Chapter 29

Going to work always put Peaches on an emotional roller coaster: The Pest’s offices were right across the street from a Catholic high school; the sight of impressionable kids wearing uniforms, going in and out of a building with the words “Honor,” “Faith,” and “Loyalty” on the side, either made her blood boil or her heart sink. Sometimes both.

Raised Catholic, Peaches had attended the local public high school and then a famous Catholic liberal arts college in the Midwest. So she knew what she was talking about. Basically, it all boiled down to birth control. Peaches needed it; the Pope said she couldn’t have it; ergo the Pope was a pig. In addition, she couldn’t stand the girls’ uniforms—white blouses and plaid skirts every day. End of story: the sight of a Catholic high school was scary and depressing.

Fortunately, the paper had planted a stand of large trees right in front of the entrance to the building. Ostensibly, this was to keep irate readers and other whackjobs from finding the building, or if they did find it, possibly driving a truck or an SUV into the entrance lobby. But Peaches liked to think—and she knew other reporters and editors who felt the same way—that the trees were planted to minimize the irritation of having to look too much at the words “Honor,” “Faith,” and “Loyalty” on the way to work.

In any case, her spirits always picked up as she passed through the grove of trees. And they got a big lift when she entered the building and was greeted by life-sized murals of heroically muscled printers and paperboys—getting the vital news to “the people.” Peaches was a born journalist and by the time she reached her desk she was generally feeling everything was right with the world again.

Today, Peaches had been summoned to an emergency meeting of the editorial board. She’d been warned in advance that the paper had received an anonymous package containing what could potentially be evidence in a criminal matter. So she had dressed appropriately in a pair of Ralph Lauren jeans and a black cashmere pullover. She also took the precaution of bringing latex gloves and a respirator.

Waiting for her in the conference room were the Pest’s Publisher, Dan Snarrel, Executive Editor Moe “the Mule” Lubbock, and Managing Editor Jeanine Calisto. All were wearing rubber gloves and seemed to be focused, rather glumly, on a crumpled mailing container on the conference table.

As usual, Jeanine took charge. “Glad you’re here, P.C. Now we can get started.” She picked up the bag, gingerly, by the corners, adding, “I don’t think you’ll need the respirator. There doesn’t appear to be any powder or anything like that.”

Peaches left the respirator in place.

“The contents of the package include part of a garment that has been ripped or cut in half and a letter.” Moe Lubbock spread a large sheet of plastic onto the center of the table, and Jeanine carefully shook the two items out onto it. She produced tweezers from somewhere and arranged the garment and the letter side by side.

“Wha’s it all about; wha’s the letter say?” Peaches demanded through her respirator. She didn’t wait for an answer. She got up from her chair and leaned over the table and read the letter herself. It only took her a moment and she snorted in disdain. “… is nothing. Jus’ a prank,” as she fell back into her seat.

Then Dan Snarrel started as though he’d just woken from a nap. “Can you take off that damn mask and talk to me?” he shouted.

Peaches obeyed the publisher, though she took her time about removing the mask.

“This letter says there’s evidence of a crime,” roared the publisher. “How can you say it’s nothing? Jeanine thinks I need to get the attorney in here, but I don’t want to pay $250 an hour for his baloney unless I absolutely have to. So you need to explain this to me so I can understand it.”

Snarrel was old, effectively deaf and habitually cranky, so Peaches didn’t take him or his manner too seriously. “I think this is a just a college prank,” she said, straightening her hair, which had come undone when she removed her respirator. “First of all it’s anonymous so that tells you something right away. Then what does she say?” Her desire to make her point overcame her fear of exposure; Peaches approached the table without her mask so she could read the letter out loud.

“NATE LITTLEJOHN IS A HYPOCRITE AND A FAKE. STUDENTS IN DEVIANT BEHAVIOR ARE DOING SERIOUS AND IMPORTANT WORK. WE HAVE EVIDENCE THAT IMPLICATES CORPORATE MALE FACTORS IN RECENT CRIMES IN GARDENFIELD. LITTLEJOHN IS SUPPRESSING INFORMATION AND SEXUALLY ABUSING STUDENTS. YOU HAVE THE EVIDENCE IN YOUR HAND. PC CROMWELL SHOULD STOP COVERING LITTLEJOHN’S BUTT—OR IS HE FUCKING HER TOO?—AND WRITE THE TRUTH INSTEAD.”

Peaches’ voice dripped with derision as she read the signature, “A FRIEND.” She pulled back from the table and added, “I’m glad to say I do not have the evidence in my hand. Read my lips: I did not have sex with Nate Littlejohn, not one single time. I hope that’s perfectly clear.”

“We appreciate your candor,” said Jeanine, somewhat icily. “But I’m still not sure what to make of this …” She picked up the garment with the tweezers and turned it around in several directions to examine it. “It is stained, but who knows with what?”

“Looks like Karl Marx boxers covered with pecker tracks,” the Mule observed sagely.

“Not funny, Moe,” retorted Peaches, looking to Dan Snarrel for confirmation. The publisher appeared to be dozing—a good sign—so she continued. “The writer says this is evidence, but what does it prove? Even if the substance is … DNA, how did it get there?”

“It might not be Littlejohn’s …” said Jeanine.

“That’s easy enough to check,” argued Moe. “But it should be on her clothing, not his. This only proves that she had access to his shorts …”

—“I don’t think it’s even a woman sending this,” said Peaches. “Women don’t think this way. We’re not obsessed with body parts and emissions. That’s how men think.”

Moe tried to disagree. “She talks about ‘malefactors,’ and emphasizes the first four letters, MALE. It’s like she’s obsessed about being victimized.”

“How insulting,” said Peaches, raising her voice. “And predictable. Resorting to stereotypes and blaming the victim. I expected more from you, Moe, but you’re just like all the others.”

“So what do you think this is about?” quivered Moe, thoroughly whipped.

“I think this is from some guy in Littlejohn’s class. He saw my article and that gave him the idea. I’m sure Littlejohn brags about what kind of boxers he wears; that’d be just like him. So the student got a pair online and then masturbated on them. A big joke. Ha-ha. If he can get us to publish the story, then he’s committed a deviant act and received public credit for it. He’ll be the star of his class and we’ll be the laughingstock.”

Jeanine and Moe were nodding in agreement, when Dan Snarrel came back to life. “What’s it going to cost us?” he roared.

“What do you mean?” asked Jeanine. “How much is it going to cost, if we’re wrong and we don’t turn this over to the police?”

“There’s no risk,” said Peaches.

“There’s always risk,” Snarrel shot back.

“There’s no connection between the stained shorts and the kids who were killed in Gardenfield. It’s a logical fallacy. That’s why I think it’s a prank.”

“She says it’s proof she’s telling the truth,” Snarrel persisted. “If she’s telling the truth about one thing, then she’s got credibility for the larger accusation. It makes sense to me. How much does a DNA test cost?”

“I read that you can now get a person’s entire genome sequenced for 10 grand,” Peaches answered without hesitation.

Jeanine wanted to ask why they’d need the entire genome, but she wasn’t sure and didn’t want to sound like an idiot.

Moe had no such qualms. “You’d have to get Littlejohn to consent to provide a sample for matching. Either that, or P.C. would have to harvest some surreptitiously.”

“Shut up, Moe. I can get you fired if you keep that up,” Peaches snapped.

“On the other hand, if we turn this over to the police,” Moe shot back, “we have a great story. Illicit sex. Recriminations. A new angle on the Quaker Killer. We could string it along for weeks. It’d sell papers.”

“The advertisers might not like it,” said Snarrel.

“That’s true.”

“And we’d have to get the damn lawyers involved, if we’re treating it like evidence … how much did you say for the DNA test?”

“Ten thousand.”

“That sound right to you Jeanine?”

“’Bout right, I guess. I can check on it.”

“Let’s not waste any more time on it. This is a college prank. An anonymous note with a foul enclosure. Toss the whole thing and get back to work.”