Crime Beat (11 page)
Authors: Scott Nicholson
I hadn’t decided that yet, but I saw no reason to upset him before he finished the article. “You’re my Number One with a bullet.”
Sure enough, the vultures flew in. Fox News, MSNBC,
60 Minutes
,
The New York Times,
and
USA Today
ran bulletins, mostly compilations of our published clips, the lazy way out for modern armchair journalists.
The Washington Post
was the only traditional media outlet to send a real reporter. Deadspin and TMZ sent stringers, proof that the lines of celebrity gossip, hard news, and journalistic integrity had blurred into a murky, blood-colored stew.
To his credit, Hardison rose to the challenge, holding another press conference that was a mirror of the first, only this time he was prepared to answer questions. Well, he didn’t really answer, but at least he responded.
“No possibilities have been eliminated,” he said to the audience of three dozen as the district attorney stood to the side. “This office is cooperating fully with the SBI and Sycamore Shade Police Department to bring the perpetrator to justice.”
“So there’s only one perpetrator?” asked a crew-cut guy with a microphone who had a face made for radio. But he was loud enough to make up for any other shortcomings.
“In a manner of speaking,” Hardison said.
“Do the fingernail clippers have any significance?” shouted one of the TV heads.
“Blame the dang old Internet,” the sheriff said, in a rare display of candidness. “We’re working to trace them, but they could have come from anywhere. Anyone with any information is encouraged to come forward, and a Crime Stoppers reward is being offered.”
The D.A. stepped to the mike and added, “The reward is only valid in the event of a successful prosecution, offer not available where prohibited by law.”
“Sheriff, have you made any solid connections between any of the four victims?” Kavanaugh asked, though I knew she’d already asked him the question one-on-one. She was across the room from Moretz and me, preferring to keep our relationship out of the public eye.
I knew even Hardison was too smart to come back with something sarcastic like, “Well, they’re all dead.” He let his jowls sag a little more than usual, making him look like a beaten hound.
“We’re going through family histories,” Hardison said. “All of the victims were locals, and it’s possible their paths crossed from time to time.”
“Can you release additional details on the latest murder?” Moretz asked, raising his pencil even though he was taking notes on his laptop.
The sheriff glowered at him, and then me. “All information has been made known,” Hardison said. “Plus some information that’s not known.”
A couple of hands shot up at the confusing remark, but the sheriff held both palms up. “That’s all today,” the sheriff said. “These crimes don’t solve themselves.”
The national attention spawned a bunch of orders by mail, so the publisher upped the print run by an additional 3,000 copies.
Our subscriptions had increased, too, and Westmoreland had even dared mention the possibility of raises for the writing staff. And they say journalists are cynics.
I met Kavanaugh for dinner again five days and two editions later. She’d gone to Raleigh to file a few stories and work on a big government scandal, but we kept in touch via text messages. Moretz thought I’d been feeding her inside information, but the deal cut both ways. Kavanaugh didn’t have Moretz’s knack for being on the spot, but she was pretty sharp at analysis and spin.
After another round of garlic entrees at Roman Joe’s, I suggested we visit the scene of the first murder and take a moonlit stroll around the lake brainstorming connections between the victims, working up a retrospective series to let our readers relive the crimes. And, of course, buy more papers.
“Romantic,” she said.
“Plus we can bill for mileage,” I said.
“Combining business and pleasure. That’s even better.”
We reached the lake in 20 minutes. The original crime scene was no longer roped off, and it had become a bit of a tourist attraction. Beer cans and burger wrappers littered the woods. I was a little sad that the murder site had not become some sort of memorial shrine, but I knew from vast experience that yesterday’s news was yesterday’s news.
“He was standing right here,” I said, measuring the distance to the lake. “Maybe he’d already planned the whole thing, or maybe he just came across the paddle and went insane.”
What she said next surprised me, but it probably shouldn’t have. “You think it’s Moretz, don’t you?”
I was silent for a moment, listening to the crickets, bullfrogs, and the gentle lapping of the water. “He’s Johnny on the Spot, first one to the crime scene. Maybe the sheriff is keeping a closer eye than we thought.”
“If so, the sheriff blew it by letting a couple more people get killed before making the arrest. His career is dead in the water.”
“Just like the third victim. With a straight razor.”
“What’s that?”
“Patterns. The paddle thing was an aberration. But then you had a strangling, a razor to the neck, and then another strangling. Despite that clipper gimmick, it sounds like he has a thing for necks.”
“You seem to enjoy mine,” she said.
“Along with everything else.” I took her in my arms and gave her a soft kiss. I was growing fond of Kavanaugh. I was about to make my move when the spotlights blasted us with five thousand watts of white brilliance, momentarily blinding me.
“Don’t move,” bellowed a male voice.
“Hands where we can see them,” commanded another.
I didn’t think it would go down that way. For all their bungling, Hardison’s crew came through as professionals when it mattered most. I pulled my hand from my pocket and let the folded razor drop to the ground.
I thought about reaching for the clippers in my other pocket, but figured any sudden moves might kill any chance for a follow-up.
Kavanaugh gasped in shock, the cops closed in and did their thing, and it was a blur after that. When they got to the part about “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law,” I simply said, “Mistakes were made.”
My defense attorney agreed to allow Moretz to interview me. She thought I’d get sympathy from the people who would eventually comprise the jury pool, assuming the trial wasn’t moved. Or at least the interview would provide plenty of ammo for the insanity plea we’d probably render.
“I read your articles on my arrest,” I said, sitting at the table in the bare concrete room, a burly sergeant watching us. “Award worthy, for sure.”
Moretz’s eyes were as dark and devoid of human compassion as ever. “Like you said, it’s the subject matter that wins awards, not the reporter.”
“Did I say that?”
“Yeah.”
“I especially liked the part where you booted up my computer and saw I’d laid out the next day’s headline.”
“
Reporter Slain At Lake.
I wouldn’t have figured it out if you hadn’t typed the lead line.”
I quoted myself. “Police were stunned when the Rebel Clipper’s fifth victim was discovered at the scene of the first murder. Kelsey Kavanaugh, 33, a reporter for the
News & Observer
, had been covering the case when she died from injuries apparently inflicted by a sharp instrument.”
“Even after you edited so many of my stories, you still can’t write as good as I can.”
“‘Well,’“ I said. “The correct grammar is, ‘You still can’t write as well as I can.’“
“The editor always has the final word,” he said.
“How’s Kavanaugh?”
“Haven’t you heard?”
I looked at the concrete walls, the little glass two-way mirror, and the stoic guard. I shrugged. “I don’t get out much.”
“She was on ‘Good Morning America,’ got an agent and six-figure book deal, and she’s going to be the subject of a one-hour Showtime special.”
“Nice kid. She deserves it.”
Moretz leaned forward, studying me. “Why did you do it?”
“Is this off the record?”
“You taught me that nothing is off the record.”
I shrugged again. I had affected a convenient case of jailhouse
elan
. “Deadline pressure. It gets to you after a while.”
“You type the headline, get everything ready, hint to me where the body’s going to be found. I’m on the scene just in time to get it in the next edition. Right under the wire, so nobody can scoop us.”
“More or less. If the
Picayune
had gone daily like I’d wanted, everything would have worked out much better.”
“Hardison almost pulled me in because of it. He thought we were conspiring. I was on the crime beat, after all.”
“That paddle, that was a stroke of genius, inspired by all that death and carnage that hit like the Biblical plagues when you came to town. It gave me the idea of a way to build up circulation. After the first one, I was hooked. Not on the murdering, that was just unpleasant work that’s likely to break your fingernails. But selling papers was a rush.”
“You’re insane.”
I smiled. “That’s an editorial opinion, not a clinical diagnosis.”
“You wanted to build circulation and get some acclaim. I get that part. But there’s no real payoff. What was this really all about?”
I’d been wondering that myself, but I think I’d finally come around to the answer.
“Obits,” I said.
“The obituary column?”
“You read enough of those, and they all blend into one big, bland bowl of oatmeal. Homemaker, retired mechanic, former Marine, schoolteacher. I just pictured my bottom line, my final word, and all I saw was the title ‘Newspaper editor.’ Not so memorable in the grand scheme of things. Sure to be set in small type.”
“And now you’re famous. A headline. Howard Nance, the Rebel Clipper.”
“Well, I could have come up with a better name, but I blame the deadline pressure.”
“We all write our own obituaries, Chief,” Moretz said. “Day by day.”
The guard interrupted and told us our five minutes were up. Moretz remained sitting while I stood, the handcuffs clinking. “You can’t type so well in handcuffs,” I joked.
“We’re all in handcuffs,” Moretz said, getting the final word at last. “They’re just invisible most of the time.”
THE END
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