“The package and the letter are addressed to us. We don’t know if it’s a hoax or not, and we certainly have the right to examine our own mail before contacting the police.”
Kirsten looked at the managing editor. “You just said you’re sure it’s a real finger.”
Milton looked down at the table. “I said we’re
pretty sure
it’s real.”
“We’re going to call the police very soon,” Redfield said. “But first we have to decide what to publish. This may very well devolve into a First Amendment fight with the police department and the DA’s office.”
“What does the letter say?” Kirsten asked.
Redfield had several eight-by-ten photo sheets on the desk in front of him. As he slid one of the pictures to her, he nodded to Phelps, the photo editor. “Stephen took these pictures himself. No one outside of this room knows about this.”
Kirsten understood that to mean that she was supposed to keep her mouth shut. She looked at the photo of the letter.
DEAR EDITOR:
THIS IS THE KILLER OF, AMONG OTHERS, THE TWO HARLOTS YOU DISKOVERED RECENTLY. TO PROVE THAT I AM HE, I HAVE INKLUDED A FINGER FROM MY MOST RECENT “VIKTIM.” ADDITIONALLY, I HAVE INKLUDED A CYPHER THAT WILL REVEAL TO YOU MY BIRTH NAME AND AN EXPLANATION OF WHY I WAS CHOSEN TO DO THE LORD’S WORK. IN EXCHANGE, I DEMAND THAT YOU PRINT THIS LETTER AND THE AKKOMPANYING CI(Y)PHER ON THE FRONT PAGE OF YOUR NEWSPAPER WITHIN TWO DAYS. IF YOU DO NOT, I WILL UNLEASH A KILLING RAMPAGE THE LIKES OF WHICH THIS CITY HAS NEVER SEEN. SINCE THE POLICE ARE SO DIMWITTED, WITH THE POSSIBLE EXCEPTION OF DETEKTIVE MURPHY, I WILL TRY NOT TO STRAIN THEM. NEW VIKTIMS WILL BEAR A SPECIAL MARK, AND IN FUTURE KORRESPONDENCE I WILL ADDRESS MYSELF TO YOU BY MY TRUE NAME—THE LAMB OF GOD.
P.S. EVEN MURPHY DOESN’T HAVE A CHANCE OF KATCHING ME.
XMOIIOVHEZZLCOOCLILELAKDLKAJOIUWETYEO
TPAOIPOICZXNQUTIJKSLOIGHFJIGJKIWOBNMVC
BXVZMKJIUEGJHGUTHRJUGNSHYTJUIHDNBHFUR
YRBCJUKSIRHFJKSIDHRHGJGUHQIQAKJGUIWQOP
RTHFBGJYIIUKJUDEREHGJFHGUTYHDSKALQORHJFUTHN
JFUTHTYJDGHFJGKIADBVHEGFYTH
“What about the box?” Kirsten said.
Redfield slid another photograph across the table to her. “I’ve put everything back in the envelope to avoid contaminating it further, but here is what it looks like.”
The photo showed a small cardboard box of the type that a pocketknife might come in. Lying next to the opened box, inside a plastic sandwich bag, was a human finger. A female finger, judging by the long, glue-on nail.
“It came in the bag,” Redfield said. “We didn’t open it.”
Kirsten shuddered. “And you’re sure it’s real?”
“It looks real to me,” Milton said.
Kirsten turned to the lawyer. “This is a body part from a murder victim. We have to call the police.”
“It was mailed to us,” he said, “and we have every right to evaluate it before we make a decision.”
Kirsten looked at Redfield. “Are you agreeing with this?”
He nodded. “For now.”
“Any idea what the code means?” she asked.
Redfield shook his head. “Not a clue.”
“The Lamb of God, what kind of a name is that?”
“I have no idea,” Redfield said. “Other than its obvious religious connotations.”
“Are you going to print the letter?” Kirsten asked.
From the far end of the conference table, Darlene Freeman finally spoke up. “We’re not going to run it tomorrow, Miss Sparks, if that is what you are asking.”
Kirsten, like almost everyone in the newsroom, hated the white-haired, sallow-faced Freeman, who, although she carried the title of publisher, had nothing to do with the day-to-day operation of the newspaper.
And it wasn’t just that Freeman was a corporate hack sent from company headquarters to pinch every dime the newspaper spent, or that she had fled on a company jet hours before Hurricane Katrina slammed into the city and didn’t return for three months. For Kirsten, it was more than that. She also hated Freeman because of the nerve-grinding way she
Kirsten looked at the managing editor. “You just said you’re sure it’s a real finger.”
Milton looked down at the table. “I said we’re
pretty sure
it’s real.”
“We’re going to call the police very soon,” Redfield said. “But first we have to decide what to publish. This may very well devolve into a First Amendment fight with the police department and the DA’s office.”
“What does the letter say?” Kirsten asked.
Redfield had several eight-by-ten photo sheets on the desk in front of him. As he slid one of the pictures to her, he nodded to Phelps, the photo editor. “Stephen took these pictures himself. No one outside of this room knows about this.”
Kirsten understood that to mean that she was supposed to keep her mouth shut. She looked at the photo of the letter.
DEAR EDITOR:
THIS IS THE KILLER OF, AMONG OTHERS, THE TWO HARLOTS YOU DISKOVERED RECENTLY. TO PROVE THAT I AM HE, I HAVE INKLUDED A FINGER FROM MY MOST RECENT “VIKTIM.” ADDITIONALLY, I HAVE INKLUDED A CYPHER THAT WILL REVEAL TO YOU MY BIRTH NAME AND AN EXPLANATION OF WHY I WAS CHOSEN TO DO THE LORD’S WORK. IN EXCHANGE, I DEMAND THAT YOU PRINT THIS LETTER AND THE AKKOMPANYING CI(Y)PHER ON THE FRONT PAGE OF YOUR NEWSPAPER WITHIN TWO DAYS. IF YOU DO NOT, I WILL UNLEASH A KILLING RAMPAGE THE LIKES OF WHICH THIS CITY HAS NEVER SEEN. SINCE THE POLICE ARE SO DIMWITTED, WITH THE POSSIBLE EXCEPTION OF DETEKTIVE MURPHY, I WILL TRY NOT TO STRAIN THEM. NEW VIKTIMS WILL BEAR A SPECIAL MARK, AND IN FUTURE KORRESPONDENCE I WILL ADDRESS MYSELF TO YOU BY MY TRUE NAME—THE LAMB OF GOD.
P.S. EVEN MURPHY DOESN’T HAVE A CHANCE OF KATCHING ME.
XMOIIOVHEZZLCOOCLILELAKDLKAJOIUWETYEO
TPAOIPOICZXNQUTIJKSLOIGHFJIGJKIWOBNMVC
BXVZMKJIUEGJHGUTHRJUGNSHYTJUIHDNBHFUR
YRBCJUKSIRHFJKSIDHRHGJGUHQIQAKJGUIWQOP
RTHFBGJYIIUKJUDEREHGJFHGUTYHDSKALQORHJFUTHN
JFUTHTYJDGHFJGKIADBVHEGFYTH
“What about the box?” Kirsten said.
Redfield slid another photograph across the table to her. “I’ve put everything back in the envelope to avoid contaminating it further, but here is what it looks like.”
The photo showed a small cardboard box of the type that a pocketknife might come in. Lying next to the opened box, inside a plastic sandwich bag, was a human finger. A female finger, judging by the long, glue-on nail.
“It came in the bag,” Redfield said. “We didn’t open it.”
Kirsten shuddered. “And you’re sure it’s real?”
“It looks real to me,” Milton said.
Kirsten turned to the lawyer. “This is a body part from a murder victim. We have to call the police.”
“It was mailed to us,” he said, “and we have every right to evaluate it before we make a decision.”
Kirsten looked at Redfield. “Are you agreeing with this?”
He nodded. “For now.”
“Any idea what the code means?” she asked.
Redfield shook his head. “Not a clue.”
“The Lamb of God, what kind of a name is that?”
“I have no idea,” Redfield said. “Other than its obvious religious connotations.”
“Are you going to print the letter?” Kirsten asked.
From the far end of the conference table, Darlene Freeman finally spoke up. “We’re not going to run it tomorrow, Miss Sparks, if that is what you are asking.”
Kirsten, like almost everyone in the newsroom, hated the white-haired, sallow-faced Freeman, who, although she carried the title of publisher, had nothing to do with the day-to-day operation of the newspaper.
And it wasn’t just that Freeman was a corporate hack sent from company headquarters to pinch every dime the newspaper spent, or that she had fled on a company jet hours before Hurricane Katrina slammed into the city and didn’t return for three months. For Kirsten, it was more than that. She also hated Freeman because of the nerve-grinding way she
Similar Books
