But for some reason, he wasn’t sharing those instructions with the editors.
Kirsten saw a setup coming. The company hacks were forcing Redfield to make the decision. That way, if the newspaper came out looking bad, it was his fault. But if his decision turned out to be a good one, Newsome executives were standing by to take the credit. For now, though, it was all on Redfield, who just wanted to reach his thirtieth anniversary with the paper, get the gold watch, and punch out.
Redfield took off his glasses and laid them on the table. He looked around the room, making sure to meet each person’s eye. “We’re not going to run the letter or the cipher,” he said. “At least not tomorrow. I’m not letting an anonymous killer dictate what we publish.”
Freeman smiled.
Redfield stood, signaling the meeting was over. As he picked up his glasses, he looked at Kirsten. “I want you to write a story about the letter. Don’t get into the contents but mention the deadline the killer gave us and his threat. Also include any new developments with the investigation. I’ll write an editorial for tomorrow explaining our reasons for not running the letter.”
Kirsten rose and headed for the door. She was sure Redfield’s decision was a mistake, but he was the boss. He had a tough choice to make and he had made it. Something Darlene Freeman was incapable of doing.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Thursday, August 2, 7:40 AM
The killer is furious as he skims again through the “A” section of this morning’s Times-Picayune.
His letter isn’t there.
He returns to the front page and sees a story about his letter, but not the letter itself. The story is nothing more than a recitation of bland facts: The newspaper received a package from someone claiming to be the serial killer. The package contained a letter and a purported piece of evidence from one of the crime scenes. The letter also included a coded message the sender said contained more information about his identity and motives. The writer asked the newspaper to publish the letter on the front page within two days.. . blah, blah, blah.
A lot of words, but no letter.
The story is wrong. The killer did not ask the newspaper’s editors to publish the letter. He demanded they publish it. And he gave them fair warning of the consequences if they failed to heed his demand.
… a killing rampage the likes of which this city has never seen.
Also on the front page is a column labeled EDITORIAL. The column carries no byline. In it, someone writing on behalf of the editorial staff explains in the pompous, self-righteous tones newspaper editors always use when they want everyone to know how erudite they are, that after careful deliberation and consultation with police officials, the Times-Picayune ’s senior staff decided not to run the letter today, which, of course, left open the possibility that it might be published later.
The editorial writer blathers on in self-serving tones about the sanctity of the newspaper’s responsibility to the public and how such a venerable institution as the Times-Picayune, one of the nation’s most respected newspapers, has never bowed, and will never bow, to outside influence or pressure, whether from high government officials or murderers…
The killer crumples the newspaper and flings it into the corner. The newspaper will pay. The police will pay. Everyone will pay.
For several minutes he sits at his small desk, fuming and thinking. Fuming over what he has read, or hasn’t read, in the paper, and thinking of exactly how to exact his revenge. He stares at a cardboard box, a parcel, on the floor beside his desk. When UPS delivered it more than a week ago, he had not been ready to use the item inside the box. Now things have changed.
He began with the sodomites, but no one noticed. Then the harlots on the streets, but again, no one noticed, at least no one of any consequence, other than an idiot detective. It was only after he climbed up the socioeconomic ladder and crawled into their homes that the public took notice of him.
But they do not yet fear him, for the wicked do not relinquish their evil ways without struggle. But that will change. Through his work, through his righteousness, through his increasing power, he will bring them to their knees to beg the Lord God for forgiveness and mercy.
But first they must be cleansed with blood and fire.
A smile comes to the killer’s face as he recalls chapter five of Deuteronomy: I am the Lord thy God. I am a jealous God, punishing the iniquities of the fathers upon the children to the third and fourth generations.
The killer is the hand of God, the instrument of his intent and his vengeance. He will not disobey God’s will, nor shirk his duty.
Blood and fire.
Murphy pressed the buzzer outside the door to his mother’s apartment. She didn’t answer. He leaned on it again and gave her a long burst. Still no answer.
After a frustrating day trying to organize his so-called task force, the last thing he wanted to do was talk to his mother, but he had something to tell her.
Murphy turned the doorknob. It was unlocked. He stepped inside. As usual, the stench of stale cigarette smoke threatened to strangle him.
A fake-judge show was on the television, but his mother wasn’t parked in her chair watching it. For an instant, he fantasized about what a relief it would be to find her keeled over on the toilet or lying lifeless in bed.
But she wasn’t dead on the toilet or in bed. She was sitting on the balcony, smoking and drinking. The glass door was wide open and Murphy could tell from the temperature inside the apartment and the sound of the straining air conditioner that the thermostat was set somewhere in the sixties.
He wedged himself into a small space beside her and pulled the door closed. The late-afternoon air was scorching, and he began to sweat. “I’m paying the utility bill, Mother. We don’t need to air-condition the whole neighborhood.”
“I like the cool breeze on my back.”
“Get a fan.”
His mother scooped up a pack of Pall Malls from beside her half-empty highball glass on the garden table and jammed a cigarette between her lips. She lit it and took a couple of deep drags. “Is that why you came here, to complain about the light bill? We’re in the middle of a heatwave in case you haven’t noticed.”
Murphy rested his hands on the iron railing and leaned over the edge. The hot metal burned his palms. He stared down at the empty green tennis courts, at their white stripes and black nets trimmed with white vinyl. Did he still own a tennis racket? If not, he could buy one. Recently, he had to have his suit pants let out a couple of inches, up to a thirty-six now. He was no longer the broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted Notre Dame freshman linebacker he once was.
As long as I’m paying for the courts, why not use them?
He and Kirsten used to occasionally bat a tennis ball around. That seemed like a long time ago, and he didn’t know any cops who played tennis. They thought it was gay.
His mother’s shrill voice startled him. “So if it wasn’t to complain about the light bill, why did you come here?”
He turned to face her. “To make sure you knew about the storm.”
“I heard about it from the man down the hall, Mr. Meyer the Jew. He was on the regular team, you know, at Notre Dame, not the practice squad. He told me about the hurricane yesterday.” She took a long sip of vodka, draining the glass and leaving only the ice. “I was wondering if you were even going to call.”
“That’s why I’m here, Mother. I wanted to make sure-”
“So you came just to tell me about the hurricane, not to visit. Is that it?”
He looked down at her, and for a second he saw himself tossing her over the railing.
“Right now it’s a tropical storm, not a hurricane, and it’s still a long way off. But just in case, I’ve made arrangements for you if there’s an evacuation.”
“Arrangements? What kind of arrangements?”
