Jerry Acosta knocked on his editor’s door and waited for permission to enter. Gilbert Banner ran the St. Louis Journal like it was his personal possession and no one else had a right to an opinion. Jerry hated the man but was at his mercy. He had no choice but to kowtow to him any time Banner deigned to acknowledge Jerry’s existence.
When he called to speak to Banner, he’d been instructed by Banner’s administrative assistant to go to his own editor. When Jerry insisted, she coldly informed him that if he angered the editor-in-chief, Jerry’s days at the Journal would be numbered. Although her intention was to intimidate him, he was willing to take the chance. After what he’d seen today, he was convinced he was sitting on a story that would change his life. He could finally see a way to finish the book he’d started years ago. Now he was part of the story. Maybe Kaely Quinn, aka Jessica Oliphant, would finally agree to an interview about her famous father. With her help, he could become famous too.
He opened the door and walked in. Although he tried to look confident, Banner had a way of making him feel like he’d forgotten to dress this morning.
“What do you want, Acosta?” Banner barked out. He glared at his reporter like an ill-tempered bulldog whose bone had just been snatched away.
“I got a letter in the mail you need to see, boss,” he said. “It’s important.”
“You’re bothering me about some letter?” Banner said. His chubby face turned red. “Are you kidding me? Maybe you’ve heard that I’ve got a paper to get out.”
“It . . . it’s not just a letter,” Jerry said. He hated the way his voice sounded. High and squeaky. Full of fear. He cleared his throat and tried to calm his nerves. A sudden spark of anger pushed back the terror, and Jerry took a step closer to Banner’s desk. “I got a note . . . well, a poem, from someone who claims he’s going to kill six people. Including that FBI agent . . . you know, the profiler?”
“The woman you’ve been badgering?” Banner snorted. “So you’ve written some kind of poem, hoping the Feds will think it’s from a serial killer? You think this will get you an interview with Quinn? The FBI’s not that dumb, Acosta, and neither am I. Now get out of here. And pick up your final check on the way out.”
“Now, wait a minute,” Jerry said, annoyance igniting rage. “I didn’t write this. It’s from a killer. His first victim showed up a little while ago in Forest Park. They’ve pulled Kaely Quinn in on it. I just came from the scene.” He shook his head. “But I guess if I’m fired, I can take it to the Kirkwood Dispatch. It’s a smaller circulation . . . until they print this, that is. Should shoot their subscriptions through the roof.” He turned and headed toward the door.
“Hold up, Acosta,” Banner said loudly. “Let me see what you’ve got.”
Jerry had half a mind to do exactly what he’d threatened, but he needed his job at the Journal. The Kirkwood Dispatch couldn’t begin to pay him what he made now. After pausing a few seconds for effect, Jerry slowly turned around, hoping to make it seem to Banner that now he was hesitant to share his story. He wanted the editor to pay for his insolence. After playing the moment for all he could, Jerry finally placed his copy of the poem on Banner’s desk.
“It arrived this morning. Wasn’t sure it was real at first, but it bothered me. And then . . . well, the first elephant is dead.”
Banner’s eyes widened as he read the poem. Then he picked up his phone. “Dixon, come to my office now.” He slammed the phone down and read the poem again. “Why would someone send this to you?” he asked. “You’re nobody. It doesn’t make sense.”
Jerry took a quick breath and choked back a snide response. Then he said, “I’m assuming it’s because of the articles I wrote about Agent Quinn.”
“When you outed her in Virginia, or when you announced she was in St. Louis?”
“Look, people have the right to know when a serial killer’s daughter is living in their town.”
Banner scowled at Jerry through thick gray eyebrows that framed his bloodshot eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure your intentions were purely altruistic.”
Jerry started to defend himself, but Banner waved his response away. “Forget it,” he said. “A good journalist goes after the truth. We’ll let the do-gooders out there decide what’s right or wrong. That’s not our job. We . . .”
A sudden knock on the door interrupted Banner’s next comments. The door swung open, and John Dixon strode into the office.
“You need to see me, Gilbert?” he asked. His gaze locked on Jerry. Dixon looked nervous, and Jerry understood why. Many times, being called into Banner’s office resulted in all your belongings stuffed in a cardboard box and a security escort from the building.
“You’re writing about the death in the park this morning?” Banner asked.
“Yes?” John’s eyes darted back and forth between his editor and Jerry. It was obvious he was confused.
“Tell me what you know.”
“Not much yet. It was a man between twenty-five and thirty. No identification on the body. He was definitely murdered, blunt force trauma to the head. He was found on a park bench.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, yeah, but the cops don’t know what to make of it.” Dixon shook his head. “You’ll think this is nuts, but there was a drawing with the body. An outline of an elephant. Someone wrote the number 1 on it. The police don’t want that released, but I was going to include it anyway. I got this from the woman who found the body.”
“Hold up on your story,” Banner said. “We may have a new lead.”
“Okay,” John said slowly. Dixon was clearly suspicious, no doubt wondering why his story had been pulled. It was obvious he suspected Jerry was involved somehow.
“I’ll get back to you,” Banner said. “You can go.”
John glared at Jerry, then left the room. The door slammed behind him with so much force the windows rattled. Banner seemed not to notice and turned his attention back to Jerry.
“You say your profiler was there? Looking over the crime scene?”
Jerry nodded. “That’s right.”
“You get pictures?”
“Yeah. Lots.”
Banner picked up the paper again and perused the poem. “The first murder was in Forest Park,” he said softly to himself. Jerry could tell he wasn’t expecting an answer, so he stayed quiet. “Have the Feds seen this?” This time his comment was directed to Jerry.
“Yeah. I took them the original this morning. If you’ll read the note on the back, you’ll see that whoever sent it left me a message. If I want to hear from him again, I had to personally deliver the poem to Solomon Slattery. It took some effort, but I finally got in to see him.” Jerry laughed humorlessly. “I also wanted to see their reaction. Find out if they took it seriously.”
“And?”
“They did. And if they sent Kaely Quinn to the park . . .”
“Then this is the real deal.”
“Yeah.”
“I suppose they want us to withhold this?”
Jerry smiled at him. “I didn’t ask. I just gave them the letter and left.”
“Good.” Banner tapped his fingers on the paper for a few seconds, his forehead wrinkled in thought. “Get to work on this,” he said finally. “I want this story out as soon as possible.” He pointed his finger at Jerry. “You make sure all your ducks are in a row. This better be the best story you’ve ever written, understand?”
Jerry nodded. “Do you want me to call the Feds and tell them we’re going to run the story?”
“Nah. Let’s surprise them. After all, it’s our job to let the good people of St. Louis know a killer’s on the loose, right?”
“Right, boss.”
“And Acosta?”
“Yeah?”
Banner waved the poem at Jerry. “I take it you have other copies?”
“I do. You can keep that one.”
“Good. Now get going and write me a great story, Jerry.”
This was the first time Banner had ever called him by his first name. Acosta was floating on air. “I will, Gilbert. Don’t worry.”
Jerry hurried out of Banner’s office before the cranky editor changed his mind. He almost ran into Dixon, who stood in the hallway.
“You got the story?” he asked.
Jerry nodded at him. “Sorry. I actually started on it this morning. I really wasn’t trying to take it from you.”
“You’re a lying scumbag, Acosta. We only found out about the murder this afternoon. I’ll remember this, don’t you worry.”
Jerry smiled at him. “After this story, I don’t think you’ll be able to touch me, John. You have no idea what this is really all about, but it’s big. A career maker.”
Jerry turned his back and walked down the hall, John cursing him all the way. This was the best day of Jerry’s life, and he was determined to enjoy it.