Into the Dark

25

Los Angeles, California

Mark Harding arrived at the L.A. bureau at 6:00 a.m., hours before any of the other ANPA staffers. He took the elevator to the twenty-fifth floor, swiped his security card at the office door and started working at his desk.

He’d been coming in early ever since writing his feature on the Dark Wind Killer because he was desperate to land another exclusive with a follow-up.

When he broke the story, it had received major play in newspapers across L.A. and Southern California. But beyond that, pickup by news outlets that subscribed to the news service was spotty for print. The Chicago Tribune, The Boston Globe and The Washington Post were some of the big metros that ran the feature, while most online sites carried an abridged version.

Feeding on the angle of the killer’s vow to return, L.A.’s TV and radio news crowd had followed Harding’s five victim profiles. They’d also interviewed the relatives, criminology experts and the lead investigator.

“Is the killer still out there?” one TV reporter had asked Tanner.

“We can’t rule that out, but we think he’s dead,” Tanner had said to the camera. “We invite anyone with information on this case to contact us.”

L.A.’s press kept the story alive for a few days before it faded.

Now, nearly two weeks later, nothing new had surfaced. The story was all but forgotten and Magda had been quick to resume burying him with dull stories of limited interest about the entertainment industry.

It pissed him off.

Harding refused to abandon his story and came in on his own time to secretly work on it, trying everything he could think of. He monitored all social network traffic for any leads. He stayed in touch with the victims’ families, asking if police had privately indicated any breaks in the case. He used the time zone difference to call his cop sources across the country, thinking, hoping some had friends on the task force Tanner was leading. In the early hours he texted Tanner directly, or called him.

“Nothing so far,” Tanner said each time. “I’ll let you know if anything significant surfaces.”

Each morning Harding unfolded a map of L.A. on his desk, then set out all of his notes and the documents that he’d collected in his growing file on the case. Like a miner panning for gold he searched for the nugget of information that would advance the story.

He was so tired.

This morning, after working straight for nearly two hours, he stood at the window and looked at the city.

Somebody out there has to know something.

But he was at a loss at what to do next. All of his efforts had been futile so far. He started to doubt himself.

“What are you doing, Mark?”

He turned to see Magdalena Pierce standing at his desk, taking stock of all of his material on the Dark Wind Killer.

He glanced around, realizing that while ruminating he’d failed to notice others were now settling into the office before he had time to put his research away.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“I was just reviewing notes.” Harding started collecting papers.

Magda stopped him, setting her expensive-looking coffee mug-a gift from some aging European movie star-on Harding’s desk smack in the middle of his notes, as if driving a stake through them.

“I thought I told you, Mark, this-” she nodded her chin to his work as if it offended her “-is a one-hit wonder.”

“I don’t agree.”

At that moment, across the small office at the reception desk, Allison Porter was well into the morning practice of handling the day’s mail. Even though it was an online world, people still used the post office, she thought. She was going through bills, junk mail, solicitations, news releases, resumes and other items when she came to a white business envelope.

It was addressed in handwritten block letters to NEWS DEPARTMENT, ALLNEWS PRESS AGENCY-LOS ANGELES, and continued with the proper address and zip code.

But it was the return address that gave Allison pause.

In smaller block letters it read MY TORMENT, then IN THE BOWELS OF HELL.

The envelope had a bit of thickness to it. There was more than paper inside. The bureau received the occasional rant from fringe groups or nut jobs but this one was weird, kind of creepy, Allison thought, slipping the letter opener under the flap.

* * *

Back at his desk Harding tried to make his case.

“I think we need to follow this story closely, or someone else like the AP, Reuters or the L.A. Times will take it away from us.”

Magda remained indifferent. Her designer jewelry was chiming as she scrawled a note on a page of one of his notepads, a habit of hers that annoyed him, tearing the fragment and handing it to him.

“There’s nothing to follow until something breaks, meanwhile-”

“But that’s the point, we should be dig-”

“We need to stay on the stories that yield dividends. This guy-” a polished nail tapped the number “-is an old source of mine and he’s just heard that there’s going to be a massive shake-up at one of the big studios. Several executives are leaving to form a competing company.”

“You’re serious?” Harding stared at her. “You think that is what the vast majority of people want to read about?”

“Everybody loves the movies.”

“A monster killing women, versus overpaid people switching chairs.”

“Please follow my instructions, Mark.”

In that instant he tried to fathom why New York had not fired her, or maybe they were giving her enough rope. He was on the verge of really telling her off when-

“Oh, my God!”

Allison’s scream yanked their attention to the reception desk.