killer. The executive editor, the managing editor, the publisher, and their lawyer are meeting right now to decide what to do with it.”
“Have they called the police?”
“That’s what they’re discussing,” Kirsten said.
Murphy heard street noise in the background. She must have gone outside to talk.
“He calls himself the Lamb of God,” Kirsten said.
“The killer?”
“No, Charles Redfield, the executive editor. That’s what he’s started calling himself lately. Of course I mean the killer, Murphy. What are you, stupid?”
He wasn’t listening. Usually, it was the cops or the press who gave serial killers their names. Only a few killers Murphy had ever heard of had named themselves. BTK, Zodiac, Jack the Ripper, and the Axman had done it, but with the Ripper and the Axman it was questionable whether the actual killers had written the letters in which their noms de guerre had first appeared.
“He gave himself a name?” Murphy said.
“The fucking Lamb of God,” Kirsten said. “Excuse my language, but I just can’t believe this. It’s like something out of a movie.” She sounded excited and scared.
“What was in the box?”
“I’m… I’m sorry. I can’t talk about that either.”
“Goddamnit, Kirsten, quit playing games.”
“I’m not playing games. I just can’t talk about that, at least not right now. I’m the only one not still in the meeting, and as far as I know, I’m the only other person who knows about the package.”
“Did you call here just to gloat?”
Several seconds dragged by. Murphy thought Kirsten had hung up.
“I called to let you know you were right,” she said quietly.
Murphy took a deep breath. “Thanks.” He meant it.
“I think…”
“What?”
“Never mind. I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up.
Murphy flipped his phone closed and stared at the floor.
The Lamb of God. What the hell?
Kirsten sat at her desk fidgeting for more than an hour before her phone rang.
It was Redfield. “We need you back in here.”
When Kirsten opened the conference room door two minutes later, she saw Juan Gaudet and another detective standing on the far side of the room. Kirsten didn’t know the other detective.
Gaudet held a clear plastic evidence bag in his hands. Through the plastic Kirsten could see the padded manila envelope. Gaudet winked at Kirsten as she stepped into the room. They had been friends when she and Murphy had been together. The three of them had spent a lot of nights together at the Star amp; Crescent. Those had been good times.
It was Gaudet who had commented anonymously in Kirsten’s article this morning that Murphy’s demotion and transfer were not really for talking to the press about a serial killer, but were payback for arresting the mayor’s brother four years ago and beating PIB at a Police Civil Service Board hearing a year later.
Kirsten decided not to sit at the conference table despite there being an empty chair. She pushed the door closed and leaned against it.
Redfield pointed toward the two detectives. “Kirsten, we’ve asked Detective Juan Gaudet and Lieutenant Carl Landry from the Homicide Division to join us.”
Gaudet corrected him. “I’m from Homicide. Lieutenant Landry is from the Public Integrity Bureau.”
As always, Gaudet was dressed for the part of a murder cop. He wore an expensive suit tailored to hide his bulk, a starched white shirt, and a hand-painted silk tie held in place by a gold clasp shaped like a vulture perched on top of the star and crescent NOPD badge.
Standing next to Gaudet, Landry looked sloppy. His suit was off the rack and rumpled, and his necktie was frayed at the bottom. In contrast to Gaudet’s cheerfulness, Landry was dour. His sharp face and long thin nose made him look like a hawk, Kirsten thought, or perhaps a vulture. She wondered why the PIB man was here at all. Serial killer or not, murder cases belonged to Homicide. Landry’s presence, she guessed, must have something to do with Murphy.
“We’ve told the detectives about the package we received,” Redfield said. “And about the story you’re writing for tomorrow.”
Kirsten nodded.
Redfield looked at the detectives. “Can you recap for my reporter what you’ve asked us to do, vis-a-vis our story?”
Both cops looked at Kirsten. Landry opened his mouth, but Gaudet cut him off. “What we would like you to do, Miss Sparks, is withhold some of the information contained in the letter so that we can have more time to investigate it.”
Kirsten’s First Amendment hackles stood up. All cops, Murphy included, were basically fascists, she thought. Any mention of the government trying to stifle the press was guaranteed to get a rise out of her. “What kind of information would you like me to withhold, Detective?”
“The code, for one,” Gaudet said. “We need time to crack it ourselves, in case it really does contain important clues.”
Kirsten nodded. She could live with that. “What else?”
“Also, we’d like to keep the killer’s nickname out of the paper, and his threat to mark any future victims. If you mention the Lamb of God, then every nutjob in the state will start calling us, claiming to be the killer. It would make our job a whole lot easier if we could keep that to ourselves as a way to screen out the crazies.”
For a reporter, a serial killer naming himself the Lamb of God was gold. But more than that, it was news. “The purpose of the press is not to make your job easier, Detective. It’s-”
Darlene Freeman cut her off. “Nor is it to hinder a police investigation.” She stared at Kirsten. “I don’t think these gentlemen have time for a lecture on the role of the press, Miss Sparks.”
Freeman glanced at Redfield, then nodded at the two policemen. “Agreed, Detectives. We will not mention the name Lamb of God in the story tomorrow.” She looked sideways at Kirsten. “Nor in any subsequent articles without consulting you first. Anything else?”
Gaudet cleared his throat. He seemed embarrassed. Both he and Landry were looking at Redfield, not Kirsten.
Landry said, “We would like you to leave out any mention that the letter referenced Detective Murphy by name.”
“Why is that, Lieutenant?” Redfield said. “That’s one of the most intriguing parts of the story. Surely, you can see that.”
“We think it might be harmful to our investigation if your article singled out one detective, particularly one who is no longer working on any of the relevant cases.”
“What cases are those, Lieutenant?” Kirsten said. “The chief told me just a few days ago that the unsolved prostitute murders were not connected, that they were the work of-how did he put it?-‘different perpetrators.’”
Landry stared at her, his eyes black and cold, like those of a fish. “Our position hasn’t changed, Miss Sparks. Detective Gaudet and I are here at the request of your superiors.” He nodded at the evidence bag in Gaudet’s hands. “We will conduct a thorough investigation, but what I suspect we have here is a false confession, a claim of responsibility from someone who had nothing to do with any of the crimes with which he is trying to associate himself. Frankly, as investigators, we receive a lot of these types of communications. Ninety-nine percent of them turn out to be phony, usually initiated by someone suffering from emotional problems.”
“How about severed women’s fingers?” Kirsten said. “Do you get a lot of those?”
“Miss Sparks!” Darlene Freeman said. “That is enough.” The publisher stared at Kirsten for several seconds, then looked at Landry. “I think we can accommodate your requests, Lieutenant.” She glanced at Redfield. “Right, Charles?”
Redfield nodded. Freeman turned her attention back to the two cops and slid her chair away from the
