“Just what you asked for, a task force,” Donovan said. “Six detectives, including you and Gaudet. Maybe a couple more if I can spare the manpower.”
Just six detectives, Murphy thought, to catch a serial killer who had already murdered at least eleven people, including two children. A couple of years ago, the Baton Rouge serial-killer task force had thirty full-time investigators. In the little town of Houma, Murphy had been part of a twelve-member task force.
Captain Donovan glanced at the assistant chief. DeMarco nodded. Then Donovan said, “I can also give you two lab techs and an analyst. We’ll contact the FBI about a profile.”
“You can keep the profile,” Murphy said. He had never known a working detective who had gotten any benefit from an FBI profile. He was convinced the bureau’s Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico sent out form letters as profiles. They were all the same: white male, twenty-five to forty, low self-esteem, with mommy issues.
“We have to involve the bureau on this,” Donovan said. “The press is all over us, and not just the locals. I’m talking about CNN, Fox News, the New York Times. We’re under a microscope.”
“Am I in command of the task force?”
Donovan glared at Murphy. “Yes.”
“Then I don’t want the FBI involved. You said you wanted quick results. It’ll take them two weeks just to get set up, and then they only work Monday through Friday. They have to get special permission to work weekends.”
Donovan’s face turned red, but he kept his voice under control. “I said it’s your task force, Murphy, but I didn’t say you were going to run it without supervision. This is still a homicide investigation.” Donovan pointed to the name plate on the front of his desk that also listed his title, HOMICIDE COMMANDER. “And it’s still my division.”
“Look, Captain, one thing I learned in the Houma investigation is that bringing in people and agencies just for the sake of bringing them in is counter-”
“I’ve heard enough about your heroics in Houma,” Donovan snapped. “I read the crappy book that retired sheriff’s detective wrote about the case. I didn’t see any brilliant police work, just dumb luck.”
Murphy knew he wasn’t going to win the battle over the FBI’s involvement. It was time to move on. He needed to find out how deep the department’s pockets were going to be on this case. Overworked, frustrated detectives needed incentive. Police work was, after all, a job. To push cops hard, to take them away from their families and their off-duty security details, he had to pay them. “What about overtime?”
Donovan nodded. “Whatever you need.”
“Within reason,” DeMarco added.
Murphy turned toward the assistant chief.
“There’s a storm in the Atlantic,” DeMarco said. “The mayor and the chief, as well as the Homeland Security people, are looking at a mandatory evacuation if the storm enters the gulf, which the forecasters are predicting could happen inside of a week. If it does, all bets are off. Almost every officer will be reassigned to storm duty, including members of your task force.”
Murphy thought back to his conversation with Gaudet at the murder scene, about the rumor that PIB still had a green light on him. “What about PIB?” he asked DeMarco.
“What about it?”
“What’s the status of their investigation?”
“Ongoing,” DeMarco said. “Why would you think otherwise?”
Murphy took a deep breath. He thought about letting the PIB thing go. He was getting what he wanted, almost. But he decided to press it. “You’re bringing me back to Homicide and giving me a task force because I was right about the serial killer. I thought maybe you would call off the investigation.”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Detective,” the assistant chief said. “It’s not a question of who was right or wrong. You are accused of violating department policy. The Public Integrity Bureau is investigating that allegation. Once their investigation is complete, the PIB commander will make a recommendation to the superintendent. At that point, the superintendent will decide what to do. Nothing that happens from this point forward will influence PIB’s investigation or the superintendent’s final decision.”
Murphy’s temper flared. “Why bring me back then! Why not just leave me in the property room until PIB finishes its inquisition?”
Donovan banged his fist on the desk then jabbed his finger in Murphy’s face. “You want to know why you’re here, hotshot? I’ll tell you. You’re here because some sick fuck mentioned you in his letter to the newspaper. You’re here because if we don’t put you back on this case, the press will want to know why, and as of right now, we’re not prepared to answer that question.”
So there it was, right out in the open. The rank wasn’t bringing him back because of his training and experience in serial-killer investigations. They were bringing him back because his ex-girlfriend mentioned him in a newspaper story and some freak used his name in a letter.
Nothing had changed. His head was still on the chopping block.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Wednesday, August 1, 5:35 PM
“The question is, what are we going to do tomorrow?” Charles Redfield said.
The afternoon budget meeting had dragged halfway through its second hour. As executive editor, Redfield chaired the meeting. His irritation was plain as his eyes swept the faces of the other editors seated around the conference table. “Are we going to run the damn letter or not?” he demanded. “And if so, are we going to run the cipher with it?”
Kirsten sank deeper into her chair. As a reporter, she didn’t normally get invited to budget meetings. They were for editors only. There were two budget meetings a day, 10:00 AM and 4:00 PM, during which the editors haggled over what stories were going to run in the next day’s paper and how many inches of space each would get. In newspaper-speak, a budget wasn’t money. It was space.
Today’s meeting was different.
The serial-killer nutjob who called himself the Lamb of God had demanded that his letter be reprinted on the front page within two days. The killer’s deadline was tomorrow. That meant the decision had to be made tonight. For an hour and a half the newspaper’s brass hats had wrangled over that decision.
“What do you think he means by ‘a killing rampage’?” asked Milton Stanford, the managing editor, to no one in particular. “If we don’t run the letter, are we responsible for whatever this crazy bastard does next?”
Redfield peered over his half-moon reading glasses at Stanford. The executive editor didn’t like impolite language.
“Sorry, boss,” Stanford said. “But I really want to know. If this guy kills someone because we didn’t run his letter, are we going to have blood on our hands?”
Publisher Darlene Freeman sat at the opposite end of the conference table from Redfield. The newspaper’s lawyer sat next to her. Neither of them ever attended budget meetings.
Freeman, who had barely said a word the entire meeting, nodded to Redfield. “We’ve been going over this dreadful business for hours. Really, we must come to a decision. The company’s general counsel in D.C. wants an answer by six o’clock.”
Redfield pushed his reading glasses higher up his nose. “I’d like to wait at least another day before we run the letter,” he said. “This is unprecedented, and I don’t like being bullied, especially by a self-professed serial killer.”
Kirsten cleared her throat. She hadn’t said anything in nearly an hour. “I think we should run the letter and the cipher.” She looked at Redfield. “Not because we’re being bullied, but because it’s news. The police have confirmed the finger is from the victim under the overpass, so the letter is-”
“We can’t mention that,” interrupted city editor Gene Michaels. He had come up as a cop reporter and had expressed concern several times during the meeting about publishing information the police department wanted kept confidential.
“I’m not suggesting we mention the finger, Gene, but it confirms the letter is authentic,” Kirsten said. “It’s from the killer. There’s no downside to printing it. He’s already killed several people. He’s not going to stop just because we run his letter on the front page. Publishing the letter might help the police catch him.”