That meant worker bees like Glenn had to carry a lot more load to get the paper out every day.
He approached Matt’s office with trepidation, hoping he wasn’t about to be handed yet more to churn out before leaving for the evening. He’d already worked through dinner time for the third day in a row. Enough was enough, he decided as he steeled himself for a confrontation. He wasn’t a bath mat. Time to stand up and be a man.
Although being an unemployed man wasn’t so appealing when there were bills to pay.
“Shut the door,” Matt said as he entered.
Glenn complied and raised his eyebrows in a silent inquiry as to what the fire drill was about.
“Come over here. Look at these. I just got them by e-mail.” Matt gestured to a spot where Glenn could see the images on the monitor.
Glenn walked around the desk, careful not to disturb the overhanging stack of back issues.
His eyes went wide. “Holy shit. Is that what I think it is?”
“Yup. From the psycho killer — The Regulator. Shots of his latest butchery, up close and personal.”
“Jesus. You need to call the cops. Maybe they can trace the account…” Glenn blurted.
“I know. I’m going to in a second. After I finish choosing a few for the morning edition. What do we know about today’s killing?”
“Just what the FBI put out. A male New York resident, murdered sometime last night, believed to be the work of The Regulator. Not much more. Name will be released after the next of kin have been contacted. The usual ambiguous routine.”
“Well, the days of ambiguity are over. There’s a message with the photos identifying the victim and making a statement about bringing criminals to justice. Sounds like he views himself as a vigilante. Chuck Bronson —
“I think that was
“Yeah, whatever. I could never tell what the hell either of them was saying. One Chuck Norris could have kicked both their asses. The point is that we have a serial killer who’s giving us gold, and if he wants us to print his side of the story, I don’t see any reason not to, do you?”
“One reason is it could get us in hot water with law enforcement…maybe you should run this by legal before making any final decisions?” Glenn counseled.
“I’m all over it. I have a conference call in a few minutes.”
They studied the message under the photos until Matt finally said, “He’s pretty vague, don’t you think? Says he’s going after untouchable criminals that the system won’t prosecute. Promises more to come, as well as a story that will detail the crime of the century.”
“Uh huh. Let me guess. The trilateral commission and the Templars are secretly keeping Hitler’s brain alive?”
“I know. This gives me the creeps. But still. It’s a gift, and these days I’ll take whatever I’m given. Which brings me to why I wanted to talk to you. We’re going to need fifteen hundred words, and nobody can crank out quality as fast as you. What do you think? Can you get this done stat?”
Glenn sighed. He knew it. Then again, this was an unexpected break, and it would ensure his byline was seen by a huge number of people. Might even go national. This was the sort of thing he would have actually stayed up all night for.
“Give me an hour. I’ll flesh out the bare bones from the FBI and throw in some lurid speculation. Finish with a paragraph that will ensure that nobody feels safe. It’ll scare the shit out of anyone reading it.”
“That’s my boy,” Matt said.
His phone rang.
“That will be legal. I need to take this. I’ll look for your article before I leave. Thanks, big guy.”
“Sure thing, boss. No problem.”
A white Chevrolet sedan pulled up to the warehouse on the outskirts of Rochester, New York, a few minutes south of the suburb of Brighton. The worst of the morning commute traffic had died down, and the vehicle had made it to the building in reasonably short time. The area around it was green, thick with trees, typical of most of upstate New York. Aside from the steadily expanding populated areas, the region was still relatively unspoiled — as far from the dense concrete jungle that was Manhattan as one could get and still be in the same state.
The two occupants of the car studied the metal-sided exterior of the building, and were surprised at the absence of security cameras that would usually serve as an early warning system. Which wasn’t positive — it made the information that had come in that much more far-fetched; one of countless false alarms they had to wade through every year in order to glean a real lead.
In this case, they were part of an ongoing investigation into a human trafficking and prostitution ring operated by the aggressively proliferating Chinese criminal syndicates. Already, bloody turf wars had taken place in several East Coast metropolitan areas between the Russians and the Chinese, and that looked to become the norm.
“What do you think?” the younger, fair-haired driver asked as he scanned the nearby structures for any signs of surveillance.
“Looks like your average industrial building to me. What did the tip claim?” his partner, a paunchy, shorter man in his early forties, inquired.
“Said that around twenty underage Asian females are being held in the building, waiting to be transported to massage parlors that are fronts for prostitution. The caller said the move is supposed to happen today or tomorrow, and that while the building is low security, they have the girls penned up in a chain link holding area inside the warehouse.”
“Think we should call in an assault team?”
“Not until we’ve done at least some cursory nosing around. No way we can justify an armed incursion if we haven’t knocked on any doors or watched the place for a while. Could be complete bullshit. But you know how this goes — every now and then a rival tips off the law to make life difficult for their adversaries. You never know. This could be an early birthday present. It’s happened before.”
“So what do you think? We go poke our noses in and see if there are a bunch of caged Chinese girls in the back?”
“Hardly seems likely they’d show us around if that was the case, right? No, I say we hang out here for a few hours and see who goes in and out. Then we make a call later. For now we stay put and enjoy our coffee.” He tapped the rim of his cup of convenience store brew.
“You want to take the first nap, or should I?” his partner joked.
They adjusted their seats to more comfortable positions, settling in for a few hours of wasted surveillance. All part of the job.
Four hundred and sixty yards away, a bearded figure lowered the binoculars and thumbed his iPhone on. The photograph of a man, taken as he was walking out of the federal courthouse, had been enlarged for ease of identification.
The blond driver had gained ten pounds in the two years since the snap had been taken, but he was unmistakable.
The bearded man raised the glasses to his eyes again, scanning the periphery of the area where the vehicle was parked, gauging the traffic patterns of the roads feeding into the industrial park. He’d planned his escape route carefully and would be miles away before anyone had a chance to react. The flat roof of the empty structure he was perched upon hid him from view, and he seriously doubted that the pair in the car had any idea what they were walking into.
A light breeze ruffled the nearby tree tops as a pair of gray doves took to the air. It was an idyllic day after months of gloom and cold. Spring had arrived and looked good to stay. He didn’t mind the cold, but was always glad when the sun came out and the weather got warmer. It made days like today much more pleasant — no numb hands or hours of shivering to contend with.
He continued to check the surrounding area, then returned his attention to the car before setting the glasses down on top of the black nylon backpack next to him.
