him, although Peachy has told me enough to make me sure that the police will be coming by soon with images of her underage daughter that were gleaned from Ronnie Sax’s perverted files.
I ask her if she remembered the names of Jessica’s friends down in the Bottom. She said her daughter never mentioned their names. I’m wondering if her “friends” won’t turn out to be just the one, a lizard by the name of Ronnie Sax. From what Peachy told me, she certainly knew the way to Sax’s apartment.
There isn’t much left to ask her. On the way out the door, I think to ask her about the tattoo.
“I didn’t know anything about that until they brought me down there to see . . .”
I wait a moment for Lucy Caldwell to regain control of what’s left of her sense.
“She never would have gotten one, on her own. She didn’t like them. She said she didn’t want anything that made her hurt . . .”
I let myself out, feeling like almost as big a creep as Ronnie Sax. He wanted to exploit Jessica Caldwell to make a few bucks. I’m using her mother for an A1 byline.
Well, I tell myself as I light up, I at least owe Lucy Caldwell a proper resolution to all this.
I know that’s the cops’ job, but I just want to make sure they do it right. Ronnie Sax is a vile pornographer who preys on young women. Check. He deserves to spend an appreciable amount of time in the kind of prison where guys like Ronnie get a little payback, in kind. Check.
Is Ronnie Sax the kind of man who brutally murders young women on a regular basis? The cops are no doubt sure of that by now.
Me, I’m never sure ’til I’m sure.
CHAPTER TEN
X
Thursday
T he “We got him” press conference is at nine thirty. I swear L.D. Jones plans these things so he can ensure that every TV station around gets the story before the paper does. That, and it ensures that I will put in a fourteen-hour shift. No big deal, though. We’ve run pretty much everything worth knowing already. And he’s not lengthening my day that much anyhow, because I’m meeting Philomena and Richard Slade for lunch at noon. I’ll just have time to listen to some bullshit, write it up for the website and head out to the Slades’ place.
Jones and the mayor are looking somber and proud, ebony and ivory back in harmony now that the bad guy’s been caught and there are no bucks to pass. They explain that they have strong reason to believe that the person they have in custody is the man responsible for the rape and murder of Jessica Caldwell. They are, the chief adds, also looking into the possible connection to three earlier murders. Then he names the other victims.
He goes on to compliment the anonymous citizen who gave the police the tip they needed. He praises the dogged detective work, not mentioning that they had the guy in custody and then let him go, or that Sax turned himself in.
Someone who must be from out of town or another planet asks him the guy’s name. I see the other TV types roll their eyes. When these guys notice your ass is clueless, you’re in trouble. Everything I’ve written so far about this case has turned up on the next TV news cycle, more or less verbatim, including, of course, the alleged perp’s name. But the chief, in his giddiness, has forgotten to give us that important detail.
“His name is Ronald Wayne Kusack,” Jones says. “He’s forty-eight years old. He has been going by the name Ronnie Sax. He worked as a freelance photographer.”
L.D. can’t resist adding that Sax worked for my newspaper, something that everybody in town already knows.
The chief gives us a few more useless details, and the dog-and-pony show ends. I stop by the paper and file for the ether, using the phrase “as previously reported” as often as I can.
But at least they have the guy. Some wag has found a photo of Sax in his journalism days and has posted it on the newsroom bulletin board. Underneath, someone’s written, “Single hot guy ISO female companionship.
I ask her if she remembered the names of Jessica’s friends down in the Bottom. She said her daughter never mentioned their names. I’m wondering if her “friends” won’t turn out to be just the one, a lizard by the name of Ronnie Sax. From what Peachy told me, she certainly knew the way to Sax’s apartment.
There isn’t much left to ask her. On the way out the door, I think to ask her about the tattoo.
“I didn’t know anything about that until they brought me down there to see . . .”
I wait a moment for Lucy Caldwell to regain control of what’s left of her sense.
“She never would have gotten one, on her own. She didn’t like them. She said she didn’t want anything that made her hurt . . .”
I let myself out, feeling like almost as big a creep as Ronnie Sax. He wanted to exploit Jessica Caldwell to make a few bucks. I’m using her mother for an A1 byline.
Well, I tell myself as I light up, I at least owe Lucy Caldwell a proper resolution to all this.
I know that’s the cops’ job, but I just want to make sure they do it right. Ronnie Sax is a vile pornographer who preys on young women. Check. He deserves to spend an appreciable amount of time in the kind of prison where guys like Ronnie get a little payback, in kind. Check.
Is Ronnie Sax the kind of man who brutally murders young women on a regular basis? The cops are no doubt sure of that by now.
Me, I’m never sure ’til I’m sure.
CHAPTER TEN
X
Thursday
T he “We got him” press conference is at nine thirty. I swear L.D. Jones plans these things so he can ensure that every TV station around gets the story before the paper does. That, and it ensures that I will put in a fourteen-hour shift. No big deal, though. We’ve run pretty much everything worth knowing already. And he’s not lengthening my day that much anyhow, because I’m meeting Philomena and Richard Slade for lunch at noon. I’ll just have time to listen to some bullshit, write it up for the website and head out to the Slades’ place.
Jones and the mayor are looking somber and proud, ebony and ivory back in harmony now that the bad guy’s been caught and there are no bucks to pass. They explain that they have strong reason to believe that the person they have in custody is the man responsible for the rape and murder of Jessica Caldwell. They are, the chief adds, also looking into the possible connection to three earlier murders. Then he names the other victims.
He goes on to compliment the anonymous citizen who gave the police the tip they needed. He praises the dogged detective work, not mentioning that they had the guy in custody and then let him go, or that Sax turned himself in.
Someone who must be from out of town or another planet asks him the guy’s name. I see the other TV types roll their eyes. When these guys notice your ass is clueless, you’re in trouble. Everything I’ve written so far about this case has turned up on the next TV news cycle, more or less verbatim, including, of course, the alleged perp’s name. But the chief, in his giddiness, has forgotten to give us that important detail.
“His name is Ronald Wayne Kusack,” Jones says. “He’s forty-eight years old. He has been going by the name Ronnie Sax. He worked as a freelance photographer.”
L.D. can’t resist adding that Sax worked for my newspaper, something that everybody in town already knows.
The chief gives us a few more useless details, and the dog-and-pony show ends. I stop by the paper and file for the ether, using the phrase “as previously reported” as often as I can.
But at least they have the guy. Some wag has found a photo of Sax in his journalism days and has posted it on the newsroom bulletin board. Underneath, someone’s written, “Single hot guy ISO female companionship.
Similar Books
