More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II

was nearby (the same school where the first Strangler victim had been a student).

Altman followed Wallace inside and the reporter found the head of the branch, introduced her to the detective. Mrs. McGiver was a trim woman dressed in stylish gray; she looked more like a senior executive with a high-tech company than a librarian.

The detective explained how they suspected the book had been used by a copycat as a model for the killings. Shock registered on the woman’s face as she realized that the Strangler was somebody who’d been to her library. Perhaps he was even someone she knew.

“I’d like a list of everybody who checked out that book.” Altman had considered the possibility that the killer might not have checked it out but had merely looked through it here, in the library itself. But that meant he’d have to underline the passages in public and risk drawing the attention of librarians or patrons. He concluded that the only safe way for the Strangler to do his homework was at home.

“I’ll see what I can find,” she said.

Altman had thought that it might take days to pull together this information but Mrs. McGiver was back in minutes. Altman felt his gut churning with excitement as he gazed at the sheets of paper in her hand, relishing the sensations of the thrill of the hunt and pleasure at finding a fruitful lead.

But as he flipped through the sheets, he frowned. Every one of the thirty or so people checking out Two Deaths had done so recently — within the last six months. They needed the names of those who’d checked it out before the killings eight months ago. He explained this to her.

“Oh, but we don’t have records that far back. Normally we would, but about six months ago our computer was vandalized.”

“Vandalized?”

She nodded, frowning. “Somebody poured battery acid or something into the hard drives. Ruined them and destroyed all our records. The backup too. Somebody from your department handled the case. I don’t remember who.”

Wallace said, “I didn’t hear about it.”

“They never found who did it. It was very troubling but more of an inconvenience than anything. Imagine if he’d decided to destroy the books themselves.”

Altman caught Wallace’s eye. “Dead end,” the cop said angrily. Then he asked the librarian, “How ’bout the names of everybody who had a library card then? Were their names in the computer too?”

She nodded. “Prior to six months ago, they’re gone too. I’m sorry.”

Forcing a smile onto his face, he thanked the librarian and walked to the doorway. But he stopped so suddenly that Wallace nearly slammed into his back.

“What?” the reporter asked.

Altman ignored him and hurried back to the main desk, calling out, “Mrs. McGiver! Hold up there! I need you to find out something for me.”

Drawing glares and a couple of harsh shhhh’s from readers.

* * *

The author of Two Deaths in a Small Town, Andrew M. Carter, lived in Hampton Station, near Albany, about two hours away from Greenville.

Mrs. McGiver’s copy of Who’s Who in Contemporary Mystery Writing didn’t include street addresses or phone numbers but Altman called the DMV and they tracked down the specifics.

The idea that occurred to Altman as he was leaving the library was that Carter might’ve gotten a fan letter from the Strangler. Maybe he’d written to express some admiration, maybe he’d asked for more information or how the author had done his research. If there was such a letter the county forensic handwriting expert could easily link the notation with the fan, who — if they were lucky — might have signed his real name to the letter and included his address.

Mentally crossing his fingers he placed a call to the author. A woman answered. “Hello?”

“I’m Detective Altman with the Greenville Police Department,” he said. “I’d like to speak to Andrew Carter.”

“I’m his wife,” she said. “He’s not available.” The matter-of-fact tone in her voice suggested that this was her knee-jerk response to all such calls.

“When will he be available?”

“This is about the murders, isn’t it?”

“That’s right, ma’am.”

A hesitation. “The thing is…” Her voice lowered and Altman suspected that her unavailable husband was in a nearby room. “He hasn’t been well.”

“I’m sorry,” Altman said. “Is it serious?”

“You bet it’s serious,” she said angrily. “When the news got out that Andy’s book, you know, inspired somebody to kill those girls he got real depressed. He cut himself off from everybody. He stopped writing.” She hesitated. “He stopped everything. He just gave up.”

“Must’ve been difficult, Mrs. Carter,” Altman said sympathetically, reflecting that reporter Wallace wasn’t the first person to wonder if the novel had inspired a copycat.

“You have no idea. I told him it was just a coincidence — those women getting killed like he wrote in the book. Just a weird coincidence. But these reporters and, well, everybody, friends, neighbors… They kept yammering on and on about how Andy was to blame.”

Altman supposed she wasn’t going to like the fact he’d found proof that her husband’s book had probably been the model for the killings.

She continued, “He’s been getting better lately. Anything about the case could set him back.”

“I do understand that, ma’am, but you have to see my situation. We’ve got a possibility of catching the killer and your husband could be real helpful…”

The sound on the other end of the line grew muffled and Altman could hear her talking to someone else.

Quentin Altman wasn’t surprised when she said, “My husband just got back. I’ll put him on.”

“Hello?” came a soft, uneasy voice. “This’s Andy Carter.”

Altman identified himself.

“Were you the policeman I talked to a while back?”

“Me? No. That might’ve been the case detective. Sergeant Bob Fletcher.”

“Right. That was the name.”

So Fletcher had talked to the author. There was no reference in the case file that he recalled. He must’ve missed it. He reiterated to Carter what he’d told the author’s wife and the man said immediately, “I can’t help you. And frankly, I don’t want to…. This’s been the worst time of my life.”

“I appreciate that, sir. But that killer’s still free. And—”

“But I don’t know anything. I mean, what could I possibly tell you that—”

“We may have a sample of the killer’s handwriting — we found some notes in a copy of your book that make us think he might’ve written them. And we’d like to compare it to any letters from fans you might’ve received.”

There was a long pause. Finally the author whispered, “So he did use my book as a model.”

In a kind voice Altman said, “It’s looking that way, Mr. Carter. The underlined passages are the ones that fit the M.O. of the two murders. I’m afraid they’re identical.”

Altman heard nothing for a moment then he asked, “Sir, are you all right?”

The author cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. I just… it’d be too much for me.”

Quentin Altman often told young officers who worked for him that a detective’s most important trait is persistence. He said in an even voice, “You’re the only one who can help us trace the book back to the killer. He destroyed the library computer so we don’t have the names of who checked out your book. There’s no match on the fingerprints either…. I want to catch this man real bad. And I suspect you do too, Mr. Carter. Don’t you, now?”

There was no response. Finally the faint voice continued, “Do you know that strangers sent me clippings about the killings? Perfect strangers. Hundreds of them. They blamed me. They called my book a ‘blueprint for murder.’ I had to go into the hospital for