James Patterson - Run For Your Life

“So who? Who else could have given you all that ‘it’s just one killer’ and ‘changing outfits to avoid capture’ crap?”

Her face suddenly took on an uncertain expression. “Look, I don’t know if I can talk about this,” she said, standing. “I need to clear it with my? -”

I put a hand on her shoulder and sat her back down again, not roughly but not too gently either. “I’m trying to catch a killer here,” I said. “You better tell me what you know. Everything. Right now.”

Calvin bit her lip, then closed her eyes. “It was him.”

“Him? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I gripped the arms of her chair and leaned my face close to hers. “Open up, Cathy. My patience has worn real thin these last couple of days.”

She was shaken now, I saw with grim satisfaction.

“The killer,” she whispered.

I stared at her in disbelief, feeling like I’d been punched in the face.

“He e-mailed me yesterday afternoon,” Calvin said. “Said he wanted to set the record straight, so there wouldn’t be any confusion. I thought he was just a kook, but then he started describing everything. The what, when, where, and even why.”

I stifled my outrage long enough to get some information. “Tell me the why,” I said. I already knew the what, when, and where.

“He pushed the girl under the train and killed the Polo clerk and the Twenty-one maître d’ because, quote, ‘He’s out to teach this goddamn hole some manners,’ unquote. He also said that regular, decent people didn’t have to worry, but if you were an asshole, your days were numbered.”

“Who the hell do you people think you are, withholding this from the NYPD?” I said. “You can’t possibly be this stupid.”

“Calm down, Mike. My editors have been meeting all day to decide whether we should bring it to you guys. Last I heard, they were leaning toward full disclosure. And here. This will sweeten the deal.” She took a printed sheet of paper off her desk and held it out to me. “It’s his ‘mission statement,’ as he called it. He wants us to publish it.”

I ripped the paper out of her hand.

THE PROBLEM

Some people say the problem today is materialism. I disagree. There is nothing inherently wrong with things, nothing wrong with having money, or with being beautiful or appreciating beauty.

What is wrong is flaunting your things, your wealth, your beauty.

That is the disease.

I love our society, our country. Never before in the history of man has a nation been dedicated to human freedom. But human freedom requires dignity: respect for oneself and for those around them.

In that sense, we have grossly veered off course. Most of us know deep down that the way we behave is wrong. Yet because there are rarely any consequences, we go through with committing our daily acts of disgrace and disrespect.

That’s why I’ve decided to start providing the proper motivation.

The penalty for obnoxiousness is now death.

I can be anyone. That person next to you on the train as you turn up your iPod, the person behind you in the restaurant as you take out your cell phone.

Think twice before you try to pull something you know for a fact you shouldn’t be doing.

I am watching.

Best wishes,

The Teacher

I reread it three times before I put it back down.

It took me only another second to decide my next course of action – to give Cathy Calvin a shake-up that she’d remember for the rest of her life. I unhooked my handcuffs from my belt and chicken-winged her arm behind her back.

“What are you doing?” she cried, now in panic mode.

“Just what you think,” I said. “They’ll read you your rights at the station.”

Her squeals of protest continued, and as I pinched down the second cuff on her slender wrist, a bunch of middle-aged white guys in rolled-up shirt sleeves and bow ties came tromping down the hall.

“I’m the city desk editor,” one of them said. “What in the name of hell is going on here?”

“I’m the city cop,” I said, “and I’m arresting this person for obstruction of justice.”

“You can’t do that,” one of the younger Ivy Leaguers said, stepping in front of me. “Ever hear of something called the First Amendment?”

“Unfortunately, I have,” I said. “I hate that one. You ever hear of something called a paddy wagon? Because that’s where you’re going to be sitting if you don’t get out of my way. Hey, why don’t you all come and finish your editorial meeting at Central Booking?”

Shocked and angered though they were, the reality of the situation prevailed. They backed off, and I perp-walked Calvin past them.

“Shut up and don’t struggle, or I’ll add a resisting charge,” I told her. At least she was smart enough to know she’d better not push me any further. She sniffled and watched me with big tearful eyes, but she didn’t argue anymore.

When the security guy in the lobby saw us, he jumped to his feet, looking astounded.

“Found her. Thanks,” I said.

Outside, I bent Calvin over the hood of my Chevy and left her there while I stepped out of earshot and made a couple of phone calls. They were just to check up on the status of the case, but I wanted her to think that I was arranging her booking.

Only after that, very reluctantly, did I unlock the cuffs.

“You think this is all some kind of game, but it’s not,” I told her. “Your career decision probably cost some people their lives. Hope you get a promotion. Oh, yeah – and that you can live with yourself.”

As I drove away, I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw her still standing there on the curb, with her face in her hands.

My new office at the Police Academy turned out to be a barely converted old locker room on the third floor, but who was complaining? Right off the top, I spotted two essential pieces of equipment, a folding table and a phone jack. There was even a touch of décor on the bulletin board – a hotel surveillance photo of the Teacher with sniper crosshairs drawn on his face.

We were in business.

After I called up McGinnis and apprised him of the latest developments, I rounded up my crew of detectives. I was pleased that Beth Peters was in the group. I asked her to make copies of the Teacher’s mission statement and pass them around.

“We need to get the airlines involved, Beth,” I told her. “Send them the surveillance photo and have them send us ID photos of their pilots for Mademoiselle Monchecourt to look through. Concentrate on the international carriers. British Airways in particular. Call up Tom Lamb at 26 Fed if you think you need some federal juice. And let’s try to track down the florist who sold that bouquet to our killer.”

“Oui, oui, boss man,” Beth said, batting her eyelashes teasingly.

I turned back to my group. “Now that it’s just cops here, maybe we can actually get something done,” I said, and started handing out specific tasks. I wasn’t used to being in charge and it felt weird, but they all hopped to it and seemed eager to do so. What a concept – people were actually doing what I asked. I decided I should try it at home.

I sent Nineteenth Precinct detectives back up to the Polo store and the 21 Club, to recanvass the areas with the photo and to interview all the employees they could find, including those that hadn’t been working on the day of the murder. Maybe the Teacher had been to those places before, and someone could match a name to his face.

But they called back in to say they’d come up empty at both places. Both institutions had plenty of disgruntled employees and nasty customers. Just none that fit the shooter’s description.