“If... when... we catch this killer — who has jurisdiction?”
“We’ll see about that when we know more,” Harrow said. “Let’s catch the bastard first, then we’ll worry about who gets to try him. Certainly we’ll be cooperating with state and local, and sharing any glory.”
Shaking his head, Pall said, “Nobody’s ever attempted anything like this before, J.C. But you know as well as any of us... if you were this asshole’s lawyer? You would say you couldn’t get a fair trial anywhere in the United States.”
All eyes were on Harrow.
Pall went on: “A top-rated TV show used its hunt for him as a ratings boost? Think there’ll be twelve licensed drivers anywhere in the country that won’t be prejudiced against this guy once we do catch him?”
Harrow put up his hands in surrender. “I’m the first to admit I haven’t thought of everything involved here. Maybe I got blinded by finally seeing a pinpoint of light, after years of darkness.”
And as far as the network and Dennis Byrnes were concerned, Harrow had known when he signed on that he was inking a deal with the devil. Now, he just hoped he wouldn’t get tripped up by the fine print.
“First, let’s find the guy,” he told them. “Let’s stop him and expose him, and trust that matters like jurisdiction and fair trials don’t trip us up.”
Laurene said, “These are dark waters, J.C. Choppy too.”
“I know. But I couldn’t ask for a better crew to help make the voyage.”
Choi grunted a laugh. “Good thing I know how to swim.”
Harrow said, “Just so you don’t jump overboard on me, Billy... Maury, turn the camera back on, and let’s get down to work.”
Chapter Eleven
The motel room was dark, the flimsy, filmy curtains pulled tight against the fading afternoon sun as the Messenger kicked back on the bed, thin pillows piled behind his head as he watched the national news on UBC.
Outside, what passed for rush hour in Socorro, New Mexico, was under way, which meant maybe ten cars on the street, not five. Still, with only nine thousand souls, Socorro was still way bigger than his own hometown.
Made him wonder — if the rights of people could be so blatantly trampled on in a little town like his, with no repercussions, how could people’s rights ever be protected in a town twenty-five times the size? Or in a really big city, like New York or Chicago? Possibilities for corruption there were mind-boggling.
That thought only served to reinforce why his work was so important — why he needed to keep leaving messages around the country, until someone was smart and capable enough to understand their importance.
Sad that he’d had to go the way he had, but he needed help, and the normal routes for gaining assistance had paid him no heed. The messages he was delivering seemed the only reasonable way to recruit the help he so desperately required.
On the tube-television screen, Carlos Moreno was doing a satellite interview with J.C. Harrow, host of Crime Seen!
“Has anything like this ever been attempted, J.C.?”
Outdoors in what seemed to be Southern countryside, Harrow — in a corny Robert Stack-style trenchcoat — said, “No, Carlos, this is a first. We’ve assembled some of the best forensics talent in the nation, and tonight we’ll share some of the exciting work we’ve been doing, while Crime Seen! has been away.”
The Messenger farted with his lips over the rest of the interview, and laughed out loud at how uneasy stately anchor Jackson Blair seemed, when he was forced to close the broadcast with a blatant plug: “Be sure to stay with UBC tonight for the season premiere of Crime Seen! with J.C. Harrow and his crack criminalists, as they close in on the murderer of the host’s family, nearly seven years ago.”
If Harrow and his team of “crack criminalists” were “closing in on the killer,” it was news to the Messenger, who had seen no sign of them.
No one had come to his hometown, no one had approached him on his travels to deliver his messages, and no one was anywhere near him now, unless they were being good and goddamn secretive about it. As if to prove the point, he got off the bed, walked to the window, and peeked between the thin curtains.
He sure as hell didn’t see Harrow out there, or any “crack criminalists,” or even criminalists on crack, much less any of those dopey-looking buses and trucks that had been featured all summer in those ridiculous commercials promoting the show like it was the second goddamn coming.
What he did see was fading sun, a sky turning purple, and headlights starting to snap on in passing cars as darkness descended on Socorro like a soothing blanket. Any sense of comfort in this community, however, was a false one; this was a night that would wake this town up forever.
Though thus far no one seemed to be getting his messages — well, they received them, but they didn’t get them — he still held out hope. He would continue his quest until someone acknowledged his messages and did something to right the wrong.
He’d thought Harrow might be that man. But as the summer passed with nothing but ludicrous publicity for the show’s Killer TV segment, it seemed more and more likely that Harrow couldn’t make out the messages either. The former sheriff might be sincere in trying to find the Messenger, but was clearly being used by the television network in a cheap, sleazy, distasteful stunt for money and ratings.
Still, Harrow had come the closest of anyone, so far at least, and the Messenger realized that a personalized refresher might be just what was needed to jump-start the ex-sheriff, and nudge him in the right direction. He wondered if Harrow might have other family, to help make that point — brothers, sisters, father, mother...?
There had to be some appropriate target on the map that would send a more pointed message to the UBC superstar. Research, investigation, would be needed, though that would have to wait...
First, he had already devised a message for delivery here in New Mexico.
He returned to the bed and picked up the copy of TV Guide — with Harrow and his team’s picture on it — that had been tented over the .357 Magnum. The six-shot Smith and Wesson pistol had been utilized twice before, sending previous messages.
Each message delivered had become an indelible memory, not memories he cherished at all, rather burdens to bear. One such memory bubbled up as he watched another in the seemingly endless parade of Crime Seen! spots that rolled across the small faded screen.
August, six years ago. A house, bigger than his own, sat on a hill in Iowa, off Highway 30, back in the sticks between Ames and Nevada, the owner a retired Story County sheriff, living there with his wife and son. The home had belonged to J.C. Harrow, the man he had made a star — devil his due, Harrow had saved the President’s life in a crazy coincidence that had, weirdly, served both the Messenger and his future nemesis.
Harrow’s fame had been an unseen outcome of that particular message. You couldn’t always know the ways in which your actions might impact the world. Making presidential hero Harrow a major celebrity, by having his family murdered the same day, had been one such instance.
As he checked the load in his revolver, and his backup in his speed-loader, he frowned, mildly surprised that — despite how many messages he’d delivered — each one remained distinct in his mind.
He took no pleasure in reliving these events, but he owed it to those who conveyed his messages for him not to forget their sacrifice. Without them, he would be nothing; without them, no point could be made.
The key, he knew, was that each delivery was cataloged in his mind by the gun he’d used. That was why, at the beginning, he had not needed to take souvenirs to help him remember and keep straight the calls he made. He was not, after all, some FedEx man with a computer to keep track.