With these crisis inventors, these professional liars, these cable news buffoons trying to persuade the world that life in Larchfield is some kind of horror movie . . .”
Chandler Aspern was speaking as Morgan and Gurney entered the conference room. He was sitting at one end of the rectangular table, and the six other members of the village board were seated across from each other, three on each side.
Morgan and Gurney took the two empty chairs at the end of the table opposite Aspern.
“We need to get control of the public narrative,” continued Aspern. “With the wild exaggerations and crazy theories promoted by the media, the image of Larchfield is going to hell in a handbasket.”
Nods of agreement came from Martin Carmody and Gifford Styles.
Aspern went on. “That RAM program last night was appalling. And the headlines this morning were worse. ‘The Dead Walk on Harrow Hill’—that was the top story in my news feed.”
Carmody—well-fed, pink-faced, white-haired—spoke in the rich baritone of an old-time radio announcer. “Something has to be done, and quickly.”
Styles, who might have been a geriatric aristocrat displeased with the progress of a polo match, shook his head. “This is intolerable. Tate isn’t even from Larchfield. He’s from Bastenburg. Deliberate slandering of our village. Must be stopped.”
He glared across the table at Gossett. “Do something, Harmon. You’re our bloody lawyer. Take action, man!”
Gossett said nothing. A thin man with thinning hair, he was as expressionless as a fish.
Peale spoke up, an acid edge to his patrician intonation. “The immediate priority should be to plug the leak! We’re not going to get anywhere, if things like the Tate video are handed over to the scurrilous media. The damage is incalculable—to the town, and to me personally. Whoever gave that video to RAM wanted us to look like fools.”
Although Peale was addressing Gossett, the man again remained silent and unblinking. Fallow’s discomfort was obvious in the set of his mouth, but he, too, said nothing.
Aspern looked down the table at Morgan. “Finding the leaker is a job for the police.”
“We’re looking into it.”
Gurney wondered if this was something else Morgan had failed to mention.
“Regarding the broader issue,” said Aspern, “we need calm, consistent messaging to counteract the media coverage. Perhaps Martin here, with his background, can help craft that strategy?”
Carmody cleared his throat. “Happy to do what I can. But before I design the suit, I need to know the shape of the body.”
Morgan blinked in confusion. “The shape of the body?”
“The raw facts of the case, especially the troublesome ones. Professional tailoring can smooth out a lot of imperfections, so long as we know what they are.”
“Troublesome fact number one,” snapped Peale, “is that someone who was pronounced dead is very much alive. That colossal error is the basis for these insane ‘zombie’ headlines and every other damn problem we’re facing.”
“Damned useless observation,” muttered Fallow, giving Peale a black look.
Carmody was nodding attentively, as though this were any other client briefing.
“In my experience,” he said, ignoring the obvious tension in the room, “there are three key ingredients in a crisis messaging strategy. Simplicity, the projection of competence, and the appearance of transparency. To begin with, it’s important to explain the pronouncement of death as a reasonable diagnosis, based on the available facts. The subject’s subsequent revival should be described as an uncommon but far-from-unique event. I’m sure the internet can provide examples of similar revivals. The point is to demystify it and take the air out of the supernatural speculation.”
Aspern was smiling. “Simple is good. Down-to-earth. No apologies. No need to get into anything exculpatory—like our medical examiner’s crushing workload with all the heroin ODs and autopsies on his plate, et cetera.”
“Exactly!” said Carmody. “Basic rule number one: never offer an excuse for an error when the incident can be described in a way that makes it not an error at all, but a case of sound professional judgment misled by a deceptive set of facts.”
“I like it,” said Aspern. “What do you think, Harmon, from a legal point of view?”
Gossett offered an almost imperceptible nod of approval.
Styles looked like he was developing gas pains.
“Problem, Gifford?” said Aspern.
“All well and good that Fallow is off the hook. Glad, too, that all the ‘resurrection’ balderdash will be put to rest. But what about the witchcraft angle, the ‘satanic’ malarkey? Is there a plan for making that go away?”
Carmody nodded. “All part of the same cloth, Gifford. The solution depends on tone and vocabulary. The thing is, we should never use any big, fuzzy, mystical words in public. Stick to hard, small, simple terms. The suspected perp is an ex-con from a bad neighborhood, with a history of threats and assaults. The police are tracking him down. Emphasize practical procedure. The witchcraft angle should be positioned as a silly distraction, not worth discussing. Underscore the point that irrational speculation always aids the criminal. Show a high school photo of the suspect, preferably looking weak and awkward—obviously with no magic powers—a low-grade criminal whose capture is only a matter of time.”
Aspern looked down the length of the table at Morgan. “You on board with this?”
Morgan cleared his throat. “No disagreement.”
“How about you, Detective Gurney? Anything to say?”
“Be careful you don’t minimize the danger. There’s a killer on the loose. He’s dangerous, clever, efficient, and cold-blooded. And probably not finished.”
Aspern blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I think he has plans for more murders.”
Several voices were raised at the same time. “How do you know that?”
Gurney didn’t want to divulge sensitive facts in what might be a leaky environment. “I can’t be specific at this point, but some evidence suggests that Tate has made preparations for additional attacks.”
“My God,” said Styles. “What sort of preparations? Shouldn’t we be told, as a matter of personal safety?”
“Sharing what I’m referring to wouldn’t be helpful in that way.” He turned his attention to Aspern. “But there is something that should be added to any public information statements from your office or from the department—a request for anyone who was ever threatened by Tate to come forward.”
Aspern looked alarmed. “Why do you say that?”
“Tate threatened to kill Angus Russell, and Angus Russell is dead. He threatened to kill Linda Mason, and Linda Mason is dead. His past threats should not be ignored.”
Aspern’s small eyes widened. “He threatened me.”
“When?”
“Not too long after he got out of prison. Right after Selena Cursen bought him that orange Jeep. I caught him driving it on my trails.”
“What happened?”
“I told him to get the hell off my property. He said anyone who claimed to own Harrow Hill deserved to die.”
“Did you report that to the police?”
Aspern shook his head. “I assumed it was just talk.”
As the meeting broke up, Carmody left with Aspern. Gurney approached Hilda Russell—who hadn’t said a word at the meeting—as she was preparing to leave. A sturdy woman with short white hair clinging closely to her large head, she was wearing a plain gray suit over a black turtleneck. The suit accentuated the squareness of her physical presence.
“Reverend Russell?”
“Hello, Detective Gurney.” There was intelligence in her bright blue eyes.
They smiled and shook hands. Hers was strong and surprisingly rough.
“I was wondering—” he began.
“If you could speak with me later today? Pick a time.”
“Half an hour from now?”
“Here or at the parsonage?”
“The parsonage sounds more interesting.”
“See you then.” She walked out of the conference room, light on her feet for a woman of such solidity.
Besides Morgan and Gurney, the only other attendee still present was Dr. Ronald Fallow. He was wearing the same blue blazer he’d worn at the Kane crime scene. He was standing by his chair, swiping through a series of screens on his phone. The general resentment that had been on his face for most of the meeting had changed to an emotion Gurney couldn’t readily label.
Morgan turned to Gurney. “That business about your finding evidence that Tate is planning more murders—what on earth was that all about?”
“What I found is purely suggestive. But it’s nagging at me. Tate used Linda Morgan’s blood to leave that Dark Angel message on the wall. That message required at the most two ounces of blood. But more than ten times that amount was drained from her body and removed from the site. It doesn’t prove anything, but it does suggest a forward-looking plan of some sort.”
“So you think we’re just at the beginning of—”
He was interrupted by Fallow, who was approaching them, phone in hand.
“Chief, I found something that may be of interest. Something that’s been bothering me ever since the Russell autopsy. The placement of the severed finger. Something about it was tugging at a memory.”
He held up the phone. The screen showed a photo of a gray-haired, stone-jawed man in a courtroom witness chair, his forefinger pointing dramatically at someone or something.
“Angus,” muttered Morgan, half to himself, half to Gurney.
“Yes,” said Fallow. “When Billy Tate was on trial for making threats. Russell was asked by the prosecutor if he could identify the individual who had threatened him. Angus pointed directly at Tate. Do you know what happened next?”
Morgan shook his head.
“When Angus pointed at him, Tate shouted, ‘How about I rip that finger off and shove it up your ass?’ Interesting coincidence, is it not?”