Quinn nodded. “He has files on every victim of Lord Halloween, Kate.”
He handed the files over to her.
“That’s Tim Anderson’s,” he said.
The next thing he knew Kate had kissed him again. It was brief-all too brief-but it felt great. She let him go.
“Fantastic,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”
“What about Janus?”
“What about me?” Janus said, appearing from nowhere. Both Kate and Quinn jumped.
“What the hell were you doing back there?” Quinn asked.
“Saving your ass,” he said. “Now let’s get gone before we have another little incident.”
Kate and Quinn sat in Quinn’s apartment, each of them drinking a Coke. It was late, they should be sleeping, but instead they were sitting with a raft of paper. The file on Anderson had been thick. In it were stuffed Anderson’s articles from the murders: a profile of a kid that was murdered, reports on the police investigation, and a big blow up piece that read, “Who is Lord Halloween?” Below the headline was the deck: “And why can’t the police stop him?”
Quinn glanced through the article. “The police investigation appears crude, inept and ineffective-and the killer undoubtedly knows it,” one article read. “While police routinely try to contain information about a case in order to confront a suspect with evidence unknown to the public, they have also attempted to bury information that could be vital to the citizens of Loudoun County. The police concluded there was likely a serial killer in the area three days before the death of Trudy Pharaoh on Oct. 16, yet refused to acknowledge as much until after her death and those of two other people. Critics charge the police have put the public at risk and are no closer to identifying a suspect in the case.”
No wonder the cops hate us, Quinn thought. Not that what Anderson wrote was untrue, but still, it was harsh. If the police had told everyone there was a serial killer in town, how long before panic set in? As it was, when people had figured it out, the reaction had been over the top. A curfew and a ban on Halloween and related activities had been just the beginning. Then again, weren’t the police making the same mistake now, denying that the deaths of Fanton and Kilgore were related?
“Fascinating,” Kate said. “Lord Halloween really had a yen for Anderson. Look at these.”
She produced a stack of paper and handed them to Quinn. He started reading from the top of the stack: “Some of what I tell you will be lies. I don’t mean to get us off on the wrong foot, but I thought I should make that clear from the outset.”
“He wrote about ten letters, it looks like,” she said. “Though not all of them appear to be here. We are at least missing letters four and six.”
“What do they say?”
“You should read them, but they are quite the ego trip. It turns out Lord Halloween was apparently an anti- development pioneer-way ahead of his time. It’s all about stopping change, and yadda, yadda, yadda.”
“Maybe he’s part of the anti-development team now?” Quinn asked. “One of the people trying to preserve Phillips Farm, for example.”
“I don’t think so,” Kate said.
“Why not?”
“I think it’s all a show,” she said. “I think he was trying to give a motivation to Anderson that would be somewhat sympathetic-however crazy-to people who read his stories. He’s like an eco-terrorist on steroids. But I don’t think he meant a word of it.”
“He might have meant some of it,” Quinn said.
“Everything about these letters is over the top,” Kate said. “Just like the man himself, I assume. I think ‘Lord Halloween’ itself is a put-on, a sham, something designed to scare the kiddies. The man behind it probably thinks it’s all in fun.”
“Then what’s the point of the letters?”
“To establish a mythos,” she said. “To create buzz around him. He’s not just a killer. He’s a serial killer bent on destruction and chaos. But my point is, he feels about as real as a comic-book villain. Yes, he kills people, but the whole, ‘she screamed delightfully’ while she died.”
“The editor in me noted that you can’t really scream delightfully,” Quinn said.
“Exactly,” Kate said. “It’s a put-on. He’s trying to make himself bigger than he is, some kind of arch-fiend. He’s not. He’s just a guy who gets off on killing people. That’s it.”
“But he also seems to want a certain kind of press,” Quinn said, flipping through the letters.
“Yeah, that’s the other point of the letters, I think,” Kate said. “It’s about control. He’s trying to get around the police muzzle about his existence and using a reporter to do it. When the reporter doesn’t do it…”
“He kills him,” Quinn said.
“Very likely,” Kate said. “Though that last letter has thrown me a bit. Maybe it was meant to throw other people, I’m not sure. But one letter seems to imply he killed Anderson’s girlfriend. That’s a place we ought to start looking. Who was she? Did she work for the Chronicle? It’s too bad you couldn’t steal more files.”
“I’ve had another disturbing thought,” Quinn said. “Why does Laurence have all those files anyway? If it were Buzz, I wouldn’t think twice…”
“I wonder if it’s him,” Kate said.
“Him?”
“Maybe Laurence is Lord Halloween,” she said. “This is his way of tracking his victims, enjoying the thrill.”
Quinn laughed out loud.
“You aren’t serious?” he said. “Have you met Laurence? There’s no way. He can’t even stand up to Rebecca.”
“So maybe he acts out in other ways, Quinn,” she said. “You don’t really know people: not ever. Maybe he’s just a nice guy on the surface and underneath…”
“No way,” Quinn said. “I just don’t see it.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said.
She looked at her watch. It was past three in the morning.
“I should get back to the hotel,” she said.
“You can stay here,” Quinn said.
They looked at each other. For a brief moment, Kate saw the Tarot card lying on Madame Zora’s table: a man and a woman with the Devil standing between them. But she was far too tired to be thinking that way.
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” Quinn rushed to clarify. It was good that Janus had already gone home. He would have mocked Quinn-in front of Kate, no doubt.
She was also too tired to argue. She nodded. He rushed off to get towels and generally get his room in order. Within fifteen minutes, they were both asleep.
LH File: Letter #8
Date Oct. 23, 1994
Investigation Status: Closed
Contents: Classified
Dear Tim,
I think it’s about time we used each other’s Christian names, don’t you? That last article-that was what I wanted all along. Was that so hard? The police are inept, no one can find me, and I’m killing with impunity. If that doesn’t frighten the huddled masses, I don’t know what will.
I confess I thought our partnership was a failure, but here we are, finally working together. I’m sure the police are thrilled. Maybe you don’t want to hand this letter over? Just a suggestion, but how long do you think it is before they begin to suspect you? Think about it: Maybe you’re just a reporter who wants attention. Maybe you’re writing these letters to yourself. You could even have multiple personalities and not know it. Sure, it’s crazy, but the police are desperate, Tim. How long before they go looking for a scapegoat? Hey, it can even be the same reporter that called them names. Think of how excited they would be.
