Standing next to Gaudet, Landry looked sloppy. His suit was off the rack and rumpled, and his necktie was frayed at the bottom. In contrast to Gaudet’s cheerfulness, Landry was dour. His sharp face and long thin nose made him look like a hawk, Kirsten thought, or perhaps a vulture. She wondered why the PIB man was here at all. Serial killer or not, murder cases belonged to Homicide. Landry’s presence, she guessed, must have something to do with Murphy.
“We’ve told the detectives about the package we received,” Redfield said. “And about the story you’re writing for tomorrow.”
Kirsten nodded.
Redfield looked at the detectives. “Can you recap for my reporter what you’ve asked us to do, vis-a-vis our story?”
Both cops looked at Kirsten. Landry opened his mouth, but Gaudet cut him off. “What we would like you to do, Miss Sparks, is withhold some of the information contained in the letter so that we can have more time to investigate it.”
Kirsten’s First Amendment hackles stood up. All cops, Murphy included, were basically fascists, she thought. Any mention of the government trying to stifle the press was guaranteed to get a rise out of her. “What kind of information would you like me to withhold, Detective?”
“The code, for one,” Gaudet said. “We need time to crack it ourselves, in case it really does contain important clues.”
Kirsten nodded. She could live with that. “What else?”
“Also, we’d like to keep the killer’s nickname out of the paper, and his threat to mark any future victims. If you mention the Lamb of God, then every nutjob in the state will start calling us, claiming to be the killer. It would make our job a whole lot easier if we could keep that to ourselves as a way to screen out the crazies.”
For a reporter, a serial killer naming himself the Lamb of God was gold. But more than that, it was news. “The purpose of the press is not to make your job easier, Detective. It’s-”
Darlene Freeman cut her off. “Nor is it to hinder a police investigation.” She stared at Kirsten. “I don’t think these gentlemen have time for a lecture on the role of the press, Miss Sparks.”
Freeman glanced at Redfield, then nodded at the two policemen. “Agreed, Detectives. We will not mention the name Lamb of God in the story tomorrow.” She looked sideways at Kirsten. “Nor in any subsequent articles without consulting you first. Anything else?”
Gaudet cleared his throat. He seemed embarrassed. Both he and Landry were looking at Redfield, not Kirsten.
Landry said, “We would like you to leave out any mention that the letter referenced Detective Murphy by name.”
“Why is that, Lieutenant?” Redfield said. “That’s one of the most intriguing parts of the story. Surely, you can see that.”
“We think it might be harmful to our investigation if your article singled out one detective, particularly one who is no longer working on any of the relevant cases.”
“What cases are those, Lieutenant?” Kirsten said. “The chief told me just a few days ago that the unsolved prostitute murders were not connected, that they were the work of-how did he put it?-‘different perpetrators.’”
Landry stared at her, his eyes black and cold, like those of a fish. “Our position hasn’t changed, Miss Sparks. Detective Gaudet and I are here at the request of your superiors.” He nodded at the evidence bag in Gaudet’s hands. “We will conduct a thorough investigation, but what I suspect we have here is a false confession, a claim of responsibility from someone who had nothing to do with any of the crimes with which he is trying to associate himself. Frankly, as investigators, we receive a lot of these types of communications. Ninety-nine percent of them turn out to be phony, usually initiated by someone suffering from emotional problems.”
“How about severed women’s fingers?” Kirsten said. “Do you get a lot of those?”
“Miss Sparks!” Darlene Freeman said. “That is enough.” The publisher stared at Kirsten for several seconds, then looked at Landry. “I think we can accommodate your requests, Lieutenant.” She glanced at Redfield. “Right, Charles?”
Redfield nodded. Freeman turned her attention back to the two cops and slid her chair away from the conference table. “Are we finished?”
Landry nodded. Everyone else started the general shuffle that precedes an exodus from a long and anxious meeting.
Fuck Freeman, Kirsten thought.
“Just one more question, Lieutenant,” Kirsten said.
Everyone in the room looked at her, including Landry.
She pressed on. “If the finger in that envelope turns out to be from the murdered woman found under the overpass, will the chief retract his earlier pronouncements and admit there is a serial killer?”
Freeman stared daggers at her.
After a moment’s pause, Landry said, “I don’t presume to speak for the chief. However, I’m sure that if new evidence indicates a connection between some recent homicides-”
“You mean a connection like they were all committed by the same person?” Kirsten said.
“-then the chief will reassess the situation.”
“Miss Sparks,” Darlene Freeman said, “I think we’ve taken up enough of these gentlemen’s time.”
Kirsten ignored her. “What about Detective Murphy?”
“What about him?” Landry said.
“He was demoted and transferred, and now he is under internal investigation for trying to warn the public about a serial killer that the chief denied even existed. If it turns out there is such a killer, will he be reinstated?”
Landry looked like his head was about to explode. She had grabbed him by his balls and squeezed them.
Gaudet was smiling.
Landry cleared his throat. Hesitated. Then cleared it again. “As for Detective Murphy-assuming for a moment that your past relationship with him does not create a conflict of interest for you-I can tell you that he is not under investigation for exploring a possible link between a series of homicides. He is under investigation for violating department policy regarding unauthorized contact with the media, specifically with you, Miss Sparks.”
Kirsten felt her face flush.
No one spoke. For at least twenty long seconds everyone in the room found something to do and avoided eye contact with her. The newspaper people flipped pages in their notebooks. Gaudet took a sudden interest in his shoes. Even Darlene Freeman decided to check her BlackBerry for messages. Only Landry kept his eyes fixed on Kirsten, his hawklike face betraying a hint of a smile.
A short series of beeps broke the silence. Gaudet reached in his jacket for his cell phone. He stared at the screen and read a text message. His face tightened. He bumped Landry with his elbow and held the phone out for the PIB lieutenant to read.
While Landry read the message, Gaudet looked across the table at Charles Redfield. “We have to go,” he said, “but just so everybody understands, we do have an agreement about the story, right?”
Redfield looked at Mrs. Freeman. She nodded. Everyone avoided looking at Kirsten.
“Yes,” Redfield said.
Gaudet slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket.
“Did that message have anything to do with what we’ve been talking about?” Redfield asked.
The two detectives shared an almost imperceptible glance. Kirsten only noticed it because she was looking for it. She had been around a lot of cops.
Gaudet shook his head. “No.”
Kirsten was sure he was lying.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Tuesday, July 31, 5:10 PM
Murphy was still fighting to get back to sleep after Kirsten’s call when his phone rang again. He had to be at work at 10:25, semirested and semisober.
He snatched the phone from the nightstand and jabbed the volume button on the side with his thumb to silence his new ringtone. With little sleep and a hangover, even the macabre genius of Warren Zevon could be irritating.