Hack (4 page)

“Doesn’t show him killing Neil,” I said.

Izzy and Phil glared at me.

“We all saw him puke up his lunch,” Izzy said. “You think the human tissue he chowed down on today is from a different guy? He’s a serial cannibal?”

“Unlikely,” I admitted. “But you saw him. He looks really upset, in shock. I think he loved Neil.”

“If I had a buck for every killer who loved his victim and cried after he killed them, I could buy a new car,” Phil chuckled. “A nice one.”

“True,” I said. “But why would a neat freak clean his plate and silverware but leave the frying pan and all that mess? All that evidence? And he freaked when you mentioned the cannibalism thing. You guys are the pros but his reaction looked real to me.”

“Maybe he was running late and left it for the housekeeper. We have a video of an assault and a threat to the vic. He lied about it. He’s still lying about the time frame. He had plenty of time to do it. The suspect vomited ingested human flesh that is probably the dead guy. He’s an actor on TV,” Izzy countered.

“I never saw the show but you’re probably right,” I said.

“He’s probably as crazy as a shithouse rat,” Izzy said dismissively, shaking my hand. “Thanks for your help, Shepherd. Where were you on the job?”

“No big deal,” I replied. “What job?”

“This job. The job. You’re not an ex-cop?”

“Nope.”

“Then I should arrest you,” he said, smiling.

“What for?”

“I haven’t decided yet. Trespassing? Impersonating a police officer? Obstructing governmental administration? Conspiracy to commit journalism? All of the above, maybe.”

“I haven’t done any of those things, although I think obstructing the government is usually a good thing.”

“True. Can you give me a reason not to lock you up?” he asked.

“Nope. But you’d have to admit publicly that an inexperienced pet columnist got into your crime scene and helped you solve the murder. Quickly.”

“There’s that,” Izzy scowled.

He looked at Phil, who shrugged.

“As far as I’m concerned,” Izzy said, “you’re a friend of the family who just happened to be here and assisted us with our investigation. The dog part. You’re a dog whisperer.”

“Okay, thanks. By the way, I like the way you work. It was a real pleasure.”

“Praise indeed from a pet columnist. Now get the fuck out of here.”

“What about Skippy? What will happen to him?”

“Witness Protection Program,” Phil said, with a straight face.

We all laughed. Izzy said cops would be at the crime scene for the rest of the day and all night, probably for days, and there was a housekeeper who would be there in the morning. If Aubrey didn’t get out on bail, there might be relatives or the SPCA would take him. I didn’t like it but they wouldn’t let me take him out of there. I gave them my cell phone number and they gave me their cards.

“
Bon appétit, mon ami
,” Izzy said in a passable French accent as I walked out.

I left the townhouse and began walking back down the block toward the police barricade, when I noticed the cameras and lights from the press pen on the far corner, pointing at me. They clearly thought I was
somebody
, a friend, a relative, somebody to interview. I did an about-face and headed for the other, farther end of the block, also barricaded but press-less. I stole a glance back and noticed some of the reporters and camera crews were dashing out of the pen to circle around the block and flank me. I broke into a run. By the time I hailed a cab on Lexington Avenue, a crowd of them had rounded the corner. In the lead was a hot, healthy redhead in a red top, black miniskirt and high heels, yelling her head off, jiggling nicely, as I made my escape. She was pretty enough to be on TV. You didn’t have to be a lip reader to get that she was mouthing words you couldn’t say on regular television.

I strode into the grand lobby of the
New York Mail
, a man on a mission, past framed famous front pages, mostly giant, one-word headlines like “WAR,” “CHAOS,” “DOOM,” and, oddly, “SPRING.” There were more recent front pages, such as “MAYOR’S MAIN SQUEEZE,” “FIRST LADY LEZ RAP,” and “MEX STAR IN SEX BAR.”

I stopped at one headline I had seen before, only two years old.

The front-page story had an exclusive interview with a city police officer named Sean Joyce who had accidentally shot and killed a tall twelve-year-old boy, after the boy pointed a realistic toy gun at him in a high-crime neighborhood at night. Joyce, a white, Irish cop had been accused of racism by the
New York Mail
, which printed comments he allegedly made, calling the dead boy a “dumbass kid” for pointing a plastic automatic at him. Someone gave a civil rights activist minister Joyce’s home address and the
Mail
covered the resulting ugly demonstration there, angry people holding signs reading “RACIST MURDERER.” For some reason, Joyce ignored his superiors’ orders not to discuss the case and expressed his regret about the shooting to the
New York Mail
in an interview, with pictures, along with his condolences to the family of the dead boy. After the interview, Officer Joyce checked into a cheap motel and shot himself. The next day’s front page was also about him:

Joyce left a widow and three young kids. A sad story.

I flashed my new photo ID card to security in the lobby and rode upstairs to the Features Department floor. I rushed to my cubicle, anticipation rising, but stopped short at my desk. My souvlaki sandwich was gone. My cold cup of tea in my
New York Mail
cup was still there, next to my black letter opener and my tie. I looked around. I asked my cubicle neighbors but no one would admit to having any information about the fate of my lunch. I decided
that
mystery would have to wait.

I rode the elevator one floor up to the City Room, with its jigsaw maze of carpeted, beige dividers and long counter desks supporting computers, and a phalanx of ceiling-mounted TV monitors. It looked like a combination of an insurance company and a sports bar. But, from what I heard, with more booze. I ambled over to the desks under the monitors and heard live police radio calls. I listened until I heard a guy with what sounded like an Australian accent and asked him if he was Nigel Bantock. He wasn’t but the guy next to him was.

“Hi. I’m Shepherd,” I said to Nigel, a nondescript guy in glasses, shirtsleeves, and a bow tie, with a buzz cut and dingy, crooked teeth.

“Shepherd! Mate, what the fuck are you doing here? Why aren’t you in the townhouse?”

I explained that I had to leave but it was okay because I got the whole story.

“I figured we had a deadline coming up for tomorrow’s paper soon and I should probably give you the rest of the story. I got it all. There was really nothing to stay for.”

“Really?” Nigel asked, his voice rising. “This better be fucking great, Shep.”

“Problem, Nigel?” a gentle English voice interjected.

The color drained from Nigel’s face as he gaped over my shoulder. I turned and saw a round guy with a pasty pale face in a rumpled brown suit with white stripes, leaning casually against a counter with a green beer bottle in his hand. The suit looked like a Halloween costume for a gangster, minus the white tie and fedora. He was not smiling. He repeated his question softly but the tone held quiet menace. Next to him was a wiry guy in a sharp-cut three-piece suit. The thin guy had a hatchet face and dyed black hair, slicked straight back into a duck’s ass over his pink collar. It was hard to tell which guy terrified Nigel. Maybe both. If Humpty Dumpty became a mobster and hired a weasel for a bodyguard, this is what they would look like, I thought.

“Hi, I’m F.X. Shepherd. Francis Xavier Shepherd,” I said, to break the ice, extending my hand to the big man. “Just call me Shepherd.”

“No you’re not,” he said, ignoring my hand.

“I was this morning,” I said, attempting a chuckle.

“Who the fuck is he, Nigel?” Humpty asked.

“Uh… Shep, he gave us our web exclusive today… ah… He was inside Forsythe’s townhouse. He uh…” Nigel sounded confused and was having trouble breathing.

“Frank Shepherd is on holiday,” the weasel said.

“Yeah, that’s the thing,” I interjected. “Turns out we have the same name. I’m new. F.X. Shepherd. I do the pet column. ‘Dog’s Breakfast?’ Nigel sent me on the fun murder.”

“You sent the pet bloke on the top news story?” Humpty snickered, taking a big swig of brew. “You’re sacked, Bantock. Get out.”

“What?” Nigel was suddenly unsteady on his feet, as if he was the one drinking. “I didn’t know… my first day… But he was brilliant! We beat everybody! Nobody has matched us yet! I… we… he says he has more exclusive stuff… I…”

He sank back into his seat, muttering about his wife and kids and his condo lease in New Jersey. I noticed the features editor who had hired me at the edge of the small crowd, her piled hairdo bobbing and weaving. I protested that if Nigel was fired, I should also be canned. Humpty and Weasel stared at me. And then back at the quivering Nigel. It looked like they were about to agree with me.

“Bantock, you’re banished to Lobster Shift until you can tell a police reporter from a pet columnist,” Humpty told Nigel.

Nigel heaved a sigh of relief and faded into the background before the fat man changed his mind.

“Shouldn’t I be filing the rest of the story before deadline?” I asked.

“Nobody spoke to you,” Humpty snapped, tossing his empty into a trash can.

“You just did,” I replied in a friendly tone.

A collective gasp of air being sucked in at the same time came from dozens of people watching surreptitiously from behind their computers. My feature editor’s hairdo vanished as she fled the room. Many heads ducked for cover. Humpty put his face inches from mine, his booze breath bridging the gap, strong enough to make my eyes water.

“This better be good,” he warned.

I took a step back to get some fresh air.

“Aubrey protests his innocence but he is under arrest for murder,” I said. “Earlier in the day, a film crew taped Aubrey slapping Neil and threatening to kill him for kicking Skippy, their dog—the husky who was guarding the body until I got there. Cops have the video of the fight. Also, Neil scratched Aubrey’s face. The killer took a slice out of Neil’s ass and cooked it in their fancy kitchen in a frying pan with oil, garlic, parsley and grated Parmesan cheese.” There was total silence. “And then Aubrey ate it.”

I could hear muted expressions of shock, awe and disbelief. Humpty was frozen for about fifteen seconds. Then he blinked. I was afraid he was going to call me a liar, so I quickly continued.

“Aubrey lied to the cops, who have already confirmed that the food critic cannibalized his husband,” I said. “A test at the scene detected human flesh in his stomach contents. Oh, and some S&M gear and pornographic photos were found in their bedroom. That’s about it.”

Humpty’s face twitched oddly. He licked his lips and a lusty smirk appeared.

“How did they detect human flesh in his stomach?” Weasel demanded in a skeptical tone.

“He vomited when he saw Neil’s corpse and they tested it. I saw it all. Aubrey had part of Neil’s backside in his stomach. The frying pan in the kitchen was used to cook it.”

Humpty looked at Weasel, who handed him another beer. Humpty took a deep pull, as everyone looked at him. His rosy mouth curved up in a wide leer. It looked like a smile, but sharper.

“NEIL PARMESAN!” he bellowed, so loud I jumped.

The crowd roared with laughter and then applause. Humpty did a little jig and Weasel cackled.

“NAKED LUNCH! Food Fight Ends in Gay Slay Meal!” Humpty roared, tipping his new bottle of beer toward me.

“Tubby Trib Food Critic Noshes Slain Roomie!” someone else countered.

“Big Cheese Beardsley Bites Boy Toy!”

“Top TV Chef Jailed in Gay Cannibal Feast!”

Soon everyone joined in the game, which became increasingly raucous and obscene.

I looked around at my co-workers shouting bloodthirsty headlines and clinking beer bottles that had appeared in their hands. Where had those come from?

I had joined a tabloid death cult. There was something tribal and familiar about it.

Humpty grabbed my hand with cold, wet sausage fingers.

“I’m Tal Edgar,” he said, as if that explained everything. “You got The Wood, lad. Cheers. Badger, my office.”

Humpty—Lucky Tal—lumbered off toward a large, glassed-in corner office. Even I had heard of the
Mail
’s British executive editor, “Lucky” Tal Edgar. Weasel slapped my back with his paw and also introduced himself.

“Good on you, my son. I’m Badger,” he said, before following his boss.

I assumed it was a nickname. His smile was fake. I know envy when I smell it. I was marched to a computer station, where I typed up my notes and a rewrite reporter whipped them into titillating tabloid prose. I was told my news byline would be F.X. Shepherd, so it would be different from Frank Shepherd, who, I was assured, would shit a brick when he read it. I wondered if I could ask for a raise on my third day?

“You gave me a heart attack, mate,” Nigel whispered, leaning over me. “I thought you were the crime guy. You like twisting the tiger’s tail, don’t you? The only reason Tal didn’t sack me was you kicked bum, big time. Thanks for that. I owe you. We will kick the
Daily Press
into next week.”

“What’s The Wood?” I asked.

“Front page story,” Nigel explained, “from the old days when they used wooden type instead of metal for the biggest headlines. In this case, that would be ‘NEIL PARMESAN.’”

“Oh. Who’s Edgar’s sidekick?”

“Donald Badger? He specializes in… um… investigative pieces. Works the computer. I’d steer clear of him, if I were you.”

“His name is really Badger? I was close.”

“Sorry?”

“I thought he looked like a weasel.”

“He does a bit but I wouldn’t say that to anyone else, Shep. You’ll be out of here like shit through a badger.”

“So, he’s a boss?”

“Technically? No. But yes. Have you really never done news before?”