THE LAST TWO times I’d seen Scott Manning had gone very differently.
The first time, I’d slept with him. We had just finished working together on a case in which a man was shot to death a few feet away from us. It had been a very traumatic experience for me, and I asked Manning afterward to come over to my apartment to comfort me. He did that, and a whole lot more. We’d shared at the time what I thought was a pretty tender, meaningful—and damn exciting—sexual experience.
The second time, it got very ugly between us. I met him in a coffee shop a few days later. He told me he was going back to his wife and wanted to try to make their marriage work. I did not take this news well, and we hadn’t spoken since.
I sure liked that time in my apartment a lot more.
Manning was a homicide detective back then, but he’d been put on limited administrative duty because of an investigation into the death of a suspect who’d been in police custody at his precinct. Manning first lied to protect his partner, but then he told the truth and was eventually reinstated. For whatever reason, he’d left the police force shortly afterward and joined the FBI. I wasn’t sure why, maybe to get a new start. All I knew was that he’d been assigned to the FBI Behavioral Sciences Unit, which tracked serial killers.
I wasn’t sure how he’d react to hearing from me again, so I decided to play it totally professional. Simply a journalist reaching out to a law enforcement official for help on a story. That’s all it would be, nothing more than that.
“Hi, it’s Clare,” I said when I got him on the line.
There was no response.
“Clare Carlson.”
Still nothing.
“Channel 10 News.”
“What do you want, Clare?”
At least he was speaking to me; that was progress.
“So, you do remember me?”
“I remember you.”
“What do you remember?”
“You’re a journalist I worked with on a murder case last year.”
“Well, that’s true. It’s also true we had mind-blowing sex together back then. It’s true that you told me a lot of sweet things that night. And it’s also true that you went back to your wife afterward.”
I’d decided the professional approach wasn’t working.
“What do you want?” Manning asked again.
“I need your help on a story. A murder story. People’s lives could be at stake.”
“Why talk to me? Talk to someone on the NYPD.”
“Because you’re good.”
“There are a lot of good investigators at the NYPD.”
“No, I mean you’re good. You’re a good man. I believe that I can trust you, no matter what happened between us. I need your help on this. Will you help me?”
There was another long silence. At first, I thought he might have hung up.
“Tell me about it,” he finally said.
“Has to be in person.”
“Okay, do you remember the bar where we met that first night on the Upper East Side?”
“Indelibly.”
“Meet me there tonight at seven.”
When I got there, I saw Manning sitting at a table. He didn’t look much different than the last time I’d seen him a year ago. Not that he should have changed much, I suppose. Although he could have grown a beard or a mustache or shaved his head during those months. But he was still clean-shaven, with curly brown hair like I remembered. He looked good. Damn good. Like I remembered him, too.
He shook my hand when I got to the table. No hug. Not even a peck on the cheek. Just a professional greeting. I got the message. I decided to plunge right into the reason I was there.
He already had a drink in front of him. I ordered something for myself, too.
“I have reason to believe there might a connection between some—if not all—of a series of murders,” I told him. “They’re from different parts of the country and over a long period of time. I’m hoping you can use FBI resources to see if there is any actual evidence to support this scenario.”
I handed him the printout of the murder victims I’d gotten from Marty’s secret computer file. He read through it. Casually at first, then with more intensity.
“Yes.”
“Why do you think the murders might be connected?”
“I’m not sure.”
“But you still think they might be.”
“The person I got this list from suspected there’s been a serial killer at work all this time, who’s responsible for these killings.”
“Why isn’t that person here with you?”
“He’s dead.”
“By the same killer of all these women?”
“Not sure, but probably not.”
“But you believed him—you think he was telling you the truth?”
“He never lied to me before.”
“And you want me to run these cases through the FBI computers and files and field offices and anything else I can think of to see if I can find any evidence which indicates a single killer could be responsible?”
“That’s my idea.”
This was the part where I half expected him to stand up and walk away. But he didn’t do that. He kept looking at the piece of paper with the list of victims that I’d put in front of him.
“From the notes you put on here, it looks like some of the murders have already been solved. People are in jail for committing them. How does that square with your idea of a single serial killer?”
“I’m not sure if all of them are connected. They might have been guesses by the person I got this list from. Which doesn’t change the fact that I still need to determine if there’s a possible connection between the others. Some of them could be by a serial killer, but not all of them.”
“Or maybe they put the wrong people in jail for the convictions here while the real killer went free?”
“That’s possible, too.”
He finished his drink. I’d barely started mine. I hoped he’d have another one so we could spend more time together. But, instead, he stood up. He was still holding the piece of paper with the names on it in his hand.
“Can I keep this?” he asked.
I nodded. I tried to think of something to say so that our conversation could go on a little longer.
“How’s everything with your wife?” I asked.
Hey, he could have divorced his wife by now. I figured it was at least worth asking the question.
“We’re fine,” he said.
“That means you’re still together?”
“I’ll see what I can do with this,” he said, gesturing to the list of murder victims I’d given him. “Probably nothing. But I will check it out and let you know if I find out anything interesting. I’ll do that for you, Clare. But only on one condition.”
“What’s the condition?”
“This is totally business between us—all professional, absolutely nothing else will be involved.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”