shirt, blue tie, gray pants. He and Lingo looked like fashion clones.
The commissioner was staring straight into the lens.
“Another body was discovered today. Another innocent slaughtered, his head cut off, his flesh desecrated. Why such brutality? To serve Satan. And what do the authorities say? ‘No comment.’”
My fingers curled around the panties.
“They wil not comment on a headless body identified three days ago, a twelve-year-old child dragged from the Catawba River. They wil not comment on a human skul found last Monday in a Third Ward basement.”
I stood rigid.
“No comments, indeed.” Lingo shook his head in theatric dismay. “Why alert the public to the godless depravity invading our city?”
Lingo paused for effect.
“Citizens of Charlotte-Mecklenburg, we must not accept ‘no comment.’ We must demand answers. Swift and forceful action. We must insist that these murderous devil worshippers not be alowed to go unpunished.
“Let me share a story. A sad story. A horrifying story. In London, in 2001, a tiny, headless body was found in a river. The child is caled Adam because, to this day, his name is unknown. What is known is that little Adam was smuggled to England by human traffickers to serve as a human sacrifice.”
Lingo wagged a finger at the camera.
“We must protect our children. These evildoers must be rooted out. The guilty must be arrested and prosecuted to the ful extent of the law. Satan’s minions must be driven from amongst us. Our city has no room for a Night Stalker. An Andrea Yates. A Columbine. A poor little Adam.”
Birdie was licking orange blossom from my leg. I couldn’t take my eyes from Lingo. Richard Ramirez? Andrea Yates? Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold?
“It’s up to each and every one of us to insist that these kilings receive top priority. We must be adamant. We must urge our brothers and sisters in government and law enforcement to don the armor of God and fight the Prince of Darkness. We must join hands and hearts to cleanse our great city and county of this cancer.”
The broadcast cut back to the anchor. He talked of Anton LaVey, founder and high priest of the Church of Satan until his death in 1997, and author of the Satanic Bible. A list of Web sites scroled behind him.
Kids and Teens for Satan
Synagogue of Satan
Church of Satan
Superhighway to Hel
Satanic Network
Letters to the Devil
Birdie nudged my leg.
Dropping the undies, I scooped and hugged my cat to my chest, a sense of foreboding rippling through me.
The coverage wrapped up with footage from LaVey’s 1993 documentary, Speak of the Devil.
The clip had barely ended when my landline rang.
“You talk to Lingo?”
“Of course I didn’t talk to Lingo.” I matched Slidel’s outrage with outrage.
“The pompous old lizard just held a press conference.”
“I caught most of it.”
“Accused the cops of a cover-up. Told Joe Citizen to ready up his noose for lynchings in the name of the Lord. Won’t that just stir up a freakin’ hornets’ nest.”
Though Slidel was exaggerating, in large part, I agreed.
“How’s this asshole get his information?”
“As I was leaving the scene today I saw Alison Stalings driving toward it.”
“The dame what was creeping around on Greenleaf Avenue?”
No one but Slidel had said “dame” since the fifties. On the upside, at least he knew one other French expression besides ex-cuse-ay-moi.
“Yes,” I said.
“I made a cal. Stalings don’t work for the Observer. ”
“So why’s she showing up at my scenes?”
“I damn wel intend to find out.”
For a moment, no one spoke. In the background I could hear Slidel’s TV mimicking mine.
“You think Stalings is tipping Lingo?”
“It’s possible.”
“What’s in it for her?”
“The guy’s a grandstander. Maybe she’s a wannabe, or a freelancer seling pics here and there to the press. Maybe she thinks Lingo wil blow the situation into a bigger story than it might
The commissioner was staring straight into the lens.
“Another body was discovered today. Another innocent slaughtered, his head cut off, his flesh desecrated. Why such brutality? To serve Satan. And what do the authorities say? ‘No comment.’”
My fingers curled around the panties.
“They wil not comment on a headless body identified three days ago, a twelve-year-old child dragged from the Catawba River. They wil not comment on a human skul found last Monday in a Third Ward basement.”
I stood rigid.
“No comments, indeed.” Lingo shook his head in theatric dismay. “Why alert the public to the godless depravity invading our city?”
Lingo paused for effect.
“Citizens of Charlotte-Mecklenburg, we must not accept ‘no comment.’ We must demand answers. Swift and forceful action. We must insist that these murderous devil worshippers not be alowed to go unpunished.
“Let me share a story. A sad story. A horrifying story. In London, in 2001, a tiny, headless body was found in a river. The child is caled Adam because, to this day, his name is unknown. What is known is that little Adam was smuggled to England by human traffickers to serve as a human sacrifice.”
Lingo wagged a finger at the camera.
“We must protect our children. These evildoers must be rooted out. The guilty must be arrested and prosecuted to the ful extent of the law. Satan’s minions must be driven from amongst us. Our city has no room for a Night Stalker. An Andrea Yates. A Columbine. A poor little Adam.”
Birdie was licking orange blossom from my leg. I couldn’t take my eyes from Lingo. Richard Ramirez? Andrea Yates? Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold?
“It’s up to each and every one of us to insist that these kilings receive top priority. We must be adamant. We must urge our brothers and sisters in government and law enforcement to don the armor of God and fight the Prince of Darkness. We must join hands and hearts to cleanse our great city and county of this cancer.”
The broadcast cut back to the anchor. He talked of Anton LaVey, founder and high priest of the Church of Satan until his death in 1997, and author of the Satanic Bible. A list of Web sites scroled behind him.
Kids and Teens for Satan
Synagogue of Satan
Church of Satan
Superhighway to Hel
Satanic Network
Letters to the Devil
Birdie nudged my leg.
Dropping the undies, I scooped and hugged my cat to my chest, a sense of foreboding rippling through me.
The coverage wrapped up with footage from LaVey’s 1993 documentary, Speak of the Devil.
The clip had barely ended when my landline rang.
“You talk to Lingo?”
“Of course I didn’t talk to Lingo.” I matched Slidel’s outrage with outrage.
“The pompous old lizard just held a press conference.”
“I caught most of it.”
“Accused the cops of a cover-up. Told Joe Citizen to ready up his noose for lynchings in the name of the Lord. Won’t that just stir up a freakin’ hornets’ nest.”
Though Slidel was exaggerating, in large part, I agreed.
“How’s this asshole get his information?”
“As I was leaving the scene today I saw Alison Stalings driving toward it.”
“The dame what was creeping around on Greenleaf Avenue?”
No one but Slidel had said “dame” since the fifties. On the upside, at least he knew one other French expression besides ex-cuse-ay-moi.
“Yes,” I said.
“I made a cal. Stalings don’t work for the Observer. ”
“So why’s she showing up at my scenes?”
“I damn wel intend to find out.”
For a moment, no one spoke. In the background I could hear Slidel’s TV mimicking mine.
“You think Stalings is tipping Lingo?”
“It’s possible.”
“What’s in it for her?”
“The guy’s a grandstander. Maybe she’s a wannabe, or a freelancer seling pics here and there to the press. Maybe she thinks Lingo wil blow the situation into a bigger story than it might
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