racing game for nearly half an hour. Then he strangles the boy.
The phone on Kirsten Sparks’s desk rang at 2:05 PM . She was at her keyboard, banging out a follow-up article containing a few more meaningless, on-the-record comments from top NOPD officials, just like those she had included in the story that ran in today’s paper. The officials still had nothing to say about the alleged serial killer, nothing to say about Sean Murphy’s summary dismissal from the Homicide Division, nothing to say about the string of unsolved prostitute killings. They may as well have been commenting on the weather or the price of pork bellies.
The phone rang again. She snatched the handset from its cradle.
“Sparks,” she said.
“Meet me in the conference room in sixty seconds,” Milton Stanford whispered.
Kirsten glanced across the newsroom. Milton was standing beside his desk holding the phone to his ear. He was the newspaper’s managing editor, her boss, but two rungs up the ladder. Gene Michaels, the city editor, was her direct boss. Even in the rather informal world of the newsroom, most things followed the chain of command.
Milton hung up his phone and nodded to her.
Kirsten grabbed a notebook and a pen from her desk. When she looked back up, Milton had vanished. She headed to the big conference room.
No one was there. She walked down a long hallway to what everyone referred to as the little conference room. The wall separating the little conference room from the hallway was glass. The shades were down but the light was on inside. The dry-erase board on the wall outside that was used to reserve the room said, SPORTS —10:00 AM . But that was from two days ago.
Kirsten knocked on the door.
“Come in,” a voice said.
She opened the door and found the
Times-Picayune
’s brain trust seated at the conference table. In addition to Milton Stanford, who had beaten her to the conference room and already taken his seat, there was Charles Redfield, the newspaper’s executive editor, whom everyone called Red; city editor Gene Michaels; and the editor of the photo desk, Stephen Phelps. The company lawyer also had a seat at the table. And at the far end sat Mrs. Darlene Freeman, the publisher.
“Have a seat and close the door,” Milton said. “I’m sorry for all the cloak-and-dagger, but the phone in here”—he pointed to the multiline extension at the center of the table—“is busted and I had to go to my desk to call you. We’ve got something very important to talk about.”
There were eight seats around the dark wooden conference table, three on either side and one at each end. The seat nearest the door was vacant. As Kirsten laid her notebook on the table and sat down, she noticed a padded manila envelope in front of Mr. Redfield. The flap had been torn open. A pair of yellow rubber gloves, the kind used for washing dishes, lay beside it.
Milton Stanford spoke first. “We received a package in the mail this afternoon, a little over an hour ago. We think it’s from the serial killer. The mail room opened it. When they saw what was in it, they brought it to me.”
No one said anything. Kirsten got the impression that she was the only one who didn’t know what was going on. The meeting had obviously been in progress for a while before she was summoned. “What was in it?” she said.
Charles Redfield cleared his throat. “A letter and a . . . box. The box appears to contain a severed human finger.”
“A what?” Kirsten said.
“We’re pretty sure it’s real,” Milton said. “The killer, or at least the letter’s author, says it is from the last victim, the woman killed under the Jeff Davis overpass.”
“Have you called the police?” Kirsten said.
Redfield shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Why not?”
The company lawyer spoke up. He was small and thin and wore a baggy suit. Kirsten had only spoken to him half a dozen times over the years. A pair of reading glasses sat midway down his nose.
The phone on Kirsten Sparks’s desk rang at 2:05 PM . She was at her keyboard, banging out a follow-up article containing a few more meaningless, on-the-record comments from top NOPD officials, just like those she had included in the story that ran in today’s paper. The officials still had nothing to say about the alleged serial killer, nothing to say about Sean Murphy’s summary dismissal from the Homicide Division, nothing to say about the string of unsolved prostitute killings. They may as well have been commenting on the weather or the price of pork bellies.
The phone rang again. She snatched the handset from its cradle.
“Sparks,” she said.
“Meet me in the conference room in sixty seconds,” Milton Stanford whispered.
Kirsten glanced across the newsroom. Milton was standing beside his desk holding the phone to his ear. He was the newspaper’s managing editor, her boss, but two rungs up the ladder. Gene Michaels, the city editor, was her direct boss. Even in the rather informal world of the newsroom, most things followed the chain of command.
Milton hung up his phone and nodded to her.
Kirsten grabbed a notebook and a pen from her desk. When she looked back up, Milton had vanished. She headed to the big conference room.
No one was there. She walked down a long hallway to what everyone referred to as the little conference room. The wall separating the little conference room from the hallway was glass. The shades were down but the light was on inside. The dry-erase board on the wall outside that was used to reserve the room said, SPORTS —10:00 AM . But that was from two days ago.
Kirsten knocked on the door.
“Come in,” a voice said.
She opened the door and found the
Times-Picayune
’s brain trust seated at the conference table. In addition to Milton Stanford, who had beaten her to the conference room and already taken his seat, there was Charles Redfield, the newspaper’s executive editor, whom everyone called Red; city editor Gene Michaels; and the editor of the photo desk, Stephen Phelps. The company lawyer also had a seat at the table. And at the far end sat Mrs. Darlene Freeman, the publisher.
“Have a seat and close the door,” Milton said. “I’m sorry for all the cloak-and-dagger, but the phone in here”—he pointed to the multiline extension at the center of the table—“is busted and I had to go to my desk to call you. We’ve got something very important to talk about.”
There were eight seats around the dark wooden conference table, three on either side and one at each end. The seat nearest the door was vacant. As Kirsten laid her notebook on the table and sat down, she noticed a padded manila envelope in front of Mr. Redfield. The flap had been torn open. A pair of yellow rubber gloves, the kind used for washing dishes, lay beside it.
Milton Stanford spoke first. “We received a package in the mail this afternoon, a little over an hour ago. We think it’s from the serial killer. The mail room opened it. When they saw what was in it, they brought it to me.”
No one said anything. Kirsten got the impression that she was the only one who didn’t know what was going on. The meeting had obviously been in progress for a while before she was summoned. “What was in it?” she said.
Charles Redfield cleared his throat. “A letter and a . . . box. The box appears to contain a severed human finger.”
“A what?” Kirsten said.
“We’re pretty sure it’s real,” Milton said. “The killer, or at least the letter’s author, says it is from the last victim, the woman killed under the Jeff Davis overpass.”
“Have you called the police?” Kirsten said.
Redfield shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Why not?”
The company lawyer spoke up. He was small and thin and wore a baggy suit. Kirsten had only spoken to him half a dozen times over the years. A pair of reading glasses sat midway down his nose.
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