competitive instincts. He had gone to college in South Dakota on a football scholarship and settled for sports journalism after an injury forced him off the team. Now he split his time between the crime desk and city desk at the Herald. He still looked like a jock, square-jawed and clean-cut, with that way of walking a little bowlegged, like a cowboy. Susan suspected that he blow-dried his hair. But he wasn’t wearing his suit jacket today, and his eyes looked bleary. Susan considered that perhaps he led a more interesting life than she gave him credit for. He smiled at her, trying to catch her eye. He was always doing that. Susan remained evasive.

Derek was carrying a projector, a laptop, and a box of doughnuts. He slid the doughnuts on the table and opened the box. A sickly sweet aroma filled the room. “They’re Krispy Kreme,” he said. “I drove all the way to Beaverton.”

A girl was missing and Derek was buying doughnuts. Nice. Susan glanced at Clay. But he didn’t launch into a lecture about the grave nature of the situation. He took two doughnuts, and bit into one. “They’re better when they’re fresh,” he announced.

Ian took an apple fritter. “You don’t want one?” he asked Susan.

Susan did. But she didn’t want to make Derek look good. “I’m fine,” she said.

Derek fiddled with the equipment. “I’ll just get set up,” he said. He opened the laptop and turned on the projector, and a square of color appeared on the white wall. Susan watched as the blur focused into a PowerPoint title page. On a bloodred background, a Halloween font read THE SCHOOLGIRL KILLER.

“The Schoolgirl Killer?” Clay asked skeptically. White clumps of doughnut glaze clung to the corners of his mouth. His voice was fat with sugar.

Derek glanced down shyly. “I’ve been working on a name.”

“Too literal,” Clay said. “We need something snappy.”

“How about the Willamette Strangler?” Derek said.

Ian shrugged. “It’s a little derivative.”

“It’s too bad he doesn’t eat them,” Clay said dryly. “Then we could come up with something really clever.”

“So the third girl’s been missing how long?” asked Susan.

Derek cleared his throat. “Right. Sorry.” He faced the group authoritatively, his fists on the table. “Let’s start with Lee Robinson, Cleveland High. She disappeared in October. She had jazz-choir practice after school. When it was over, she left the gym, where practice was held, and told some friends that she was walking home. She lived ten blocks away.”

Susan flipped open her notebook. “Was it dark?” she asked.

“No,” Derek said. “But close. Lee never arrived home. When she was about an hour late for dinner, her mother started calling her friends. And then, at nine-thirty, she called the police. They’re not thinking the worst yet.”

Derek hit a button on the laptop and the title page dissolved into the image of a scanned Herald news story. “This is the first story we ran, on the front page of Metro, October 29, forty-eight hours after Lee’s disappearance.” Susan felt a jolt of sadness at the sight of the girl’s school picture: flat brown hair, braces, jazz-choir sweatshirt, pimples, blue eye shadow, and lip gloss. Derek continued: “The cops ask anyone with information to call a hot line. They got over a thousand calls. Nothing panned out.”

“You’re sure you don’t want an apple fritter?” Ian asked Susan.

“Yes,” Susan said.

Derek hit a key again. The story dissolved into another slide, an image of the front page. “The November first story was front-page news. ‘Girl Missing.’” The school picture was there again, along with a picture of Lee’s mother, father, and brother at a neighborhood vigil.

“There were two more stories after that, with very little new info,” Derek said. Another slide. This one was dated November 7, another front-page headline: MISSING GIRL FOUND DEAD. “A search and rescue volunteer found her in mud on the banks of Ross Island. She’d been raped and strangled to death. The ME estimated that she had been in the mud for a week.”

There was a story every day for the next week: rumors, leads, neighbors remembering how lovely Lee was, classmate vigils, church services, a growing reward fund for information leading to the killer.

“On February second, Dana Stamp finished up a Lincoln High dance-team practice,” Derek said. “She showered, said goodbye to friends, and headed to her car, which was parked in the student parking lot. She never made it home. Her mother, a real estate agent, was showing a house on the east side and didn’t get home until nine P.M. She called the police just before midnight.” Slide. ANOTHER GIRL MISSING screamed the front page of the February 3 issue of the Herald.

Another school photograph. Susan sat forward a little and examined the girl on the wall. The similarities were striking. Dana didn’t have the braces or the acne, so at first glance, she seemed prettier than Lee, but once you looked more closely, they could have been related. Dana was the girl Lee was going to be, once the braces came off and the pimples cleared up. They had the same oval face, wide-set eyes, small, unremarkable nose, and brown hair. Both were skinny, with the awkward beginning of breasts. Dana smiled in her picture. Lee didn’t.

Susan had followed the story. You couldn’t live in Portland and avoid it. As the days slipped by without any clues as to Dana’s whereabouts, they blended into one girl: DanaandLee. A grave mantra repeated again and again by local newscasters, the lead story, regardless of what was happening nationally or internationally. The police would say publicly only that they were considering the possibility that the two cases may be related, but in everyone’s minds, there was no doubt. Their school pictures always appeared side by side. They were referred to as “the girls.”

Derek looked dramatically from person to person. “A kayaker found the body partially obscured by brush on the bank of the Esplanade on February fourteenth. Nice, huh? She had been raped and strangled to death.”

The slide dissolved to that day’s paper, March 8. THIRD GIRL VANISHES: CITY RECONVENES BEAUTY KILLER TASK FORCE. Derek summarized: “Kristy Mathers left school yesterday at six-fifteen P.M. after a play rehearsal. She was supposed to ride right home on her bike. Her father’s a cabbie. Works late. He stopped by the house around seven P.M., after he wasn’t able to reach her by phone. He called the police at seven-thirty P.M. She’s still missing.”

Susan gazed at the girl’s photograph. She was chubbier than Dana and Lee, but she had the same brown hair and wide-set eyes. Susan glanced up at the round white clock that hummed on the far wall above the door. The black minute hand jumped forward. It was almost 6:30. Kristy Mathers had been missing for over twelve hours. A cold chill folded down Susan’s spine as she realized that there probably wasn’t going to be any happy reunion at the end of this story.

Ian turned to Susan. “Your subject’s Archie Sheridan. Not the girls. The girls are”-he ran his hand over his hair back to his ponytail-“background. You write this right, it’ll make your career.”

Derek looked confused. “What do you mean? You said that this was my story. I was up half the night working on this presentation.”

“Change of plans,” Ian said. He shot Derek one of his handsome smiles. “Nice PowerPoint, though.”

Derek’s entire forehead constricted.

“Relax,” Ian said with a sigh. “You can update the Web site. We’re setting up a blog.”

Two perfect red spots appeared on Derek’s cheeks and Susan could see his jaw tighten. He looked from Ian to Clay. Clay busied himself with another doughnut. Derek looked balefully at Susan. She shrugged and gave him a half smile. She could afford it.

“Okay,” Derek said with a resigned little nod. He snapped his laptop shut and began to coil its cord around his hand. Then he paused, the cord a strangled knot around his fist. “The After School Strangler,” he said. They all looked at him. He grinned, pleased with himself. “For the name. I just thought of it.”

Ian looked at Clay, head cocked questioningly.

No, Susan thought. Don’t let this bozo name him. Not Derek the Square.

Clay nodded a few times. “The After School Strangler.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “It’s corny. But I like it.” His laughter faded and he sat perfectly still for a moment. Then he cleared his throat. “Someone should write an obituary,” he said softly. “Just in case.”

Clay picked up his cup of cold coffee and stared into it glumly. Derek looked at his hands. Ian worried his ponytail. Susan glanced up at the clock. The hand snapped forward another minute. The sound it made echoed in the small, suddenly quiet room.