discoveries of the bodies, he found himself unable really to get enough. This fact and his reflection over it disturbed him greatly. It was a side of himself he had not known existed. He found himself sitting up nights, wondering what the killer was like, who he was, where he was at that moment, why he was doing it, how he did it-curious about each gory detail. He dared not share his newfound fascination with anyone, but keeping it bottled within had become more and more difficult.
He saw death every day in his obits, dealt with it as a sausage grinder might sausage, but there was something sotitillating, so invitingly dirty about this whole Night Crawler affair that it must be like what was at the heart of most illicit love affairs, he guessed. Yet this was far different, at the other end of the spectrum of emotions, he reasoned, and it had continued to confuse and agitate him, this dangerous, pseudonymous side of himself that he’d discovered, this sick interest he had taken both in the case of the Night Crawler and in the monster himself, as well as in what he did to the women. What kind of man was he? Was he of the same species as Eddings? The same race? How could he do such terrible and vicious things to lovely young women? What did it do for him? Did it make him forget who he was? Did it make him feel taller, larger, stronger, immortal-what? And why was he sending newsy little tidbits about himself to the Heraldl
The short, stubby obit page editor snatched at the loops on his suspenders and straightened his pants, hitching them up before he threw on his coat and stepped toward the big boardroom. He was conscious of the stares and the chattering going on all around the bull pen. Word had leaked, as it always does across a newsroom floor, and everyone knew what the emergency meeting was all about. Eddings felt like a snoop, a prurient meddler, his guilt rising as he moved from his desk to the juicy information which awaited him inside the newspaper boardroom.
C. David Eddings, no matter what his small stable of reporters called him behind his back, would be at that meeting, just as he’d been involved in the first such meeting. He’d be there because death was involved, and death reporting was very much a part of what he did; he and the city desk editor were in constant contact, because today’s headline, Youth Shot in Drive-by on US1, was tomorrow’s obituary column. As Merrick was fond of saying, “One hand’s gotta know what the other’s doing at all times.” Eddings routinely countered with, “One foot in the grave had to know where the other foot was at, at all times,” after which he’d snort and laugh. Perhaps it was for this reason that other journalists considered him a ghoul, an undertaker who used words rather than a shovel. Still, he was in. In on the biggest, breakingest story to come along in years. How many others could say they were on the inside of the biggest manhunt in the history of the city?
Instinct, however, had told him to again, like the last time, keep his mouth shut and his eyes open during the meeting. The letter from the killer was passed through everyone’s hands that last time-even the cooking and accent page editors-before it had finally reached C. David Eddings’s fingertips. He didn’t expect any change in the pecking order today. Still, he was in; he was part of it all. How many men in Miami could say that?
As he filed into the room behind the other editors, C. David Eddings saw that Glenn Merrick’s secretary, Sally Hodges, a busty, middle-aged woman for whom Eddings had nursed a crush since coming to the paper, stood in back of Merrick with an overhead projector, replacing a blown light, it appeared. And next Eddings noted that there were strangers among them-very stem and serious looking customers, a dark-skinned handsome man and a strikingly interesting woman with silky auburn hair which created a fishnet and lattice effect about her shoulders, hooding a pair of dark, alluring eyes.
Sally looked up from what she was doing to give Eddings one of her bejeweled smiles. Eddings wondered if she was smiling out of politeness or genuine interest. He’d never gotten up the nerve to find out.
Merrick began by introducing their guests: Eriq Santiva, chief investigator for the FBI, and Dr. Jessica Coran, M.E., FBI. Merrick informed them all that Santiva and Coran were now spearheading the manhunt for the Night Crawler.
“‘ Bout time we got some clout in on this.”
“ Damn sure not going to see any results from the Miami morons in uniform,” said another.
“ Welcome to our city,” said the lone female editor. “I hope you don’t judge us by what’s going on out there in the streets, or by what’s said in this room.”
“ Of course not,” Santiva said, nodding and smiling at the assembled editors. “I wish to thank you all, and especially your editor-in-chief, Mr. Merrick, for showing such civic duty, calling me the moment anything having to do with the killer broke.”
Even Eddings got the underlying message, that Santiva and Merrick had had a serious talk at some previous point, and that Merrick dare not screw around with Santiva on this matter.
Jessica Coran quickly added, “Without your cooperation, gentlemen, catching this fiend will be far more difficult.”
“ What’re the chances he’ll be stopped?”
“ Just how far along are you in the investigation?”
“ Got any suspects? Anyone good?”
The questions were like live ammo coming at the FBI people. “We’re not here for a news briefing, gentlemen!” shouted Glenn Merrick over his people. Nancy Yoder, the accent page editor, replied with an explosive, “Oh, pooh!” Merrick next announced what they all already knew, then asked that Jessica hold up the note from the killer for all to see. She reached into her black valise and pulled forth a plate of glass which had been sealed to a second plate. Between the two plates lay the now flattened communique, the second to have been sent to the Herald by the Night Crawler. The ridges where it had been folded and stuffed into an envelope could still be seen. Jessica held up a cellophane bag which housed the envelope. The editors studied both the note and the envelope from their seats.
The killer’s note was on ordinary white bond typing paper; nothing special or of particular importance there, and certainly no helpful, easy or telltale clues such as a mast or letterhead, though the postage seal on the envelope told them it had been forwarded from Key Biscayne, extremely close to the location of the last two missing girls believed to have fallen prey to the killer, a girl by the name of Tammy Sue Sheppard and another named Kathy Harmon.
“ This time we don’t piss off the authorities, right, Agent Santiva?” suggested Merrick. “We work with you, in full cooperation, not against you.” He eyeballed his people and added, ‘ That means we keep our goddamned mitts off the note, and-”
“ Whataya getting in return for our-” began Lawrence, who was instantly cut off by Merrick.
“ And there’s no time lapse between when one of these damned notes appears on the city desk and when we contact Agent Santiva here. Understood, gentlemen? This is how we react to a city emergency. Understood, everyone?”
“ We get an exclusive, Glenn? I mean when the case is solved, right?” asked Lee Blake, the city desk editor.
“ We have had assurances to that effect, and I’m not going to jeopardize that in any way. That means no leaks from here, either. I mean you don’t tell your wives, your lovers, your mothers, your fathers, your priests or your bookies; you got that?” Merrick fairly screamed the order.
“ What’re they saying, Glenn? That it’s somehow our fault this creep’s still at large? Screw that shit.” muttered Blake from around his cigarette, his small eyes sunken amid the heavy face and leathery skin.
“ Wasn’t your fault that last time, Glenn,” soothed Lawrence. “None of us had any reason to believe the authenticity of that first letter when it arrived on Blake’s desk that day.”
“ Are we any surer of the authenticity of this one?” asked Nancy Yoder, her hands rising skyward.
“ Well, it’s definitely the; ame handwriting; we’ve had an expert-Santiva here-tel. us so, and since the cops and the FBI are operating as if the first communique is indeed from the Night Crawler, we’re doing the same here,” explained Merrick.
“ Why not copy the damned thing so we can all have a working copy, Glenn?” asked city editor Blake.
“ Yeah,” agreed some of the others.
“ What’s with you people?” Merrick barked. “Do I have to paint a picture for you?”
“ That might help,” replied a belligerent Blake. “It’s our story, Glenn.” “G’dam’it to hell, I don’t want copies of this thing getting all over the freakin’ building and finding its way over to the bloody Times like the other bastard thing did before we’re given the go-ahead from Agent Santiva to print it, all right, Lee? And God save the son of a bitch who’s selling us out if I ever catch ‘im.”
“ Paranoia becomes you, Glenn.”
