David Jameson entered the offices of the National Tattler. He was
uncharacteristically somber and nervous. In place of his usual khakis and
denim shirt, he wore a black suit with a rarely worn, starched white shirt.
He had dressed differently today to attend the funeral of a co-worker.
"Hard to believe it, huh?" said Thomas Dover, another writer for the Tattler.
"You're telling me," Jameson replied. "I mean, Smithfield wasn't a bad guy. Didn't have an enemy in the world."
Apparently that assessment was incorrect. The police had found Jason Smithfield tied to his refrigerator with several knives and pencils sticking out of him. A hammer had been carefully implanted in his skull. It was a horrible way to die.
And something about it nagged at David Jameson. Somehow, vaguely, it seemed familiar. He knew there wouldn't be the same pressure today to produce. Not after the funeral. So he banged out a quick article claiming that a Sasquatch had been spotted in a national park and settled down to do some research.
After a few hours, he had something to show for his time. Jason Smithfield had been made to look like Wound Man, an old medical illustration showing 15th century surgeons what various battle wounds looked like. With an eerie feeling, David discovered that there had indeed been a prior murder like this – a murder many years ago. The murderer was none other than the Tattler's favorite criminal. Dr. Hannibal Lecter. An icy feeling invaded his stomach.
Jameson was nervous. This made sense, but none of it was good. If there was a Lecter copycat out there, that was bad. A Lecter copycat who had noticed Smithfield's articles identifying Lecter in several crimes would have noticed his articles too. That was way, way bad.
David Jameson got up. He decided to go home, get his pistol, and call the cops. Even if they didn't believe him they might give him protection for a few days. He wasn't going to become dinner for any psycho who was copying Lecter.
As he headed for the door, he wondered. Could this be the real Lecter? No; Lecter would be way too old to be offing reporters. Even if he was still alive. As he left, the secretary flagged him down.
"Dave! Dave! The police are here to see you." She pointed to the hallway.
Jameson went out to the hall as ordered. There was a uniformed policewoman there waiting for him. When she saw him, she nodded and pointed.
"David Jameson?" she asked.
"That's me," he said. "What can I do for you?"
"Come with me, please." She guided him into an empty conference room.
Her tone was pure business. "We have reason to believe you're in danger."
"Lecter copycat?" he said. An immense feeling of relief entered his stomach.
She nodded. "Very good. I guess you've been doing some research yourself."
"I have, yeah."
"Well, since we know Dr. Lecter had dealt with the Tattler before, and now this, we're going to put you under police protection. We have a safe house all ready for you. With your permission, we want to try and use you as bait."
Jameson couldn't help but dislike the sound of that. "Bait?"
"Yes. We want the Tattler to publish an article by you stating that the copycat can't get you, that obviously the copycat isn't as smart as the real Lecter, that sort of thing. We'll publish a picture of the house that'll have the house number and the street sign in the picture. If they take the bait, boom." She clapped her hands. "One bad guy behind bars."
"OK," Jameson said, already thinking about the instant book he would have ready to hit the market.
"Are you willing to go along?" she said.
He nodded. "I used to be in the Army," he said breezily. "I know my way around danger."
"Great. Come on, then."
"We need the article," he objected.
"There's a computer at the safe house. You can email it from there. My orders are to get you there ASAP."
They walked outside. A police cruiser sat waiting at the curb. The policewoman opened the back door for him.
"Sorry," she smiled, "but I've got too much stuff in the front."
Jameson didn't care. Actually, the back would be better. In a publicized court case twelve years ago, a young man being arrested had been shot by a rival gang while sitting in the back of a police cruiser. Ever since then, the fleets of most city police forces sported windows made of a new, light polycarbonate that was bulletproof. Although the back wasn't terribly comfortable, he felt safe. Like a shark cage, he thought.
He glanced through the heavy wire mesh separating the front from the back at the police officer driving the car.
"So how did you guys figure it out so quickly?"
She grinned. "Same as you. We did some research. Found out that there was a prior Lecter murder done the same way."
"You seem to have put this together awfully fast," he observed.
"We had some intelligence," she explained.
"Oh, really?" The reporter side of him took interest. "Tell me about it."
"I'm afraid I can't," she said. "You can talk to my sergeant all you like. But in between the intel we received and the Smithfield murder, we had very good reason to believe that there's a Lecter copycat around." She put on her signal and pulled into a parking garage.
"What can you tell me? Anything? I won't quote you if you don't want," he said.
Jameson saw her eyes in the rearview as she thought. Maroon eyes. Very different and striking.
And very wrong. Jameson suddenly felt uneasy.
"Well," she said as she pulled the car into a free spot, "for one thing, we read what you wrote in that rag you call a paper about my papa."
The policewoman turned to look at him then and cocked an eyebrow at him. She had taken off her hat.
"Your…what?" he asked. He grabbed the mesh and pressed his fingers against it. "What the hell is going on here?"
Susana Alvarez Lecter sighed, adjusted the damned itchy police uniform, and glared at him.
"OK, I'll spell it out for you," she said. "You know, your pig friend didn't get it either. What is it with you people?"
"My pig friend? Come on. I want to get out of this car right now."
"Well, you're not. Short version here, cause I'm pressed for time. I'm Susana Lecter, and you have written nasty things about my papa in your paper. So I'm going to kill you. Okay?"
He threw himself against the mesh. "Let me out of here!" he shrieked.
Susana reached into the box on the passenger seat of the police cruiser. In it was a plastic bowl, a bottle of ammonia, and a bottle of Clorox bleach. She had bought all three at a supermarket for cash before dropping by the Tattler office.
"In a little bit," she said. She dumped the bleach into the bowl.
"You know, in my research on you, I found out you did some nice work in L.A.," she said conversationally. She ignored Jameson's pounding and screaming to be let out.
"You wrote an excellent piece on the death penalty in California," she said. "When I read it, I really felt like you had gone in there."
"What? Oh, that. I did. I did a lot of work on that. Look, lady, whatever you want. The Tattler will pay for me. Couple million, maybe."
Susana had that much in her trust fund and ignored the offer.
"Yes sir, you described the gas chamber so eloquently, it was like I was actually there. That's why I don't understand why you ended up at a dump like the Tattler."
"Listen," he said. "I didn't mean anything about your pop. Really. It was just something to sell papers. And people love Lecter, he's like the epitome of evil. They eat him up."
"*I* loved my papa," Susana said fiercely, "and the eating part is right, but you've got it the wrong way round."
"Don't do this," Jameson pleaded. "Come on. You got a story you want to tell, don't you? Anything you want, you got it. Just don't kill me."
"But what I want is to kill you," Susana said. "You were part of it. You wrote those lies about my papa right along with Smithfield. It's not fair for him to pay and you to get off scot-free, is it?"
Jameson smacked the windows with the flat of his hand. Had they been glass, he might have broken free. But a court case a dozen years ago had sealed his fate. The polycarbonate was tough and strong.
"Come on," he whined.
"I thought you were in the Army," she said. "So die with some nobility, will you?"
Jameson started to cry and pounded the mesh. Susana dumped the bottle of ammonia into the bowl with the bleach. Almost immediately, a gray cloud of gas rose from the bowl.
"Boring conversation, anyway," Susana said, and opened her door and got out. She slammed the door shut and stood warily a few feet away.
Jameson pounded on the windows and screamed to be let out. She watched him idly as he alternately begged her and tried to get through the heavy steel mesh to get at the bowl of poison in the front seat. For a moment, Susana thought of the Plastic Man cartoons she had watched as a child. Her father had never approved of cartoons, but her mother had allowed them as a hidden pleasure. Jameson was not as successful as Plastic Man at extruding himself through the grate. He only seemed to be cutting himself.
"Help! Police!" he screamed, realizing that she wasn't going to be swayed.
"Police? Got some right here," she said. She ambled over to the red Mustang parked not far away. From its trunk, she pulled out two heavy bundles of carpet. She hauled one over to the cruiser and then went back for the other one. She unwrapped one to reveal the face of an older man in a police uniform. His throat was slit and he was very, very dead. She heaved the body onto the trunk of the cruiser and turned its face so that it was looking into the rear window of the cruiser, at the bugged-out eyes of David Jameson.
Jameson screamed. Susana looked reproachfully at him. "Is that any way to speak to an officer of the law?" She returned the roll of carpet to her trunk and emptied the other one to reveal a woman approximately her own size. Unlike her partner, this one was dressed only in a simple oversized T-shirt. Out of the goodness of her heart, she had lent Susana her uniform. It had only taken one quick, vicious slash of the Harpy to convince her to be so generous.
"She's out of uniform," Susana observed, propping her up against the door of the cruiser, "but we'll forgive her that." She cocked a foot and watched Jameson. This garage only employed a person at the gate, to collect money from drivers as they left. There were no cameras and there was no one to watch them. And if anyone did happen to come up this way, she would shoot first and ask questions later. Susana's mother had taught her that sometimes this was necessary, and it was a good lesson.
The interior of the cruiser was no longer visible. The gray mist blocked out everything. Susana decided to grab the badge off the older cop as a gift for her mother. As she rolled over the body to get at the badge, there came a loud sound. Through the poison gray mist came the twisted face of David Jameson. His features had gone bright pink, and drool slicked his chin. His nose ran freely. His eyes were bloodshot and ran with tears. But they were still focused on her.
"Crazy…bitch…," he gasped out, pounding once weakly on the back window. He sank down onto the back seat, lost again in the fog.
Susana scarfed the badge and put it in her pocket.
"Well if you're going to be rude, then you can just stay in there," she said. She checked her watch. Fifteen minutes it had taken Mr. Jameson to die. He had held out for a while. Actually, he might still be alive in there, she thought as she took a small bag from her trunk.
She took out a dress and shoes from the bag. Then she tossed the police jacket in the trunk and pulled the dress on over the uniform. Once she was covered, she removed the pants, shoes, and gunbelt and put them in the trunk. Her own shoes were much more comfortable and much more stylish. For a moment, she wondered if her mother had been forced to wear clodhopper shoes like that. In Buenos Aires, her mother had made a point of good shoes. Susana had always suspected her father had something to do with that, but had sensed that asking would be a poor idea.
Susana didn't know if the police cruiser was airtight, and she didn't want to find out. Satisfied that Jameson had either already died or was going to shortly, she slid behind the wheel of her Mustang, closed the door, and put on some lipstick and eyeshadow. The car started and she pulled out, leaving the police cruiser in the concrete depths of the parking garage.
The parking attendant took her money and let her out of the garage. He had no reason to connect the sexy young woman behind the wheel of a new Mustang with the no-nonsense cop who had just driven in before. Susana gave him a big smile, took her change, and raced back to the hotel room she had obtained in Chicago. One more Tattler employee to go.
"Hard to believe it, huh?" said Thomas Dover, another writer for the Tattler.
"You're telling me," Jameson replied. "I mean, Smithfield wasn't a bad guy. Didn't have an enemy in the world."
Apparently that assessment was incorrect. The police had found Jason Smithfield tied to his refrigerator with several knives and pencils sticking out of him. A hammer had been carefully implanted in his skull. It was a horrible way to die.
And something about it nagged at David Jameson. Somehow, vaguely, it seemed familiar. He knew there wouldn't be the same pressure today to produce. Not after the funeral. So he banged out a quick article claiming that a Sasquatch had been spotted in a national park and settled down to do some research.
After a few hours, he had something to show for his time. Jason Smithfield had been made to look like Wound Man, an old medical illustration showing 15th century surgeons what various battle wounds looked like. With an eerie feeling, David discovered that there had indeed been a prior murder like this – a murder many years ago. The murderer was none other than the Tattler's favorite criminal. Dr. Hannibal Lecter. An icy feeling invaded his stomach.
Jameson was nervous. This made sense, but none of it was good. If there was a Lecter copycat out there, that was bad. A Lecter copycat who had noticed Smithfield's articles identifying Lecter in several crimes would have noticed his articles too. That was way, way bad.
David Jameson got up. He decided to go home, get his pistol, and call the cops. Even if they didn't believe him they might give him protection for a few days. He wasn't going to become dinner for any psycho who was copying Lecter.
As he headed for the door, he wondered. Could this be the real Lecter? No; Lecter would be way too old to be offing reporters. Even if he was still alive. As he left, the secretary flagged him down.
"Dave! Dave! The police are here to see you." She pointed to the hallway.
Jameson went out to the hall as ordered. There was a uniformed policewoman there waiting for him. When she saw him, she nodded and pointed.
"David Jameson?" she asked.
"That's me," he said. "What can I do for you?"
"Come with me, please." She guided him into an empty conference room.
Her tone was pure business. "We have reason to believe you're in danger."
"Lecter copycat?" he said. An immense feeling of relief entered his stomach.
She nodded. "Very good. I guess you've been doing some research yourself."
"I have, yeah."
"Well, since we know Dr. Lecter had dealt with the Tattler before, and now this, we're going to put you under police protection. We have a safe house all ready for you. With your permission, we want to try and use you as bait."
Jameson couldn't help but dislike the sound of that. "Bait?"
"Yes. We want the Tattler to publish an article by you stating that the copycat can't get you, that obviously the copycat isn't as smart as the real Lecter, that sort of thing. We'll publish a picture of the house that'll have the house number and the street sign in the picture. If they take the bait, boom." She clapped her hands. "One bad guy behind bars."
"OK," Jameson said, already thinking about the instant book he would have ready to hit the market.
"Are you willing to go along?" she said.
He nodded. "I used to be in the Army," he said breezily. "I know my way around danger."
"Great. Come on, then."
"We need the article," he objected.
"There's a computer at the safe house. You can email it from there. My orders are to get you there ASAP."
They walked outside. A police cruiser sat waiting at the curb. The policewoman opened the back door for him.
"Sorry," she smiled, "but I've got too much stuff in the front."
Jameson didn't care. Actually, the back would be better. In a publicized court case twelve years ago, a young man being arrested had been shot by a rival gang while sitting in the back of a police cruiser. Ever since then, the fleets of most city police forces sported windows made of a new, light polycarbonate that was bulletproof. Although the back wasn't terribly comfortable, he felt safe. Like a shark cage, he thought.
He glanced through the heavy wire mesh separating the front from the back at the police officer driving the car.
"So how did you guys figure it out so quickly?"
She grinned. "Same as you. We did some research. Found out that there was a prior Lecter murder done the same way."
"You seem to have put this together awfully fast," he observed.
"We had some intelligence," she explained.
"Oh, really?" The reporter side of him took interest. "Tell me about it."
"I'm afraid I can't," she said. "You can talk to my sergeant all you like. But in between the intel we received and the Smithfield murder, we had very good reason to believe that there's a Lecter copycat around." She put on her signal and pulled into a parking garage.
"What can you tell me? Anything? I won't quote you if you don't want," he said.
Jameson saw her eyes in the rearview as she thought. Maroon eyes. Very different and striking.
And very wrong. Jameson suddenly felt uneasy.
"Well," she said as she pulled the car into a free spot, "for one thing, we read what you wrote in that rag you call a paper about my papa."
The policewoman turned to look at him then and cocked an eyebrow at him. She had taken off her hat.
"Your…what?" he asked. He grabbed the mesh and pressed his fingers against it. "What the hell is going on here?"
Susana Alvarez Lecter sighed, adjusted the damned itchy police uniform, and glared at him.
"OK, I'll spell it out for you," she said. "You know, your pig friend didn't get it either. What is it with you people?"
"My pig friend? Come on. I want to get out of this car right now."
"Well, you're not. Short version here, cause I'm pressed for time. I'm Susana Lecter, and you have written nasty things about my papa in your paper. So I'm going to kill you. Okay?"
He threw himself against the mesh. "Let me out of here!" he shrieked.
Susana reached into the box on the passenger seat of the police cruiser. In it was a plastic bowl, a bottle of ammonia, and a bottle of Clorox bleach. She had bought all three at a supermarket for cash before dropping by the Tattler office.
"In a little bit," she said. She dumped the bleach into the bowl.
"You know, in my research on you, I found out you did some nice work in L.A.," she said conversationally. She ignored Jameson's pounding and screaming to be let out.
"You wrote an excellent piece on the death penalty in California," she said. "When I read it, I really felt like you had gone in there."
"What? Oh, that. I did. I did a lot of work on that. Look, lady, whatever you want. The Tattler will pay for me. Couple million, maybe."
Susana had that much in her trust fund and ignored the offer.
"Yes sir, you described the gas chamber so eloquently, it was like I was actually there. That's why I don't understand why you ended up at a dump like the Tattler."
"Listen," he said. "I didn't mean anything about your pop. Really. It was just something to sell papers. And people love Lecter, he's like the epitome of evil. They eat him up."
"*I* loved my papa," Susana said fiercely, "and the eating part is right, but you've got it the wrong way round."
"Don't do this," Jameson pleaded. "Come on. You got a story you want to tell, don't you? Anything you want, you got it. Just don't kill me."
"But what I want is to kill you," Susana said. "You were part of it. You wrote those lies about my papa right along with Smithfield. It's not fair for him to pay and you to get off scot-free, is it?"
Jameson smacked the windows with the flat of his hand. Had they been glass, he might have broken free. But a court case a dozen years ago had sealed his fate. The polycarbonate was tough and strong.
"Come on," he whined.
"I thought you were in the Army," she said. "So die with some nobility, will you?"
Jameson started to cry and pounded the mesh. Susana dumped the bottle of ammonia into the bowl with the bleach. Almost immediately, a gray cloud of gas rose from the bowl.
"Boring conversation, anyway," Susana said, and opened her door and got out. She slammed the door shut and stood warily a few feet away.
Jameson pounded on the windows and screamed to be let out. She watched him idly as he alternately begged her and tried to get through the heavy steel mesh to get at the bowl of poison in the front seat. For a moment, Susana thought of the Plastic Man cartoons she had watched as a child. Her father had never approved of cartoons, but her mother had allowed them as a hidden pleasure. Jameson was not as successful as Plastic Man at extruding himself through the grate. He only seemed to be cutting himself.
"Help! Police!" he screamed, realizing that she wasn't going to be swayed.
"Police? Got some right here," she said. She ambled over to the red Mustang parked not far away. From its trunk, she pulled out two heavy bundles of carpet. She hauled one over to the cruiser and then went back for the other one. She unwrapped one to reveal the face of an older man in a police uniform. His throat was slit and he was very, very dead. She heaved the body onto the trunk of the cruiser and turned its face so that it was looking into the rear window of the cruiser, at the bugged-out eyes of David Jameson.
Jameson screamed. Susana looked reproachfully at him. "Is that any way to speak to an officer of the law?" She returned the roll of carpet to her trunk and emptied the other one to reveal a woman approximately her own size. Unlike her partner, this one was dressed only in a simple oversized T-shirt. Out of the goodness of her heart, she had lent Susana her uniform. It had only taken one quick, vicious slash of the Harpy to convince her to be so generous.
"She's out of uniform," Susana observed, propping her up against the door of the cruiser, "but we'll forgive her that." She cocked a foot and watched Jameson. This garage only employed a person at the gate, to collect money from drivers as they left. There were no cameras and there was no one to watch them. And if anyone did happen to come up this way, she would shoot first and ask questions later. Susana's mother had taught her that sometimes this was necessary, and it was a good lesson.
The interior of the cruiser was no longer visible. The gray mist blocked out everything. Susana decided to grab the badge off the older cop as a gift for her mother. As she rolled over the body to get at the badge, there came a loud sound. Through the poison gray mist came the twisted face of David Jameson. His features had gone bright pink, and drool slicked his chin. His nose ran freely. His eyes were bloodshot and ran with tears. But they were still focused on her.
"Crazy…bitch…," he gasped out, pounding once weakly on the back window. He sank down onto the back seat, lost again in the fog.
Susana scarfed the badge and put it in her pocket.
"Well if you're going to be rude, then you can just stay in there," she said. She checked her watch. Fifteen minutes it had taken Mr. Jameson to die. He had held out for a while. Actually, he might still be alive in there, she thought as she took a small bag from her trunk.
She took out a dress and shoes from the bag. Then she tossed the police jacket in the trunk and pulled the dress on over the uniform. Once she was covered, she removed the pants, shoes, and gunbelt and put them in the trunk. Her own shoes were much more comfortable and much more stylish. For a moment, she wondered if her mother had been forced to wear clodhopper shoes like that. In Buenos Aires, her mother had made a point of good shoes. Susana had always suspected her father had something to do with that, but had sensed that asking would be a poor idea.
Susana didn't know if the police cruiser was airtight, and she didn't want to find out. Satisfied that Jameson had either already died or was going to shortly, she slid behind the wheel of her Mustang, closed the door, and put on some lipstick and eyeshadow. The car started and she pulled out, leaving the police cruiser in the concrete depths of the parking garage.
The parking attendant took her money and let her out of the garage. He had no reason to connect the sexy young woman behind the wheel of a new Mustang with the no-nonsense cop who had just driven in before. Susana gave him a big smile, took her change, and raced back to the hotel room she had obtained in Chicago. One more Tattler employee to go.