Chuck Hustmyre - A Killer Like Me

Charles Redfield cleared his throat. “A letter and a… box. The box appears to contain a severed human finger.”

“A what?” Kirsten said.

“We’re pretty sure it’s real,” Milton said. “The killer, or at least the letter’s author, says it is from the last victim, the woman killed under the Jeff Davis overpass.”

“Have you called the police?” Kirsten said.

Redfield shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Why not?”

The company lawyer spoke up. He was small and thin and wore a baggy suit. Kirsten had only spoken to him half a dozen times over the years. A pair of reading glasses sat midway down his nose. “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 insisted on calling everyone by their last name, preceded by the appropriate title, Mr., Mrs., or Miss. Even if she had known you for ten years.

It made Kirsten want to strangle her.

Kirsten stared at Redfield. “Then when are you going to run it?”

He shrugged.

Tuesday, July 31, 2:45 PM

Warren Zevon dragged Sean Murphy out of a deep sleep.

Murphy grabbed his cell phone and tried to focus on the screen. His eyes were gummy, but he could see the caller ID was blocked. It was either the police department or the newspaper. PIB or Kirsten. He didn’t want to talk to either. He hit the ignore button and sent the call to voice mail.

It rang again. Another restricted call. He ignored it.

Sixty seconds later a third call came in.

Murphy punched the green button. “What?”

“You’re not going to believe this,” Kirsten whispered.

He wanted to hang up, but curiosity got the better of him. “What?”

“We got a package in the mail from the killer.”

Murphy sat up in bed and set his feet on the floor. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs left over from his beer and egg breakfast. “From who?”

“The serial killer.”

The several seconds of silence that followed were charged with electricity.

“What kind of package?” Murphy said.

“A padded envelope. Inside was a letter and a small cardboard box.”

“What did the letter say?”

“I… I can’t talk about it,” Kirsten said. “They swore me to secrecy and they will kill me if they find out I told anyone, especially you. I shouldn’t even be calling you.”

“If this is a joke, it’s not fucking funny.”

“It’s not a joke,” Kirsten snapped. “We just got a package in the mail from a guy who claims to be the serial killer. The executive editor, the managing editor, the publisher, and their lawyer are meeting right now to decide what to do with it.”

“Have they called the police?”

“That’s what they’re discussing,” Kirsten said.

Murphy heard street noise in the background. She must have gone outside to talk.

“He calls himself the Lamb of God,” Kirsten said.

“The killer?”

“No, Charles Redfield, the executive editor. That’s what he’s started calling himself lately. Of course I mean the killer, Murphy. What are you, stupid?”

He wasn’t listening. Usually, it was the cops or the press who gave serial killers their names. Only a few killers Murphy had ever heard of had named themselves. BTK, Zodiac, Jack the Ripper, and the Axman had done it, but with the Ripper and the Axman it was questionable whether the actual killers had written the letters in which their noms de guerre had first appeared.

“He gave himself a name?” Murphy said.

“The fucking Lamb of God,” Kirsten said. “Excuse my language, but I just can’t believe this. It’s like something out of a movie.” She sounded excited and scared.

“What was in the box?”

“I’m… I’m sorry. I can’t talk about that either.”

“Goddamnit, Kirsten, quit playing games.”