drive. You read.”
The articles contained only a single line on each victim, descriptions so brief even Jack would be hard-pressed to condense them further. That’s not to say the articles were short. Each magazine contained not less than three separate pieces on the case, each running several pages. So what did they write about? The killer. Theories, motivations, expert opinions, editorial comments.
The list of victims was almost identical in both publications.
Alicia Sanchez, 21, Hispanic, college student, suffocated in her dorm room, October 5, Beaumont, Texas.
Carson Morrow, 36, African American, stockbroker, stabbed in a parking lot, October 8, St. Louis, Missouri.
Leon Kozlov, 53, Caucasian, retired, shot in his apartment, October 12, Norfolk, Ohio.
Mary Lee, 68, Asian American, business owner, strangled in her shop, October 14, Atlanta, Georgia.
Four lives and four tragedies reduced to factoids.
I studied the four minuscule photos and wondered what they’d been doing the days they’d been killed, what they’d been thinking, planning, dreaming.
In just over a week, four lives had been taken and countless more thrown into turmoil—husbands, wives, lovers, children, parents, siblings, friends, wondering why this had happened, and what they could have done to prevent it, and whether their loved one had suffered, and why hadn’t they said something more meaningful the last time they met. And, most of all, why. Just why.
Four lives taken, countless more awaiting justice. But when I read that article, I saw no end—no justice—in sight. Just more deaths. More victims. More mourners. More questions.
Neither magazine mentioned the possibility of a hitman killer, but that likely wasn’t a theory investigators would release to the media. The murders, though, had all the earmarks of professional hits—the deaths clean and cold.
“Four murders in four parts of the country, four very different victims, four separate methods,” I said. “Linked by a calling card. A page from Helter Skelter.”
“Yeah. Heard about that.”
“It’s a book, isn’t it?”
“About Manson.”
“Charles Manson? The freak with the cult? He killed some actress, didn’t he?”
“Before your time, I’m guessing.”
“The sixties. Peace, love and drug-induced murderous rages. Hippie stuff.”
“Now I feel old.”
“Right, like you were more than a baby yourself. From what I remember, the Manson case was textbook disorganized crime. Definitely not the work of a pro. So what’s the connection?”
“None, other than that it scared the shit out of a lot of people. Like this guy’s doing.”
I glanced over at him. “According to Newsweek—or their contacts, at least—the Feds have evidence suggesting there’s something to the Manson connection.”
“Then we don’t ignore it. But don’t focus on it.”
“Okay. So where do you want to start?”
A small frown my way. “No idea. That’s your area. Yeah, you weren’t a detective. But you think like a cop. Good enough. We’ll work something out.”
So we did, laying out theories. We had a hired killer making random hits. Option one: system overload. When a pro chess player goes nuts, he becomes obsessed with the game. A pro killer goes nuts? No mystery what might obsess him. Option two was more likely. Why does a hired killer kill? Because he’s been hired to.
“The guy beside me on the plane mentioned that Leon Kozlov had a record,” I said. “That’s a good place to start—checking criminal records and arrests. I have contacts in U.S. police departments—lodge regulars—but I’d really rather not use—”
“Agreed. Last resort.”
“Good. There are legit ways we can check for criminal backgrounds, though it’ll take some time and legwork.”
He stared out the windshield, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.
“Got another way,” he said finally. “Contact. Couple hours’ drive. Find out about Manson, too.”
We pulled off at a diner for coffee. We had to be getting close to Jack’s contact, and I certainly wasn’t hungry, but Jack insisted.
As I sat there, coffee untouched, I swore I could hear my watch ticking. For one person, somewhere out there, time was ticking. How much longer before the killer took another life? Judging by his schedule so far, maybe a day.
Time was passing and somewhere my target was planning his next kill while I sat in a diner, across from my “partner,” who looked as anxious to get to work as any time-card puncher on Monday morning.
I vented my frustration with chatter.
“—two hours, not a single nibble and my butt is frozen to the ice. So I check the guys’ hooks, and no one has any bait. ‘Bait?’ one says. ‘What for? We don’t want to catch anything. We just wanted an excuse to toss back a few before lunch.’”
Jack opened his mouth, but a burst of static cut