“That’s Tim Anderson,” he said. “He goes by Thomas Fillmore. Lord Halloween let him live.”
“How the hell do you know that? And why does that name sound familiar?”
“Let’s start at the beginning. I think Lord Halloween let Tim go, but also told him to get lost. So he does. But where does he go? And what is he going to do?”
“He could go anywhere or do anything,” Kate responded.
“Go anywhere? Yes. Do anything? I don’t think so,” Quinn said. “If you looked at his writing, it’s exceptional. I think I’m pretty good, but this guy was much, much better. I’m sure Lord Halloween put him off journalism for some period of time, but in 12 years, is the guy liable to give it up altogether?”
“He could go into PR,” she said.
“Not a guy like this,” Quinn said excitedly. “This is his talent. I’ve met people who are good at a couple things, but never one who is exceptional at more than one. Frankly, I don’t know what I would do if I left journalism and PR is not a viable option for me. So wherever Tim went, it’s a safe bet he’s a reporter.”
“And Fillmore is a reporter?”
“He’s now the editor of the Bluemont Gazette in West Virginia,” Quinn said.
“Hasn’t that paper won a few awards?” she said.
Quinn put his finger to his nose. “Bingo,” he said.
“There are more than two good writers in the world,” Kate said.
“I paid $30 to buy some software that helps track down kids that are cheating in school. You know, they don’t write that paper on Great Expectations, but instead just download it from the Internet? The software tracks phrases, even writing style, to help a teacher figure out if something is plagiarized. So it also can be used to scout through newspaper articles looking for someone who is ripping off someone else. If that’s true, Fillmore is the biggest copycat of Anderson I’ve ever seen.”
“How so?”
“Every writer establishes a style and we tend to fall back on the same turns of phrase, over and over. Anderson was dramatic but concise. In 1994, he wrote a story about the victim of a shooting that started: ‘Violence was the thing that Carlos Ramirez fled from in El Salvador to start a new life in the United States, but it caught up with him on Friday night.’ In 2003, Fillmore wrote this: ‘Violence has been a factor in the life of Harry Davids since he was a teenager, but it finally caught up with him on Saturday night.’”
“Not conclusive,” Kate said, but she was looking excited.
“No, but do you know how many matches I had by loading up Anderson’s old articles into the software? Throughout the country, I got as many as two hundred to three hundred hits on a single reporter using the same kinds of phrases. That’s not that weird, because not everything is unique. With Fillmore, that number is two thousand, five hundred and sixty-one. That’s how many hits come out. Call it a writing signature.”
Kate looked up at him.
“Quinn, you are a genius,” she said. She leaned across the table and kissed him again. This time, the kiss seemed to linger for a second or two longer.
“Where is Fillmore now?”
“Still sitting in Bluemont, less than two hours drive,” Quinn said.
“Why wouldn’t he go further away?” Kate asked. “I would think he’d be in New Zealand by now.”
Quinn paused. “You are a fine one to talk,” he said.
“But I’m…” she stumbled. “Actually, it’s a good point. I don’t know why I’m here either.”
“Maybe he just couldn’t get away,” he said.
“Or maybe he’s Lord Halloween,” Kate said.
Quinn whistled. “What makes you say that?”
“Come on, he writes letters to himself, that’s not so hard,” Kate said. “One of the last letters even suggests as much.”
“He’s drawing attention to himself,” Quinn said.
“And Lord Halloween lived for that,” Kate said. “Anderson is a key to this puzzle. There is no doubt about it. Either he is Lord Halloween, or there is something very specific he wanted from Anderson.”
But Quinn remembered something he couldn’t quite place. Hadn’t someone told him to look “for the victim that still lives?” For the life of him, however, he couldn’t place who had told him that. He had a hunch that Fillmore wasn’t the killer, however.
“Either way, it sounds like a field trip is in order,” Quinn said.
“Agreed,” she said. “You have weekend plans?”
“I do now.”
After dinner, Quinn prepared to walk her home again.
“I need to stop by work first,” she said as they got outside. It was just around the corner from the restaurant.
“You’ll be back there again tomorrow,” he said.
“I know, but I left some stuff I wanted to read over tonight,” she said. “Fillmore still sounds familiar to me. I want to look at some of my research and see if I’ve come across the name before.”
They arrived at the Chronicle and Quinn pulled out his key.
The office was dark and seemed foreboding at night. Neither Quinn nor Kate mentioned it, but both hurried through the reception area, past the advertising section and into the editorial room.
Kate stopped.
“Did you hear something?” she asked.
“You’re kidding, right?” Quinn replied. He looked around. All the offices were dark, lit only by a faint light from the front reception area. “Let’s grab your stuff and get out of here. I don’t want to be more creeped out than I already am.”
They paused a moment, heard nothing and she headed for her desk. She started rustling around.
“Quinn, turn on the light on my desk, will you?” she asked as she opened up her file drawer.
Quinn fumbled for the switch on the desk, found it and flipped on the light.
He glanced at the computer area and saw some print-outs on the left-hand side. There was a post-it note stuck to one.
He picked up the stack.
“Is this it?” he asked. “It looks like you labeled this stack.”
He held up the stack to the light and froze.
The note wasn’t a label.
“I don’t think I labeled it,” she said, shutting the file drawer and looking up at the papers.
“Oh my God,” he said.
She read the note over his shoulder.
“He was here,” she said. “And he knows.”
The post-it note was simple: “See you soon, Trina.”
Both of them looked at each other and then around the office.
“He could still be here,” Quinn said quietly. “We should get out of here. Right now.”
She grabbed his arm and reached into her purse. She pulled out a gun.
“Fuck,” he said. “I didn’t know you…”
She put a finger to her lips and the two carefully moved back toward the front door. They moved slowly, waiting for any sound, and she held the weapon out in front of her. They passed through the advertising section and Quinn thought he saw movement on the side.
But when he looked again, it was only his shadow on the wall.
Quinn looked to the front, while she kept an eye out behind them. Quinn felt like they were moving too slow. He fought down the urge to grab her and bolt toward the door.
At the reception desk, both jumped as the phone at the front rang. Kate pointed the gun at it.
“It’s past 10 o’clock,” Quinn said. “Who the hell would be calling?”
“Pick it up,” Kate said.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said.
“Pick it up,” Kate said.
