The assistant managing editor looked skeptical.
He was about ten years younger than Llewellyn. He was thin, and he wore a trimmed goatee like many men his age. He had a degree in journalism from Columbia University and an MBA from Washington University. He was inordinately sure of himself. His name was Mitchell Coury, and he didn’t like his first name shortened.
He said, “A serial killer? I haven’t heard of that.”
Llewellyn said, “He said the murders of the two call girls are connected. One Friday and the other Saturday. This past weekend.”
“You wrote a story on it?”
“On the second one. You know, I just reviewed the police report.”
“All of them?”
“No, not all of the police reports.”
Mitchell Coury frowned. “And you say you asked him if he did it?”
“Yes.”
“And he said no.”
“No, he didn’t deny it. He didn’t admit it either. Well . . . I think he did admit it.”
Coury sighed. “Sounds like a crank.”
Llewellyn said, “That’s what I thought too.” Though he didn’t. Not entirely. Llewellyn was afraid of Coury in the way that middle-aged men sometimes become afraid of younger men in the workplace. Finding a new job or a new career at fifty is a frightening prospect. Fate or nature or some angry god had made Mitchell Coury his boss.
Llewellyn said, “Should we call the police?”
“Why?” said Coury.
“Well, I mean, it might be important.”
“A crank?” Coury sighed again, pushing the older man. “I just don’t see why he’d call here.”
“Maybe to get attention.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about. He calls up here, jacking around, and I’m supposed to send you on some sort of treasure hunt. I don’t see the point.” Coury said, “Do you want to go to the library?” He said it like it was a waste of time.
Cliff Llewellyn wanted to call the police. A crank, maybe, but the guy had sounded creepy. He could want attention and be a killer. He wanted to tell Mitchell what it was like to be on the receiving end of that call. That it wasn’t cowardly to be afraid about something like that. To trust a rational fear.
He said, “Mitchell, I think we should take it seriously. I mean, it’s up to you. But I . . .”
“So you do want to call the police.”
“Well—yeah.”
“Okay, Cliff. If that’s what you want.”
Mitchell Coury left Llewellyn alone. He seemed not to want to be around if things became embarrassing. Llewellyn mentally shrugged his shoulders, resigned himself to the situation, and picked up the telephone.
•
It was Escobar who called Hastings.
Hastings was cleaning up the dishes after dinner. He had made a pasta dish with Italian sausage and some spring peas and an egg-cream sauce. Amy said it was a little bland and Hastings told her to use more salt and pepper.
Hastings shut off the water when Amy brought him the telephone. She told him it was a Detective Escobar.
“Yeah?” Hastings said.
“George, Escobar here. Hey, we got a call from a reporter at the Herald. He said a guy called him claiming that he killed the two girls. He said he left a letter for the reporter in the downtown library.”
“Who’s the reporter?”
“Cliff Llewellyn. You know him?”
“Yeah. He’s all right.”
“I talked with him on the phone. I’m headed down to the library with some other guys. Llewellyn’s going to meet us there. You want to come?”
“Yeah. I’ve got my daughter here . . . let me drop her with some friends and I’ll meet you there.”
“Good. Listen, George: Llewellyn said the caller told him, ‘It’s three now.’ ”
Hastings looked over the kitchen counter at his daughter. She was doing her homework, but Dancing with the Stars was on the television.
He said, “Three?”
“Yeah,” Escobar said. “I don’t know if I should hope the guy’s a crank or if it’s an honest-to-God lead.”
“I know what you mean,” Hastings said. “I’ll see you soon.”
•
There were at least two dozen police officers in and around the library. A good many of them were not in uniform, searching for a suspect who perhaps wanted to view the investigation in process. Library staff members were stopped and questioned along with library patrons, many of whom were homeless people looking for a warm place to be for the day. Protests were made, voices were raised, people were delayed. No suspects were held.
When Hastings arrived, a technician from the crime scene unit was already there. They had cordoned off the shelf holding the book When Terror Walked in London. Llewellyn was there with a younger guy, and Hastings saw right off that this guy was going to be a problem.
The guy said his name was Mitchell Coury and he was the managing editor of the Herald. He said to Hastings, “Are you in charge?”
“Excuse me?”
“Are you the lead detective on this case?”
“No,” Hastings said. “Would you mind stepping back?”
Mitchell Coury said, “Do you have a search warrant?”
“No. This is a public place. The staff has agreed to cooperate with us. Are you speaking on their behalf?”
“I’m the one that received the call,” Coury said.
“Yeah?” Hastings said, a little hardness in his voice.
“Well, actually it was Mr. Llewellyn here. But I’m speaking for the paper.”
“That’s good to know,” Hastings said, and walked past him
The technician’s name was Curtis Nyguen. Hastings had worked with him before. Nyguen looked at Hastings and said, “Okay?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
Curtis Nyguen pulled on his latex gloves and removed the book from the shelf. He opened the book and went through the pages and soon found a sheet of paper with words typed on it. He placed the paper in a see-through plastic bag and sealed it. He paged through the book twice more and did not find anything. Then he placed the book in a separate container.
Nyguen said, “You think he used gloves?”
Hastings said, “If it’s our guy, yeah. He seems to be pretty smart. But you’re going to dust these shelves, aren’t you?”
“Yes. And our people will take the letter and the book back to our lab.”
Hastings nodded.
Then he looked at the letter.
Greetings, my children.
You may have read about the murders of the ladies of the night, to wit, Ms. Reesa Woods and Ms. Adele Sayers and, the latest addition, Mrs. Marla Hilsheimer, who’s not technically a prostitute but cut from the same cloth as the other two. Let me assure you that the demise of all three of these women was all my doing. Reesa was found by the river, where I left her. Ms. Sayers is missing an earring, which I have decided to keep. Mrs. Hilsheimer is somewhere north of the city, waiting to be discovered by the authorities, who may get around to finding her if they put all their small minds together. When she is found, it will be noticed that she is missing the bracelet which was on her right wrist. Unfortunately, she was not strangled like the others, but we can’t win all our battles.
You may wonder, Who is this? Is he something we can understand? Is he a product of our times? A product of our society?
The truth is, you cannot know. You want to know, but you can’t. It’s not in you or the pedestrians at the police department to know. It’s not in you to understand. It’s only in me.
Yours truly,
Springheel Jim