“What about the box?” Kirsten said.
Redfield slid another photograph across the table to her. “I’ve put everything back in the envelope to avoid contaminating it further, but here is what it looks like.”
The photo showed a small cardboard box of the type that a pocketknife might come in. Lying next to the opened box, inside a plastic sandwich bag, was a human finger. A female finger, judging by the long, glue-on nail.
“It came in the bag,” Redfield said. “We didn’t open it.”
Kirsten shuddered. “And you’re sure it’s real?”
“It looks real to me,” Milton said.
Kirsten turned to the lawyer. “This is a body part from a murder victim. We have to call the police.”
“It was mailed to us,” he said, “and we have every right to evaluate it before we make a decision.”
Kirsten looked at Redfield. “Are you agreeing with this?”
He nodded. “For now.”
“Any idea what the code means?” she asked.
Redfield shook his head. “Not a clue.”
“The Lamb of God, what kind of a name is that?”
“I have no idea,” Redfield said. “Other than its obvious religious connotations.”
“Are you going to print the letter?” Kirsten asked.
From the far end of the conference table, Darlene Freeman finally spoke up. “We’re not going to run it tomorrow, Miss Sparks, if that is what you are asking.”
Kirsten, like almost everyone in the newsroom, hated the white-haired, sallow-faced Freeman, who, although she carried the title of publisher, had nothing to do with the day-to-day operation of the newspaper.
And it wasn’t just that Freeman was a corporate hack sent from company headquarters to pinch every dime the newspaper spent, or that she had fled on a company jet hours before Hurricane Katrina slammed into the city and didn’t return for three months. For Kirsten, it was more than that. She also hated Freeman because of the nerve-grinding way she insisted on calling everyone by their last name, preceded by the appropriate title, Mr., Mrs., or Miss. Even if she had known you for ten years.
It made Kirsten want to strangle her.
Kirsten stared at Redfield. “Then when are you going to run it?”
He shrugged.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tuesday, July 31, 2:45 PM
Warren Zevon dragged Sean Murphy out of a deep sleep.
Murphy grabbed his cell phone and tried to focus on the screen. His eyes were gummy, but he could see the caller ID was blocked. It was either the police department or the newspaper. PIB or Kirsten. He didn’t want to talk to either. He hit the ignore button and sent the call to voice mail.
It rang again. Another restricted call. He ignored it.
Sixty seconds later a third call came in.
Murphy punched the green button. “What?”
“You’re not going to believe this,” Kirsten whispered.
He wanted to hang up, but curiosity got the better of him. “What?”
“We got a package in the mail from the killer.”
Murphy sat up in bed and set his feet on the floor. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs left over from his beer and egg breakfast. “From who?”
“The serial killer.”
The several seconds of silence that followed were charged with electricity.
“What kind of package?” Murphy said.
“A padded envelope. Inside was a letter and a small cardboard box.”
“What did the letter say?”
“I… I can’t talk about it,” Kirsten said. “They swore me to secrecy and they will kill me if they find out I told anyone, especially you. I shouldn’t even be calling you.”
“If this is a joke, it’s not fucking funny.”
“It’s not a joke,” Kirsten snapped. “We just got a package in the mail from a guy who claims to be the serial killer. The executive editor, the managing editor, the publisher, and their lawyer are meeting right now to decide what to do with it.”
“Have they called the police?”
“That’s what they’re discussing,” Kirsten said.
Murphy heard street noise in the background. She must have gone outside to talk.
“He calls himself the Lamb of God,” Kirsten said.
“The killer?”
“No, Charles Redfield, the executive editor. That’s what he’s started calling himself lately. Of course I mean the killer, Murphy. What are you, stupid?”
He wasn’t listening. Usually, it was the cops or the press who gave serial killers their names. Only a few killers Murphy had ever heard of had named themselves. BTK, Zodiac, Jack the Ripper, and the Axman had done it, but with the Ripper and the Axman it was questionable whether the actual killers had written the letters in which their noms de guerre had first appeared.
“He gave himself a name?” Murphy said.
“The fucking Lamb of God,” Kirsten said. “Excuse my language, but I just can’t believe this. It’s like something out of a movie.” She sounded excited and scared.
“What was in the box?”
“I’m… I’m sorry. I can’t talk about that either.”
“Goddamnit, Kirsten, quit playing games.”
“I’m not playing games. I just can’t talk about that, at least not right now. I’m the only one not still in the meeting, and as far as I know, I’m the only other person who knows about the package.”
“Did you call here just to gloat?”
Several seconds dragged by. Murphy thought Kirsten had hung up.
“I called to let you know you were right,” she said quietly.
Murphy took a deep breath. “Thanks.” He meant it.
“I think…”
“What?”
“Never mind. I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up.
Murphy flipped his phone closed and stared at the floor.
The Lamb of God. What the hell?
Kirsten sat at her desk fidgeting for more than an hour before her phone rang.
It was Redfield. “We need you back in here.”
When Kirsten opened the conference room door two minutes later, she saw Juan Gaudet and another detective standing on the far side of the room. Kirsten didn’t know the other detective.
Gaudet held a clear plastic evidence bag in his hands. Through the plastic Kirsten could see the padded manila envelope. Gaudet winked at Kirsten as she stepped into the room. They had been friends when she and Murphy had been together. The three of them had spent a lot of nights together at the Star amp; Crescent. Those had been good times.
It was Gaudet who had commented anonymously in Kirsten’s article this morning that Murphy’s demotion and transfer were not really for talking to the press about a serial killer, but were payback for arresting the mayor’s brother four years ago and beating PIB at a Police Civil Service Board hearing a year later.
Kirsten decided not to sit at the conference table despite there being an empty chair. She pushed the door closed and leaned against it.
Redfield pointed toward the two detectives. “Kirsten, we’ve asked Detective Juan Gaudet and Lieutenant Carl Landry from the Homicide Division to join us.”
Gaudet corrected him. “I’m from Homicide. Lieutenant Landry is from the Public Integrity Bureau.”
As always, Gaudet was dressed for the part of a murder cop. He wore an expensive suit tailored to hide his bulk, a starched white shirt, and a hand-painted silk tie held in place by a gold clasp shaped like a vulture perched on top of the star and crescent NOPD badge.