THREE YEARS AGO, after I’d written a series of articles about Jason Lambert, a serial killer in Atlanta, I received a call from Maggie Reynolds, a New York book editor I’d met on a crime panel. She offered me a contract to convert the articles into a book.
Lambert was a Ted Bundy—type killer. He’d hang around campuses, passing himself off as a student, and then trick young women into getting into his car. Like Bundy’s victims, those girls simply disappeared. Fortunately, he hadn’t had time to dispose of his last victim when he was captured. He’s in prison in Georgia now with 149 years left to serve on his sentence and no chance of parole.
The book did surprisingly well, even clinging for a few weeks to the bottom of The New York Times bestseller list. I called Maggie after I left Brand’s office. After describing the case and the investigative track I intended to pursue, she readily agreed to give me a contract for a book about Andrea’s murder, a book that I promised her would conclusively prove Rob Westerfield’s guilt.
“There’s a lot of hype about the one Jake Bern is writing,” Maggie told me. “I’d like to go toe-to-toe on it with a book from you. Bern broke his contract with us after we spent a fortune on publicity on his last book, trying to build him up.”
I figured the project would take about three months of intensive research and writing, and then if Rob Westerfield succeeded in getting a new trial, several months beyond that. The inn would be too confining and too expensive to stay in over the long haul, so I asked Mrs. Hilmer if she knew of any rental apartments in the area. She waved my suggestion away, insisting that I stay in the guest apartment over her garage.
“I put it in a few years ago in case I ever felt I needed someone around all the time,” she explained. “Ellie, it’s comfortable, it’s quiet, and I’ll be a good neighbor, not a nuisance who runs in and out.”
“You were always a good neighbor.” It was a great solution, and perhaps the only drawback was that it meant driving past our old house on a regular basis. I assumed that eventually repetition would dull the instant flash of pain that hit me now as I passed that acre of property.
“God’s Little Acre.” Mother had laughingly called it that. She was thrilled to have so much property and was determined to cultivate a garden that would be one of the highlights on the Oldham Garden Club spring tour.
I checked out of the Inn, moved into Mrs. Hilmer’s guest apartment, and on Wednesday flew back to Atlanta, arriving in the office at quarter of six in the evening. I knew there was no chance that Pete would have gone home. He was married to the job.
He looked up, saw me, grinned briefly, and said, “Let’s talk over a plate of spaghetti.”
“What about those ten pounds you’re trying to lose?”
“I’ve decided not to think about them for the next couple of hours.”
Pete has an intensity about him that sends electric jolts into the people around him. He went with the News, a privately owned daily, right out of graduate school, and within two years he was managing editor. By the time he was twenty-eight he was wearing two hats, editor in chief and publisher, and the “dying Daily,” as it had been labeled, suddenly had a new lease on life.
Hiring an investigative crime reporter was one of his ideas to rev up circulation, and getting the job six years ago was a stroke of luck for me. I had just been taken on as a cub reporter. When the guy Pete wanted for the position backed out at the last minute, I was told to fill in, but only until a permanent replacement was found. Then one day, without comment, Pete stopped looking for that replacement. I had the job.
Napoli’s is truly the kind of neighborhood restaurant you find all over Italy. Pete ordered a bottle of Chianti and grabbed a chunk of the warm bread that had been deposited on our table. My thoughts went back to the semester I had spent in Rome during my college years. It was one of the few genuinely happy periods of my adult life.
My mother was trying to get on the wagon and was doing reasonably well. She visited me there during my spring break, and we had a wonderful time together. We explored Rome and spent a week in Florence and the hill towns of Tuscany. We capped that off with a visit to Venice. Mother was such a pretty woman, and on that trip, when she was smiling, she looked like her old self. By unspoken agreement the names of Andrea and my father never crossed our lips.
I’m glad I have that memory of her.
The wine came, was approved by Pete, and uncorked. I took a sip of it and plunged into what I had to say. “I’ve been doing a lot of homework. The whitewash job on Westerfield has every possibility of succeeding. Jake Bern is a good writer. He’s already done an article on the case that will be coming out next month in Vanity Fair.”
Pete reached for another piece of warm bread. “What can you do about it?”
“I am writing a book that will come out in the spring, the same week Bern’s is published.” I told him about my call to Maggie Reynolds. Pete had met her at the book party she threw for me in Atlanta. “Maggie is doing it, and she’ll put me on the fast track for publication. But in the meantime I’ve got to counteract Bern’s articles and the Westerfield family’s press releases.”
Pete waited. That was another thing about him—he didn’t rush to reassure. And he didn’t fill in dead spots in the conversation.
“Pete, I’m fully aware that a series of articles about a crime committed twenty-two years ago in Westchester County, New York, might not be of great interest to a readership in Georgia, and anyhow, I don’t think it’s the right place to publish them. The Westerfield family is identified with New York.”
“Agreed. So what do you propose to do?”
“Take a leave of absence if you can give it to me. Or if that isn’t feasible, quit, write the book, and take my chances after it’s finished.”
The waiter came to the table. We both ordered cannelloni and a green salad. Pete hemmed and hawed for a minute, but then decided on Gorgonzola dressing.
“Ellie, I’ll hold your job open for you as long as it’s in my power to do it.”
“What does that mean?”
“I may not be around much longer myself. I’ve had a couple of interesting offers that I’m considering.”
I was shocked. “But the News is your baby.”
“We’re getting too big for the competition. There’s real talk of our being bought out for big bucks. The family is interested. This generation doesn’t give a damn about the paper; it’s only about the revenue.”
“Where are you thinking of going?”
“The L. A. Times is probably going to make an offer. The other possibility is Houston.”
“Until there’s an offer on the plate, I’m not wasting my time making choices that may not exist.”
Pete didn’t wait for me to comment before he went on.
“Ellie, I’ve been doing a little research of my own on your case. The Westerfields are getting good at criminal defense strategy. They have an impressive team of lawyers just waiting to get a chance to earn a fortune. They have that Nebels guy, and, weasel that he is, some people are going to believe his story. Do what you have to, but please, if Westerfield goes to trial and gets acquitted, swear to yourself that you’ll walk away from it.”
He looked directly at me. “Ellie, I can tell that you’re thinking, ‘Not a chance.’ I wish I could make you understand that no matter what books you and Bern write, some people are going to go to their graves believing that Westerfield got a bum deal, while others will still be convinced that he’s guilty.”
Pete meant his advice kindly, but that night as I packed the things I needed for an extended stay in Oldham, I realized that even he had the feeling that, guilty or innocent, Rob Westerfield had served his time, that people would think whatever they wanted about the merits of the case, and that it was time for me to drop it.
Nothing wrong with righteous wrath, I thought. Except when it hangs around too long.
I drove back to Oldham, and the following week Rob Westerfield’s parole hearing was held. As expected, the parole was granted, and it was announced that he would be released on October 31.
Halloween, I thought. How appropriate. The night that demons walk the earth.