famous for her on-air meltdown the year before Katrina, when, as Hurricane Ivan bore down on New Orleans, she shouted into the camera, “It’s too late to get out. We’re all doomed!” The storm turned at the last minute and wrecked Alabama.
The television map showed the eye of Hurricane Catherine, a cat-four monster, already well into the gulf and driving hard toward New Orleans.
“I thought the storm was still near Miami,” Kirsten said to the reporter in the next cubicle.
“Huh?” came the man’s reply.
Kirsten could only see the top of his head. “The hurricane,” she said. “I thought it was heading to Miami.”
“It barely touched Miami,” the reporter said. “Since then it’s picked up a lot of speed. The computer models are projecting a path straight for us.”
The phone on Kirsten’s desk rang. She picked it up. “Sparks.”
“What did you find in the morgue?” Gene Michaels said.
“Bodies.”
The city editor laughed. “I guess I asked for that.”
“Father Ramon Gonzalez,” Kirsten said.
“The priest who got killed in the French Quarter?”
“Whoever wrote the letter either killed him or is trying to take credit for it.”
“But the police caught the guy who did that,” Michaels said. “It was some gutter punk.”
“The case never went to trial. The kid hanged himself.”
“Anything else?”
“A gay street hustler got stabbed to death next to Saint Louis Cathedral six weeks before Father Gonzalez.”
“Jesus.”
“I doubt it,” Kirsten said. “He’s got an alibi.”
Gene Michaels let out another short laugh. “Seriously though, you think this guy has something against the Catholic Church?”
“I don’t know,” Kirsten said.
“We can’t say he’s claiming to have killed either one, since the letter is so vague.”
“But we can say that while we were researching the letter we found two cases that seem to match the murders the killer described.”
“Okay, write up a sidebar to go with the letter story,” Michaels said. “Space is tight, so no more than ten inches.”
“What about reaction from the bishop, former parishioners, maybe the homeless kid’s family?”
“We’ll work on that for Tuesday. The budget for tomorrow’s front page is absolutely full. We’ve got the story about the letter, your piece on the kidnapping, your French Quarter sidebar, and, of course, the storm.”
“Who’s writing the letter story?”
“Milton.”
Kirsten was surprised. It was unusual for the managing editor to write anything other than an editorial. She was also disappointed. A story about the newspaper receiving a letter from the serial murderer who kidnapped the mayor’s daughter was going to be the top story. “As lead reporter on the serial killer, I should be writing that story, Gene.”
“Remember what I told you about the big chiefs and the little chiefs?” Michaels said. “Well, he’s a big chief. By the way, I need your stories by eight o’clock.”
Kirsten glanced at the clock on her computer screen. It was 5:10. Deadline wasn’t until 9:00. “Why so early?”
“They extended the production deadline and authorized overtime for everyone in the printing plant, but they cut the copy deadline.”
“Why?”
“Tomorrow’s cover package is huge and the design people need extra time putting it together.”
She realized she would not have had time to write the story about the killer’s letter anyway. Still, it bothered her that she wasn’t being allowed to write it. Focus, she told herself. Focus. She had a short deadline. “What did you get from the security camera?”
“Nothing but a man in a big floppy hat dropping off an envelope.”
“Can you see his face at all?”
“He kept his hat in the way.”
“Can you tell his race?” Kirsten asked. “His age? What about his clothes?”
“Slow down,” Michaels said. “I’ll e-mail you the clip, but keep it to yourself. The legal department is all over this story, and they don’t want to see the video on YouTube.”
“Is Milton going to mention the video in his story?”
“Definitely not,” Michaels said. “All he’s going to say is that the letter was dropped off at our office this morning, but we don’t know by whom.”
The new-mail indicator at the bottom of Kirsten’s screen appeared. “Your e-mail just came in,” she said.
“Eight o’clock,” Michaels said.
“Yes, boss,” Kirsten said, then hung up.
She opened her e-mail program and clicked on the video file.
The black-and-white image showed an exterior view of the front door of the building. A time stamp at the bottom of the screen read
10:35 AM.
A man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a straw hat appeared on the screen. The brim was pulled low to conceal his face. His right hand held an envelope. Beside the double glass door was a mail slot. It was a holdover from the days before faxes and e-mail, when people used to drop off letters to the editor and anonymous tips at all hours of the night.
The man slipped the envelope into the slot as if he were returning a DVD to Blockbuster; then he turned around and walked away. He kept his head angled so the brim of his hat was between the security camera and his face.
He was on screen for less than five seconds.
Kirsten replayed the video at a slower speed. She followed the movement of the letter, from when it first appeared on screen to when it disappeared down the mail slot. She noticed the white skin of the man’s forearms and the gloves on his hands.
She closed the video player. She had less than three hours to finish two stories. Her hands reached for her keyboard.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Sunday, August 5, 5:51 PM
The killer sits cross-legged on his bed watching television, flipping back and forth between the cable news networks and the local stations. His second video is on every channel. He is the topic du jour. In the heavily edited version of the video played on television, the young woman’s terrified face is clearly visible.
The press coverage is even better than he had hoped. Tomorrow the newspaper will certainly carry his letter.
Twice during the last few hours, the local TV stations have replayed this morning’s police press conference. The killer watched it both times with fascination. He is growing fond of Detective Murphy. The investigator appears to be a driven man, one who does not easily suffer the fools in the press. Unlike the mayor, though, Murphy is not insulting in his comments, just determined. The killer knows Murphy’s determination will ultimately be for naught, for God himself has so ordained it, yet he admires the detective’s doggedness.
Perhaps I have underestimated him. Perhaps he is my Javert.
