As the killer watches a pair of talking heads on WDSU, the local NBC affiliate, debate what to do about the mayor’s missing daughter, a breaking-news banner flashes at the bottom of the screen, followed by a news scroll that reads POLICE AT SCENE OF NEW SERIAL-KILLER ATTACK. ..
What?
The killer stares at the screen as the same message crawls across again. This time it is followed by the additional teaser, DETAILS AT THE TOP OF THE HOUR.
The killer glances at the cable box above the television. Eight minutes until he can find out what WDSU is talking about. He switches to WWL, the CBS affiliate and the city’s perennial news ratings winner. The station is in the midst of airing a commercial for a car dealership. The killer suffers through the car ad, then has to watch a promotion for the network’s Sunday-night lineup, led by 60 Minutes.
Finally, the weekend anchor comes on. She is a light-skinned black woman with a foot of hair shellacked to the top of her head. The graphic below reads, NEWS ALERT.
She gazes into the camera, solemn faced.
“WWL has just learned that New Orleans police are on the scene of what appears to be yet another serial killer attack. This one on Wingate Drive, just blocks from the University of New Orleans. NOPD has not released the name of the victim, but we have reporters enroute to the scene of this deadly attack. WWL will interrupt our regular programming to bring you live reports as the situation unfolds.”
The killer continues to stare dumbfounded at the television, even after the station returns to the network news talk show it had been airing.
Wingate Drive?
He springs from the bed and pulls a spiral notebook from beneath his mattress. The notebook contains his research. He flips through several pages, then stops. He has a page of notes about a woman on Wingate Drive named Marcy Edwards, a thirty-five-year-old harlot who cheated on her husband. Has someone beaten him to her? Is someone copying him?
At 6:00 PM, the killer flips his television back to WDSU. The anchor, Randolph Neville, an aging black man with the bloodshot eyes of a boozer, leads with a brief description of the murder on Wingate. Then he cuts to a live shot at the scene. Greg Haynes, the station’s balding weekend crime reporter is there.
“Randolph, I’m standing on Wingate Drive, just a few blocks from the UNO campus,” Haynes says. “This was the scene of last night’s grisly murder and quite possibly the latest case connected to the suspected serial killer who calls himself the Lamb of God.” The reporter points over his shoulder. “This house behind me is where police discovered the body of a dead woman about nine o’clock this morning, and as you can see, several hours later, the house is still swarming with detectives, including members of the department’s serial-killer task force.”
The killer leans back against the headboard.
The screen splits and shows the anchor on the left, the reporter on the right. The anchorman, who only recently finished serving a thirty-day suspension following a DWI arrest, says, “Greg, what have the police said about this latest murder?”
After a few seconds delay, the reporter says, “They’re not releasing any details, as you can imagine, Randolph, but the continued presence of members of the serial-killer task force lends credibility to the speculation that this crime was the work of the Lamb of God.”
The killer loves hearing them call him that.
“Can you tell us what exactly is fueling that speculation?” the anchor asks.
“Well, no one is saying it officially, but sources close to the investigation have told me that detectives found something inside the house that is consistent with the other known serial-killer murders.”
“Have they identified the victim?”
The street reporter presses his earpiece deeper into his right ear. “So far, Randolph, the police have not released her name.”
“Can you tell us more about what it was that the investigators found that links-that may link-this case to the other serial-killer cases?” the anchor asks.
“Randolph, one source told me that the killer left behind a telltale mark, something the source would not describe in detail, obviously in order to prevent copycat crimes. However, the source did say that the telltale mark was something the serial killer mentioned in a previous communication with the police, likely the letter we’ve all heard about, and it was something the killer said he would leave behind at future crime scenes.”
The bleary-eyed anchor thanks the reporter and promises more updates later in the newscast if new information becomes available.
The killer is stunned.
If imitation is the most sincere form of flattery, then someone has just paid him a huge compliment.
But who?
Somewhere in the back of his mind an idea begins to take shape.
Murphy found out about the mandatory evacuation when he and Gaudet got back to the office at 9:00 PM, after more than eight hours at the Wingate crime scene.
All of the other homicide detectives were gathered in the outer office listening to Captain Donovan brief them on the latest news from headquarters.
“At zero six hundred tomorrow everyone in the department except Homicide is going on hurricane duty,” Donovan said. “All city services will be shut down except for police, fire, and EMS.”
The announcement was a shock to Murphy. He had not seen the news or listened to the radio since yesterday morning, nor had he heard anyone on Wingate talking about the storm. Or if they were, he hadn’t been listening. All he had heard was a constant replay of Marcy Edwards gasping for breath. “I didn’t think the storm was that close,” Murphy said, more to himself than to anyone else.
Standing in the doorway of his closet-sized office, Donovan shook his head. “It’s halfway across the Gulf of Mexico and headed straight for us. They’re saying it’s going to be another Katrina.”
Murphy hoped not.
He had spent the first forty-eight hours after Katrina in an eighteen-foot fishing boat, motoring around the Lower Ninth Ward, pulling people off rooftops. Then he hooked up with some SWAT guys and spent the next three weeks dodging sniper fire from the projects and chasing looters. They worked twenty-three days without a break, with barely any support from the department. They had no functioning radios, no clean uniforms, no fuel for their cars, no shelter, and no food other than what they could scrounge. During that same time, two hundred fifty of their fellow officers ran away.
The only funny part of the whole thing was when an overweight, out-of-shape, Hollywood action star showed up with his ponytail and his semiautomatic AR-15 to “help” the cops. Through some connection in the chief’s office, the actor tagged along with SWAT on a looter patrol. Halfway through the patrol, the aging actor, sweating buckets and looking like the last days of Elvis Presley, jumped into a supervisor’s car and rode back to the command post. The SWAT guys never saw him again.
So much for Hollywood heroes.
“It’s a phased evacuation,” Donovan said. “From six a.m. to six p.m., Plaquemines, lower Jefferson, and Saint Bernard parishes will move out. Then from six p.m. to six a.m., the rest of Jefferson Parish will evacuate. Finally, beginning at zero six hundred Tuesday, Orleans Parish residents will head north.”
“What’s our assignment?” Gaudet asked.
“As of tomorrow morning, the task force, along with A and B squads, will continue working the kidnapping. C Squad will handle any non-serial-killer calls.” Donovan slapped his hand against the wall like a gavel. “Go home and pack a bag, gentleman, because when you get back here tomorrow morning there is no telling when you’re going home again, or even if your home will still be standing when you get there.”
Donovan backed into his office and slammed the door.
“Merry Christmas and happy motherfucking New Year to you too,” Gaudet mumbled as the gaggle of detectives broke up.
Murphy and Gaudet walked into their squad room and headed for their desks. “Have you heard from Doggs or Calumet since this morning?” Murphy asked.
“Not a peep.”
“Are they still part of this task force?” Murphy said. “They didn’t bother responding to the… the scene on Wingate.”
