Robert Walker - Darkest Instinct

The killer’s note was on ordinary white bond typing paper; nothing special or of particular importance there, and certainly no helpful, easy or telltale clues such as a mast or letterhead, though the postage seal on the envelope told them it had been forwarded from Key Biscayne, extremely close to the location of the last two missing girls believed to have fallen prey to the killer, a girl by the name of Tammy Sue Sheppard and another named Kathy Harmon.

“ This time we don’t piss off the authorities, right, Agent Santiva?” suggested Merrick. “We work with you, in full cooperation, not against you.” He eyeballed his people and added, ‘ That means we keep our goddamned mitts off the note, and-”

“ Whataya getting in return for our-” began Lawrence, who was instantly cut off by Merrick.

“ And there’s no time lapse between when one of these damned notes appears on the city desk and when we contact Agent Santiva here. Understood, gentlemen? This is how we react to a city emergency. Understood, everyone?”

“ We get an exclusive, Glenn? I mean when the case is solved, right?” asked Lee Blake, the city desk editor.

“ We have had assurances to that effect, and I’m not going to jeopardize that in any way. That means no leaks from here, either. I mean you don’t tell your wives, your lovers, your mothers, your fathers, your priests or your bookies; you got that?” Merrick fairly screamed the order.

“ What’re they saying, Glenn? That it’s somehow our fault this creep’s still at large? Screw that shit.” muttered Blake from around his cigarette, his small eyes sunken amid the heavy face and leathery skin.

“ Wasn’t your fault that last time, Glenn,” soothed Lawrence. “None of us had any reason to believe the authenticity of that first letter when it arrived on Blake’s desk that day.”

“ Are we any surer of the authenticity of this one?” asked Nancy Yoder, her hands rising skyward.

“ Well, it’s definitely the; ame handwriting; we’ve had an expert-Santiva here-tel. us so, and since the cops and the FBI are operating as if the first communique is indeed from the Night Crawler, we’re doing the same here,” explained Merrick.

“ Why not copy the damned thing so we can all have a working copy, Glenn?” asked city editor Blake.

“ Yeah,” agreed some of the others.

“ What’s with you people?” Merrick barked. “Do I have to paint a picture for you?”

“ That might help,” replied a belligerent Blake. “It’s our story, Glenn.” “G’dam’it to hell, I don’t want copies of this thing getting all over the freakin’ building and finding its way over to the bloody Times like the other bastard thing did before we’re given the go-ahead from Agent Santiva to print it, all right, Lee? And God save the son of a bitch who’s selling us out if I ever catch ‘im.”

“ Paranoia becomes you, Glenn.”

“ It’s got me this far.”

“ Where’s the letter postmarked from?” asked Nancy Yoder.

“ Yeah,” agreed Lawrence. “Last one was from goddamn Palm Coast.”

“ This one’s in our backyard-actually, our front yard, if you want the truth,” replied Merrick.

“ Where, damnit?”

“ Key Biscayne, across the bridge.” Merrick’s blunt reply sobered the editors. The bridge was right outside their window. “Christ,” muttered Lawrence. Yoder took a deep breath, grabbed for her water glass and gulped.

Blake began to grind his teeth, gnashing like an angry woodchuck before saying, “Isn’t that where that teen disappeared from the other night, Key Biscayne, out at Razzles?”

“ That’s right. We’re speaking to witnesses on that situation now,” Santiva assured them.

“ Eye witnesses?”

“ Anyone actually see this guy?”

“ Can we talk to the witnesses?”

The reporters’ questions rifled anew.

“ We haven’t as yet determined the reliability of those involved; they’re emotionally involved-young friends of the missing girl,” Santiva explained, holding his hands up as if under arrest. “But as soon as we know something worthwhile… useful, that is… we promise to cooperate with you as you have cooperated so generously with us.”

“ That’s our deal, gentlemen, lady,” said Merrick to his people.

While the chatter continued, Jessica carefully resettled the glassed-in note into her black valise along with the cellophane bag holding the envelope.

It was earmarked to travel, within the hour and by jet, to Quantico, where the psychic fingertips of Dr. Desinor would pass over the physically and psychically “clean” document before it was to be turned over to the Documents Division for further graphoanalysis and scientific analysis. Santiva had taken extreme care in his preliminary and cursory viewing of the note to establish its genuine nature, keeping it under glass the whole time. It was duplicated through the glass for Merrick’s secretary Sally, who’d created a single opaque replica.

Sally now closed the curtains, dimmed the lights and flicked on an overhead projector, the beam creating a square window of light against the north wall. She next placed the opaque replica of the letter onto the overhead and the alleged words of the killer were beamed against the wall. It read:

“ Whataya all make of it?” asked Merrick.

Lee Blake studied it and sighed heavily before pronouncing the little ditty, as he called it, in incredibly bad taste, “and even worse poetry.”

“ Looks like something maybe Jeffrey Dahmer might’ve penned before he was wasted in prison last year,” suggested Nancy Yoder. ‘“Cept he’d have said boys instead of whores.”

“ Wrong,” muttered Eddings, unable to keep silent a moment longer. “I know this poem, and the killer’s use of it is really quite… quite… ingenious.”

But Eddings was being talked over by the others, ignored by the others. Bill Lawrence had been visibly shivering in reaction to what he’d read across the beige wall. Merrick looked for responses from each of the three additional editors around the table, but none were speaking in sentences, just a lot of grunts and “jeezes.” Each followed suit until Merrick was left again to look to C. David Eddings, a man he’d been trying to build a case against so he might fire the twerp before any chance of a pension kicked in.

“ Well, damnit, what’re you trying to say, Eddings? Eddings?” pressed Merrick while he smelled blood. Eddings took a moment for a second glance at the enlarged document on the wall. Even Jessica and Santiva, outsiders, could sense the tension between Merrick and Eddings.

Bill Hynek, the sports editor, attempted to reprieve Eddings by clearing his throat and saying, “Looks like the guy’s a loony, Glenn, a real crazoid, if you ask me.”

“ You mean the author of this trash or Eddings?” teased Merrick in a cold and irreverent manner.

Eddings mouthed the words off the wall a third time, ending with, “I know these words… this poem. I know it, Glenn. It’s familiar to me…”

Merrick’s voice filled with venomous rancor now. “What in hell’re you talking about, Eddings?”

“ Hellering,” replied the small, balding man.

The others instantly attacked the little man.

“ Who’s hell-raising?”

“ What’s a hellering?”

“ Is that anything like a herring?”

“ A red herring in this case, no doubt.”

Lee nervously laughed and said, “Eddings is a hell- raiser, aren’t you, C. David? Eddings, you got to lay off those liquid breakfasts.”

“ What would you know about herrings?” Nancy Yoder nastily remarked, causing more laughter.

“ Hellering,” he repeated. “I’m telling you this is a poem, circa something like 1938 and written by e. j. hellering, who was first to use no capitals, even before our American counterpart, e. e. cummings, did it. He was what you might call a little-understood, little-read English poet, but in his day, he had a large underground following. His poetry was not considered fit for polite society.”