Now that the Stampede was over, the airlines had laid on extra flights to transport the hordes of departing visitors back home. Chris paused for a moment outside the Andrew Davison Building to gaze up at the orderly procession of passenger jets climbing to their cruising altitude in the eastern sky.
"Good morning, Chris," Patterson, already seated at his desk, called out. "Did you and Gwen solve the case for your Crime Scenes buddies?"
"I think we helped them a bit. They wanted to talk about a case Gwen and I worked three years ago. It had some similarities to one they're dealing with now. Got a minute, Ken? There's something I want you to look at."
"Sure." Preppy features alight with curiosity, Patterson came over to stand beside Chris. Three of the nearest desks were unoccupied, the detectives to whom they were assigned either out on a case or not having reported in yet. It was the nearest approach to privacy the bull pen afforded.
"There's been a new development in the TLC investigation." Speaking in a low voice, Chris began to tell Patterson about the clue Joan Cunningham had left for them, suppressing Patterson's exclamation with a cautionary wave of his hand. In the middle of his explanation of how the plastic fragment could narrow the search, he paused to look expectantly up at the receptionist, who was waiting to speak.
"I hate to interrupt you, Chris, but ground floor reception says you have a visitor who claims it's urgent."
"Who is it?"
"A Mr. Phillip Dummett. He's called on you before."
"I know. Okay, they can send him up. Tell him I'll be with him in a few minutes." The thought of what the journalist would make of the toys in the waiting room provided a brief diversion.
However, when, ten minutes later, he left a pumped-up Patterson and went out to meet his caller, Dummett made no mention of them. He was too excited by his news to take note of his surroundings.
"I've had a call from TLC himself," he announced as soon as Chris closed the door of the interview room behind them. "Well?" he demanded when Chris made no comment. "You don't seem all that impressed?"
"It's interesting, I agree. Very interesting. But I've had too many crank calls over the years to take any of them at face value. What did your caller sound like? Was it a normal speaking voice?"
"No." With a visible effort, the journalist matched Chris's cool professionalism. "It was distorted. Low, growly, like the guy was in the bottom of a barrel. It didn't even sound human."
Chris nodded. "Easy enough to do. First you record the message, then play around with it, changing the speed, lowering the volume, and so on. A technician can restore the speaker's normal voice." Already knowing the answer, he asked, "You didn't tape it, by chance?" If Dummett had taped it, he would have produced the tape by now.
"No. There was no time. He hung up as soon as I said something. But I do have caller ID. Here's the number he was calling from."
"Now that's helpful! Very." Chris copied down the number—290-9878—from the slip of paper Dummett handed him. "Most likely it's from a pay phone, which we can trace. Who knows? Maybe our guy got careless and forgot to use gloves. We'll dust it for prints. What did the message say? Well, what did it say, Phil?"
"Eh? Sorry." Dummett cleared his throat. "I wrote it down as soon as he hung up." He handed Chris another slip of paper. "He says I don't understand him. Nobody ever has. And you'll see he says he's going to strike again and again. Nobody can stop him. And he promises I'll have plenty to write about."
Reading the words, Chris felt a thrill of recognition. They were similar to the written communications from TLC. Not so much the words themselves, but the tone: brief and challenging. Confident.
"Well, what do you think?" demanded Dummett when Chris finished reading the note and remained silent.
"I think it's probably genuine, and it's telling us that the killer isn't finished yet."
"That's worth knowing, isn't it?"
"Still piling up the credits, Phil? So you can be in on the takedown? There may not be one. TLC could notch up enough kills to satisfy whatever it is that drives him and simply retire. Go underground. Like BTK, the family man who became a pillar of the church and went undetected for years."
"True. But then he began to send messages to the police from a computer he knew could be traced to his church. He wanted recognition for what he had done, and so will TLC when the time comes. I just want to be there when it does."
"No promises," said Chris as he stood up. "Stay in touch."
"Hang on a sec," Dummett protested when they were once more in the narrow hallway and Chris reached out to press the down button for the elevator. "Can I have looksee at the Homicide office? It would really enrich my next article."
Chris shook his head. "No can do. Strictly prohibited. But I'll describe it for you."
Dummett listened avidly as Chris sketched in the details: the open area seating plan, the desks assigned to the officers, the two rows of desks reserved for detective constables when needed.
"Thanks, Chris. That's useful. Let's see what my next article stirs up." Smiling, the freelancer held out his hand.