Jason Pinter - The Guilty

"You think so?" Jack said.

"Well, look at his targets. Athena Paradis, Mayor Perez and

Jeffrey Lourdes. Remember, Joe Mauser was a mistake. All three of those people are celebrities, in some form or another.

He's not killing random people, he's killing people whose deaths would pretty much dominate news coverage. I mean, just look at the Metro papers the last few days. Athena,

Mauser and tomorrow Jeffrey Lourdes will be everywhere."

"What do you make of the gun?" Jack asked, another nip of brown disappearing down his throat.

"I really don't know," I said. "Seems like he's using some sort of antique, something with a meaning. Don't quite know what yet, but Amanda has a contact from school who might be able to shed some light. I spoke to Lourdes's assistant at the scene. She got a quick glimpse of the killer and a partial of the murder weapon. Unfortunately she couldn't ID the actual shooter, and her police sketch is more vague than a

Rorschach. Because of the chaos at the Franklin-Rees building, the guy was able to escape in the stampede."

"Mayor Perez, Athena Paradis and Jeffrey Lourdes," Jack said. "Not exactly three people you could imagine having brunch together on a Sunday morning."

"But someone sees them fitting in the same pattern."

"In this city," Jack said, "there's no shortage of people like those three. People who hog the front page. And though our great police force is locked up tighter than my grandma's cooter when it comes to terrorism, there's no defense for a sick fuck who wants to kill one person at a time."

"Lourdes," I said, "was surrounded by a hundred people when he died. His shooting caused a stampede. It couldn't have been any easier for the killer to disappear than if Scotty had beamed him aboard the Enterprise. "

"Nobody disappears," Jack said, swallowing the last of the whiskey. "It's our job to find out what rug they're hiding under."

"I'm on it," I said. "You know the last quote he used. When he killed Joe Mauser." I'd told Jack about my tip.

"I'll let them know what bad means," Jack said.

"I looked it up," I said. "Guess quoting a junior reporter just wasn't scary enough, he had to upgrade to sicker game."

"Billy the Kid," Jack said. "Carruthers scowled during his statement, like he couldn't believe this thing could get any more macabre."

"He's moved on from quoting me to quoting mass murderers," I said. "Forgetting for a moment my disgust at being in that company, if the killer does see himself as some sort of avenger it probably means there's a longer list of people this guy doesn't like."

"Billy the Kid," Jack said. "You know the Kid, or whatever the hell his real name was, pretty much started the trend of yellow journalism. His estate should get royalties from the

National Enquirer and Weekly World News. Reporters and hack novelists all over the country tripped over themselves to drool over this guy. Made him out to be some kind of hero.

Some kind of Robin Hood. Idolizing celebrities practically began with the Kid."

"You think that's how this killer sees himself? Offing the rich and famous to help the poor?"

"Remember he also quoted your ass," Jack said. "Let's just hope all he's got is an affinity for scary words. In the meantime, we need to stay ahead on this story."

"Stay ahead? What do you mean?"

He took another sip and looked at me. And for the first time since I'd known him, Jack O'Donnell looked worried.

"Paulina," he said.

"What about her?"

"She's selling newspapers."

"Well, that's her job," I said. "From what I hear she just didn't fit at the Gazette. "

"Maybe not," Jack continued, "but if the Dispatch beats us to this story, they could see a double digit circulation growth by the end of the year." I stayed silent. "What that means, in lay terms, is we'd be fucked."

I considered this. "I know the Dispatch' s circulation is up since she joined the paper, but I mean…"

"There's been a three percent swing this week alone,

Henry. Whether it's our reporters getting beat to the punch or her articles attracting our readers, it's happening. These three murders are the biggest story of the year, everyone with a pen and a brain trying to get a piece. There's going to be a clear winner and loser here. We need to make sure we're not the ones holding the silver."

"They weren't beating us to the punch when I reported

Athena's murder the morning she died," I said, my voice coming out angrier than I'd hoped.

"That was days ago, Henry," Jack said. He sighed, sank into the couch. "Since then it's neck and neck. Nobody is getting new scoops. So it comes down to juice, plain and simple. Paulina has it, we don't. People want salacious stories, headlines in bold, and photos of celebrities in bikinis. Only thing that can distract them from that is real, honest-to-God news. And until we get that, we're going to get creamed every day. If two people are tied during the race, everyone stares at the one wearing flashier clothing."

"I prefer jeans," I said.

"Don't be a smart-ass. And listen, Henry, you should be aware of it…Paulina knows you were at the crime scene today. Knew it before we did, actually."

"What-how is that possible?"

"I think she has some chumscrubber tailing you. But she's mentioning it in tomorrow's article on the Lourdes murder, claiming you always find yourself at the scenes of brutal crimes. Between Fredrickson, Mauser, your quote being found at Athena's crime scene and being seen talking to a witness today, she's got enough paint on her brush to level some pretty brash accusations."

"That was a coincidence. I was talking to a friend. Any decent reporter would have done the same thing."

"A friend. You mean the cop."

"Yes, a cop friend, Curt Sheffield."

"I know Curt. Seen that recruiting poster everywhere but my refrigerator."

"Whatever," I said. "Bottom line is I have a lead on a hell of a story."

"You know, I thought you might."

"That gun, the one the killer is using, there's a reason he's using it. I'm going to find out what that is. Paulina doesn't have that. Combine that with this new quote, it's going to fit somewhere." I sat there silent. Watched Jack rattle his empty glass.

Then he stood up, tipped his cap at Amanda, nodded at me.

"Find the story," Jack said. "Behind every murder is a motive. The cops don't care about that right now, they just want the man. Motive will come later, once they can be sure there aren't any more high-caliber bullets aimed at anyone's skull. So keep on keeping on."

"I will."

"Important work is silent until it needs to be heard. Keep that in mind. Other people want this story, too." Then he left.

I turned to Amanda. "Your history professor," I said. "You think she's still awake?"

The headline read, Head Of Franklin-Rees, Now Without

A Head.

Even I was shocked by the tactlessness and audacity of the

Dispatch' s front page. The lead story, naturally, was the murder of Jeffrey Lourdes, accompanied by a gruesome photo of the man's legs with blood pooling around them. In Technicolor.

The paper neglected to mention how Jeffrey Lourdes had revolutionized the magazine industry in the early seventies with several titles that captured the zeitgeist with aplomb and erudition, how he'd mentored many of the country's most talented writers and journalists from scruffy-haired hipsters to men and women who changed the face of American culture. Instead the Dispatch focused on rumors of money laundering, infidelity, drugs and under-the-table deals. It noted how, over the last decade, Lourdes had been accused of letting his legacy go to seed, eschewing strong journalism for salacious stories and shoddy reportage that his younger self would have thrown in the fire. It also noted how, despite