Strangled (16 page)

“I didn’t get married,” I said, cutting her off.

She smiled wanly and continued, “But I might as well tell you here.” She paused and gave me a long, familiar look of mild trepidation mixed with excitement, and then said, “I’m pregnant.”

Did someone just set a bomb off? What was that intense white flash? Was I asleep? Would I at some point awake? Any reason I should be this inwardly distraught over a two-word sentence uttered by a woman I hadn’t been involved with in the biblical sense in at least a year?

I said, slowly, calmly, forcing a smile, “I thought you had a glow to you.” I don’t know if she did or didn’t, but it was a pretty good line for its magnanimity and the fact it bought me a little bit of much-needed recovery time.

She smiled in return and said, “I’m not really showing yet, not unless, well, not unless you look really hard. I’ve been a little bit sick, but not too bad. I’m pretty nervous. And I’m really goddamned excited.”

She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and smiled more broadly — unrestrained happiness all over her face.

I squeezed her hand and said, “I’m really thrilled for you.” Was I? I didn’t know.

Passengers were filing past us, lining up for the boarding call, riffling through their coats for tickets and IDs, completely unaware of the minidrama unfolding in their midst. Or at least I think they were unaware.

I flashed to a scene a few years before, a summer’s evening at a traveling carnival in a small town in Maine. Her hair was wavy from the sun and her tan skin untouched by makeup. She had just nervously told me she thought she was pregnant, and I scooped her up in my arms and paraded her around the grass parking lot, thinking we were going to be parents together, that we were going to spend the rest of our lives together, that I was going to have what was taken away from me before, or at least some sort of approximation of it.

Instead, the tests came back negative, the relationship eventually soured, and, well, here we were. Imagine if I could have looked into the future that night in Maine, and this scene at the San Francisco Airport is what I saw?

Of course, I hid all these feelings and recollections, or at least I hid them as best as I could. I said, “I’m really thrilled for you. And in all seriousness, you look spectacular.”

She beamed.

Left unasked, unanswered, and entirely unstated was the issue of paternity, which, for every logical and illogical reason, I was dying to know, though damned if I was going to bring it up. I did a double-check on her left ring finger and saw nothing but skin. I pictured a tall guy, dark hair, probably an investment banker, maybe a venture capitalist, every bit as thrilled as I was that night in Maine when we had that false alarm. That expanse I was suddenly feeling in my chest was what’s known as emptiness.

She said, “It’s all pretty overwhelming, you know?”

Well, yeah, I did know until I didn’t, which happened in a hospital when Katherine and our daughter died during childbirth. I guess this is exactly what Elizabeth means when she says the dead keep on dying in my life.

The line all around us had receded to a few stragglers, and the hum of activity had lessened to a vague sense of quiet. The gate agent announced over the PA system, “Final call for Flight 423 to Boston. This will be the final boarding call. All ticketed and confirmed passengers, please get on board now.”

A deadline, so I asked, “Are you planning a wedding at the same time?”

Tactful, even if it wasn’t.

Without missing a beat, she replied, “That’s what’s so overwhelming about it. I’m doing it on my own. I’m using a friend’s sperm. He signed away all rights; I freed him of all obligations.”

It’s always something with this woman, always another surprise around every terrific curve. My mood lightened, though I tried to hide it. I asked, “Why?”

The gate agent approached us and asked, “Are you guys on this flight?” You guys — everyone assuming we were a couple. I looked around the waiting lounge and saw only one man in the distance reading a newspaper.

I said, “I am. Do I have ten seconds?”

“How about five.”

Elizabeth said, “Because I was writing about other people’s lives and not living my own. Because time was passing me by. Because it’s something I’ve always wanted, and I don’t have the luxury anymore to sit back and wait.”

I looked at her and she looked at me and the gate agent looked at both of us.

“Congratulations,” I said. “I’m really thrilled for you, and don’t take this the wrong way, but proud of you as well, even if I no longer have the right.”

I kissed her on the cheek, turned around, and walked toward the jetway.

Me and Elizabeth Riggs — we were always parting ways.

There
was very little rhyme and virtually no reason to the killings to which Albert DeSalvo confessed some forty years before. The victims were all women, they were all single, and they were all strangled. The similarities stopped there.

Sometimes the killer strangled two women in a single week. Other times, he went a month or more without killing anyone. Usually he killed within the borders of Boston, but he also traveled as far as Lowell and Lawrence to commit murder.

His first half-dozen women were into their middle or later years, some of them pretty divorcées, others spinsters. Later, his victims grew younger in age. One black woman was killed, though it was never clear whether she was part of the spree.

Sometimes the killer left big looping bows around their necks, usually tied from the victim’s own hosiery. Other times he didn’t. Occasionally he left them in ghoulish positions — sitting in a chair facing the door, for example, or propped up in bed just so, once in a bathtub. Other times they were left haphazardly where they died.

He left semen on various victims’ crotches, mouths, and chests. Some were vaginally raped, others not. One woman seemed to have been the subject of the killer’s necrophilic fantasies. Other women showed no sign of sexual assault.

He left a note — a card, actually — propped up against the foot of his final victim, but he hadn’t left anything like that with any of the victims before. He never had any contact with the news media, never reached out to the police, never intentionally left clues at any of the scenes.

When Albert DeSalvo confessed from the dank environs of the Bridgewater Center for Sexually Dangerous Persons, he poured out his soul, providing intimate details of each and every crime scene, as if he had so reveled in every murder that the sights, sounds, and smells would never leave his mind. Either that or, as Bob Walters seemed to believe, he committed someone else’s impressions to memory.

This is what I learned from my reading on the evening flight from San Francisco to Boston, which was also spent knocking back a couple of Sam Adams with a stewardess — ah yes, flight attendant — who invited me to join her for a drink at her, ahem, hotel bar. That wouldn’t happen, despite my best intentions, for a reason that can be summed up in two words: Edgar Sullivan.

You see, Edgar was there to greet me at the gate at Logan International Airport, along with a member of the Massport security team. It was nearing midnight. I think Edgar was up about five hours past his bedtime, though he didn’t seem to mind. He never seems to mind anything. The two guys silently hustled me down an escalator, past baggage claim, and through a set of double doors that I never knew existed. I thought they were leading me into some vault where frequent-flier miles are kept, but no, we were on the ground floor of a concrete garage.

Edgar had an SUV waiting, the kind of vehicle that celebrities are always getting into the moment they leave the courthouse where they face various securities or molestation charges. We climbed into the back. The driver I didn’t recognize. Edgar simply said, “Over to the
Record,
” and we were gone. To me he said, “Welcome home. Peter and I agreed that this was the best way to assure that you would get safely back into town without being followed. Toby here” — the driver, a balding and rather burly man, turned around briefly and waved — “is a former linebacker for the Chicago Bears. He’ll accompany you wherever you need to go for the time being.”

Truth is, I didn’t mind. Every once in a while, I still shivered from that night earlier in the week spent flailing in the cold, murky waters of the Charles. And I don’t think I’ll ever get the sound of the gunshot out of my head that killed that innocent guy in the Public Garden two days before, then the woman screaming that he was dying, her voice rising in the early spring air before fading into the wind.

By the time I walked into the
Record,
it was nearing midnight. Didn’t matter. Peter Martin arrived at my desk about a minute after I did, though rather than being a bundle of jangled nerves, he was in that zone of calm that he gets into when the world around him gets particularly frenzied.

“Welcome back,” he said. He said this in the same mechanically calm tone that one of the Stepford Wives might use to welcome her husband home from work.

“Thank you. Are you okay?”

“Fine, yes. Just fine. We need to go over some things.”

He pulled up a chair next to my desk.

He said, “Okay, the cops went to Commonwealth Avenue. Kimberly May indeed lived there. Second floor.”

Already, I’m thinking to myself, life in the past tense. This wasn’t going to be good, not for Kimberly May, not for the women who would inevitably cross my desk after her.

He continued, “No answer at the door, so they knocked it down. Mongillo was downstairs and could hear the whole thing. They found Kimberly exactly as she was shown on the video sent to you, dead for what they think was at least a full day, maybe two.”

I asked, “We’re going with it for morning, right?” That was newspaper speak for the next day’s paper.

Martin replied, “Full bore. Leading with the murder. Second graph is the fact that
Record
reporter Jack Flynn was sent a videotape of the apartment and the body by the person who apparently committed the murder. Flynn, in turn, contacted police. Police rushed to the address supplied by the
Record
and discovered the body.
Record
saves the day, though we don’t use those exact words.”

I said, “Not for Kimberly May.”

He nodded. “Point taken,” he said.

He added, “Then the issue became, do we post the video online?”

“What the fuck?”

Martin said, “It’s a tough market out there. We have a video of a murder scene given to us by a murderer. We shade out the actual corpse. Why not get it out there? It has a hell of a lot of value.”

I said, “Value to who? What kind of value are you talking about? Allowing people to be voyeuristic? To see a dead woman’s apartment, the place where she was killed? Like I said, Peter, what the fuck?”

Martin said, “Yeah, that’s why we didn’t do it. But bet the farm the
Traveler
would if this video was sent to them, and that’s my fear. You know, the Phantom is upping the ante here, from driver’s licenses to real visuals like this video. He may want this thing in the public realm. By us not putting it there, he may shop it around somewhere else.”

That kind of talk reminded me of my conversation with the guy on the phone who claimed to be the Phantom the morning before, my pleading with a murderer to avoid talk radio like the Barry Bor Show, to not post his stranglings on a blog, just to deal with me and the
Record
. I’d burn in hell for that, but at least I’d have the story first. Hopefully.

Martin added, “Your reaction was my reaction, but it might not be the right reaction. You and I might be too old-fashioned in the age of FOX News and the Internet. And this may not be the last of it.”

We both sat there in the middle of the newsroom, quietly now. In the distance, the copy desk was in the throes of another deadline, with pasty-faced copy editors nearly delirious in the discovery of a misplaced semicolon or a wrong middle initial.

Martin said, “There’s word of a press conference tomorrow morning at police headquarters. Nine o’clock. I think you’ll want to be there. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day.”

At that point, neither one of us had any idea just how big the day would be.

If
there was ever a moment’s doubt about the national appeal of the Phantom Fiend story, it was rapidly put to rest when Toby glided up to the front of Boston Police headquarters at Schroeder Plaza at 8:45 in the morning to drop me off for the commissioner’s press conference.

Television satellite trucks lined Tremont Street on the outskirts of Boston’s Roxbury section, long trucks, huge trucks, with the outsized insignias of various networks — from CNN to FOX News to the big three of NBC, ABC, and CBS — emblazoned on the sides. In the narrow gaps between satellite trucks were the smaller vans owned by affiliate stations in Boston, Hartford, Springfield, Providence, and Portland, Maine.

I swear to God, it was all part of one huge traveling carnival, same trucks driving the same people facing the same pressures to cover the same stories. The only thing that changed was the location, whether a remote Indian reservation in Minnesota for a school shooting, or an Atlanta suburb for a missing bride (not Maggie), or the California coast for the guy who murdered his pregnant wife. Could be Waco, could be Ruby Ridge, could be wherever — and it always was. The only guarantee in this media age is that when one blockbuster story is ending, another one is just gaining legs someplace else. There’s no other choice: the executives at MSNBC aren’t going to broadcast ten hours a day of nothingness, even if it sometimes seems like that’s exactly what they do.

And now the show had traveled to my backyard, courtesy of, well, me, though not really. I was an incidental, if somewhat pivotal player, an unintentional conduit between a murderer and the city that he seemed to be killing off one woman at a time. As I stepped out of the Navigator, I hoped my colleagues from the national press corps could and would leave me the hell alone. I really did. Many reporters — hell, most reporters — would bask in the limelight created by the Phantom Fiend. I didn’t need it. I didn’t want it, not least because I really do have a face made for newspaper work. I would only put up with the publicity if it furthered the cause of me breaking more news.

The sidewalk along Tremont Street outside the glassy headquarters was a sideshow in that aforementioned carnival. One man with hair like Johnny Damon’s, which also meant he had hair like Jesus, was handing out prayer cards and chanting, “God save our city.” A middle-aged woman sold T-shirts that read
THE PHANTOM IS A YANKEES FAN
. Another young vendor plied shirts that simply said
THE PHANTOM SUCKS
. A twentysomething guy with dreadlocks sold those cheap plastic bracelets — these were black — that charities are always using now for fund-raising.

“Who benefits from these?” I asked him.

He looked at me carefully for a long moment, shrugged, and said, “I do.”

Good answer. I bought one for two dollars and stuck it in my pocket, yet another contribution to the American Dream.

Speaking of which, by the time I hit the revolving front door, any dream I had of being anonymous in this unfolding story was quickly broken. There were, I don’t know, maybe twenty, probably closer to thirty, reporters and assorted crew members waiting for me in the front lobby, most of them thrusting microphones in my face as they screamed an indecipherable stew of undoubtedly inane questions. I swear I heard someone yell, “Who was your favorite seventies rock band?” That caused me to wonder for a moment when it was that Air Supply hit it really big, but I think that was the eighties.

I kid, for godsakes. I kid.

But not about the two dozen reporters and various cameramen and sound people with the boom mikes so strong they could pick up the rapid beating of my famously oversize heart and beam it clear as day to any fans out there on the moon. The reporters, some of whom I recognized either as old friends or Washington colleagues from my time in the capitol, or from watching TV, quickly surrounded me.

“Have you met the Phantom?” one perfectly coiffed man yelled above the din.

Let’s think about that for a second, perhaps on his behalf, because he obviously had not. Had I met the Phantom Fiend, wouldn’t I have gotten around to reporting that fact in the pages of my beloved
Boston Record
? Wouldn’t I have let people know on my own? Does he really believe I would have held back on my own employer and readers to first bestow such knowledge on the dozens of daytime viewers of FOX News?

Everyone fell completely silent and stared at me in hopeful expectation of a brilliant or newsworthy answer.

“I have not,” I said, sorry to disappoint, though not really.

“Why not?” a woman shouted.

Okay, so the questions were going to grow increasingly stupid.

“Because he hasn’t chosen to make himself available to me,” I replied, trying not to be terse. “I think he has a pretty good idea that I’m always available to meet with him.”

I started wondering if this was really what I did for a living, what these people were doing to me now, and I took instant pity on anyone I’d ever covered on the wrong side of the microphone and notepad. The necessary patience with the news media alone should qualify every public official for sainthood. Though maybe not.

One sweating cameraman was all but pressing up against me with the tools of his trade, so close that I thought he was going to bang my head on his camera. Another bespectacled scribe, obviously a print reporter, was carefully sizing me up from head to foot as he jotted notes on a legal pad. When I glanced upside down at his writing, I thought I saw the word
pecs,
but maybe not.

There were more shouted questions — how many times have I heard from him, have I been fully cooperative with police, why do I think he picked me. To that last one I replied, “Because I’m the best reporter I know.” I said this laughing. No one else in this circle jerk even cracked a smile. I made a mental note not to watch what would undoubtedly be the painful coverage on the midday news.

So I added, “I’m kidding. Guys, I’m not the story here, obviously. You know that already. I’m in this by happenstance. Could as easily be any one of you. And everything I know, you’ve already read in the
Record
. Anything I learn, you’ll read that there as well.” Not a bad little plug for my paper, I thought.

That’s when one second-tier network reporter, a woman with skin so tight and tucked she could have been a spokeswoman for Saran Wrap, said above the noise, “Jack, the police are complaining in this morning’s
Traveler
that they believe the
Record
is encouraging the Phantom to work through them, rather than directly with authorities. And by doing this you’re stymieing the investigation. Do you have any comment?”

I hadn’t read that, mostly because I hadn’t read the
Traveler
yet, which was no great loss lately, given how much they were slashing the budget of that paper. They’d been left so far behind on this story, which should have been right in their wheelhouse, that they were rendered irrelevant. Still, I could feel my face flush, partly in anger that Hal Harrison or Mac Foley would level such a stupid accusation, and partly in embarrassment over my foolish negotiating antics with the Phantom himself, or at least with someone I thought was the Phantom. I reminded myself that the cops wouldn’t have any idea of my attempts at negotiation. They were just trying to get me off the story, dead or alive, it seemed.

I said, “I haven’t seen that, but it sounds exquisitely ridiculous.” After I said this, I wondered, nearly aloud, why it was that I always have to throw in an extra adjective. Or is
exquisitely
an adverb? Either way, not the point. I continued, “Look, I’m just doing what you guys would all do, and that’s report news. If someone sends you something in the mail or has a message delivered identifying where a murder victim might be, you contact authorities and you report this in your newspaper or on your network. Maybe you try to get a look yourself, to make sure the investigation is proceeding as it should. That’s exactly what the
Record
has done in all three instances. I’m not sure why the police would have a problem with that.”

A door to an auditorium behind the scrum opened, and a uniformed police officer announced, “Commissioner at the podium in two minutes.” The reporters surged as one toward the opening, pushing their way inside, leaving me alone in the hallway. When they were all inside, I went in as well, notebook in hand, ready to do what I do best, which is report news rather than make it.

What a business, what a life, what a world.

Commissioner Hal Harrison, the man who would be mayor, strode to the podium as if he was about to attack it. He was in the hushed, carpeted media center, the place awash in the soft color blue — royal blue carpet, pale blue walls, men and women in navy blue uniforms, aging newspaper reporters in the frayed blue blazers that count as couture in the realm of words and news.

The gathered media had followed the universal, perhaps natural order of things. The better-dressed television reporters — the women in expensive suits, the men in Brooks Brothers and ties — dominated the front of the room, with the occasional newspaper reporter who hadn’t yet learned of his or her proper — or as is more often the case, improper — place. Behind them, the bulk of the disheveled print reporters in open collars or jean skirts sat with noticeably less practiced postures. Behind them still were the unshaven men in unintentionally low-riding jeans peering through the lenses of a couple of dozen television cameras, often flanked by similar-looking men wielding the aforementioned boom mikes. And behind them were the photographers, known in campaign parlance as the stills. The commissioner’s many police advisers and campaign strategists sat in chairs along the two side walls of the room, their shoes as shiny as the bathroom mirrors at a Holiday Inn.

I took a position, standing, pen and legal pad in hand, in the back of the room, off to the side, with a clean vantage over the masses. The whole thing had the feel of something large, not least for the reason that as Harrison took center stage, a CNN reporter stood on camera in the middle of the room, announcing, “Boston Police Commissioner Hal Harrison is ready to address the issue of whether the Boston Strangler, the most notorious serial killer in the history of the United States, has reappeared after a forty-plus-year absence; we’re carrying this to you live.”

“I’d just like to make a couple of brief comments and announcements, what have you, and then I’ll take a few of your questions,” the commissioner began.

“I’d like to start by saying this is a trying time in Boston, and certainly a challenging time in the Boston Police Department. We don’t like to see one single innocent person killed, never mind three of them, all women. I would like to take a moment to assure the public, particularly women, that we have every available resource dedicated to solving these prior three murders and preventing any future ones, and we are confident on both fronts that that is exactly what will be the case. I would encourage women to exercise appropriate precautions until the perpetrator is identified and apprehended. But as long as people use basic common sense, the city is safe. I repeat: Boston is safe.”

I’ve been to, what, a hundred police press conferences over the years? Maybe two hundred? Probably more. Never once have I heard a police official announce that they are addressing a problem halfheartedly, probably without enough manpower, and with no expectations of making any headway in the investigation anytime soon.

So, translated from police-speak to everyday English, what he’d just said was that he was totally screwed and completely panicked. If he was a woman, he’d stay inside, buy a pair of unneutered rottweilers, then nail plywood over all his windows. But look at the bright side: not dining out at expensive restaurants is probably a good way for the entire female population of Boston to save a few bucks and lose a little weight.

He said, “We have a team of the city’s best and most experienced homicide detectives on the case, around the clock, augmented by detectives and uniformed officers in virtually every other division of this department. We are all pressing our informants for leads. We have additional officers on patrol, keeping their eyes on the city’s neighborhoods. I have canceled official travel plans for the foreseeable future so I can remain in Boston overseeing the investigation.”

Translated: I don’t have the slightest semblance of a clue as to who is offing women at a stunning clip of one every other day, and nor do my tired old detectives in the homicide bureau. Of course, they’re all going to soak me in overtime on this thing, so much so that I don’t have the money left in my budget for the chiefs’ convention at the four-star resort in Cancún.

Real life: “At this time, with acting mayor Mara Laird’s approval, I would also like to offer an award of twenty-five thousand dollars for any information leading to the arrest of the killer of any of the three victims. Believe me, I’m fully aware what’s at stake in this case.”

Translated: The know-nothing acting mayor is so far up my ass on this thing that I can feel her hair tickle my lower intestine, not that she needs to be. My whole political career is at stake. So in utter, total desperation, we’ll simply throw money at the problem in hopes that some street scum turns on some other street scum, alleviating the need for any good detective work.

The commissioner said, “In anticipation of your questions, I’d like to make a few important points. As you know, we discovered the body of Kimberly May in her apartment yesterday, based on a tip to the news media, presumably from the perpetrator of the crime. I encourage each and every journalist in this room and in this city, and probably in this country, if you’ve had any contact with anyone who identifies himself as the killer of these women, or provides information about other possible killings, to please contact us immediately. This is imperative. An investigation with multiple victims unfolding over a lengthy period of time is complicated enough. It becomes unnecessarily complex when the news media plays something less than a constructive role in the investigation. I would remind you that interfering in an active investigation is a prosecutable criminal offense.”